Lady Fiona was not as tall as I was, yet I realized again that she was many years older. She was exquisitely groomed, however. Her black brows were plucked to a thin line, her skin a pasty white from a popular boar-grease concoction, and she smelled of Scottish heather. Though I tried, I couldn’t catch Enoch’s odor on her.
“Quhat a pretty babe,” she said softly. “May I?”
She picked up Leith before I could answer, and blood spurted as Leith sank new teeth into Fiona’s flesh. When I’d finished my apologies and dabbing, I invited the lady to sit at the far end of my mat, away from Leith.
“She looks like Enoch,” I answered her comment. “Do you have any children?”
God had chosen to make her barren, though she loved bairns. I studied her expression, her voice, her eyes. I didn’t like her—how could I?—but I could grant her a certain sweetness of manner. Leith would be safe with her.
She’d come to see if we couldn’t be friends.
Why should we be friends? Did she want a mnage trois as well as bigamy? These were thoughts, not words, for I must be careful.
Then she roused my attention: “Ich would lak to say farewell.”
“Farewell?” I took her hand. “Before you leave, I have a proposition, Lady Fiona.” I turned to the wall to say it.
“Aye!” she replied. “Aye, I’ll keer fer her, ond gladly.”
Later, from my window, I watched the couple talk earnestly. When they glanced upward, I withdrew. I heard rather than saw Lady Fiona call for her horse.
In a short time, the expected knock came to my door.
“Lat me in, Alix; Ich want to see Leith.”
When I opened the door, he dashed to the baby.
“She ha’e mar hair!” he accused me.
“And more teeth,” I agreed.
He walked her till and fro, cooing and talking in Gaelic; she didn’t scream, which was her highest compliment. Finally, he sat on the edge of my bed, still dandling Leith on his knee.
“Ich mun talk wi’ ye.”
I nodded. “I hope you’ll listen first.”
“Lady Fiona be gan.”
“I know.” I then told him my proposition: There were two weighty problems in our household, the problem of our marriage and its future, and the problem of England and its king.
“King John be nocht yer problem,” Enoch protested.
“I assure you that he is, milord. He saw me in my blind—saw Leith and me both. The fact that he didn’t kill us simply means that it wasn’t his chosen moment. It will come.”
I had his attention. “Leith!” Then he said, “The barons will settle King John.”
“Do they plan another assassination?”
He shook his head.
I began to pace. “Enoch, I’ve been thinking about England. The one meeting of the Brotherhood I attended concentrated on John’s invasion of their domestic scene. He isn’t just a seducer, however; he’s a killer. The death of Lord Robert’s daughter was the real cause of this assassination attempt.”
He frowned. “Quhat’s yer pint?”
“Obviously Lord Robert wanted revenge. With or without John’s life, however, his daughter’s still dead. There may be a second attempt.”
He grasped my wrist. “Lat me speak! Lord Robert ond e’en Lord Eustace mun learn that killin’ John willna solve all their problems. John, ond aye, his famous brother ond their father befar them, ha’e all disdained the very heart of our laws! Aye, John mun behave different, but we mun ha’e laws in place to control him!”
“The heart of the law, as you call it, doesn’t even mention the treatment of women.” I sighed. “Have you forgotten that I studied law on the Petit Pont with you? English laws hardly exist—in most trials, there’s only canon law.”
His face dropped. “No! No! Ye’re wrang! I grant that mast judges doona knaw the old laws which may be hearsay, ond therefore there mun be new! John can be controlled anely by law!”
If he wanted to be controlled—I’d just faced canon law in Dunsmere.
“Very well, you must change the law. Or articulate what may already be writ somewhere. And when you do, we must resolve our personal difficulties”—my voice dropped to a whisper—“Wanthwaite, Leith.”
He didn’t argue.
“John hates me personally, Enoch, face it. You must protect Leith—do you think I should leave?” I held my breath. “Return to Europe? I could go at once—it may take months, e’en years, for you to change the law.”
He looked up with red eyes. “No. Yif he touches ye or Leith, I’ll kill him.”
“He’s not easy to kill.” I waited. “I am. Leith is.”
He didn’t argue. How could he? After several sighs, he finally spoke. “The anely way to settle our condition be through the law.”
This time I fought hysteria. He was following my design, to confound the law of the land with our personal situation.
He went on about the advantages of a legal solution, simply because of the odds against us if we fought with arms. Enoch might not be another King Richard, but he knew his military matters. And clan warfare was closer to the civil war we faced if we attacked John than anything Richard had experienced. The fact was that the king held twice the number of castles as the barons, and he had the power of the throne, meaning he could reward men with land. From anyone else, I would have seen the “law” as an evasion of these facts, but, with Enoch, I knew I was listening to a true believer.
“You said there was no more unclaimed land for the king to dispense.”
“Nocht here, boot in Ireland.”
The Irish might not agree.
“Don’t the same odds apply if you try the law? John controls the courts. And he’s notorious for breaking laws.”
“Nocht the canon courts.”
Probably not, though I recalled vaguely something about his father and Archishop Becket. Then I held my breath—was this a subtle reference to my visit to the bishop? “Do you think the pope will help England?”
He took a long time to answer. “Ich doona knaw.”
“Enoch, I started by saying we had two problems. Never mind that I’m a woman—I’m English, and I care about a decent government. However . . .”
“Gae on,” he said after a time.
And I gushed, started, and stopped, utterly confused about how to put it, but I felt—thought—we should settle one problem at a time!
“Sum udder country?”
“Our personal problems. Our marriage. Leith.”
I thought he wouldn’t answer. “Quhich one ferst?”
England, oh, yes, England! What choice did we have? I mean, we couldn’t live behind palisades forever in fear of attack from our own monarch. Oh, yes, England must come first. I held my breath.
Enoch rose slowly. “Air ye sayin’ that we shuld stay wed until . . .”
“Aye, only in form, of course. The way we’ve been . . .” I laughed breathlessly. “Brother and sister, aye, brother and sister.”
“No houghmagandy.”
“No.”
We stared at one another. The moment throbbed.
“Boot ye’ll stay at Wanthwaite?”
I turned to hide tears. “Aye.”
He sighed. “I’ll ride to Edinburgh fer books on the law. This be a serious problem.”
I nodded.
Leith, I would have Leith and Wanthwaite a little time longer.
So I went to the Great Hall that evening as always. Though the Scots stared, they said nothing; in fact, Gruoth gave me the biggest portion of pie with my ale. They were still talking about the assassination attempt, which they’d been discussing for weeks and about which everyone agreed: Enoch had been betrayed. Thorketil suspected Eustace de Vesci, while Gruoth believed it was a hermit who’d sung a song about King John’s assassination before the event. How had he known? A folet? God hisself? No matter, said Gruoth; John believed the threat because it had come from diverse sources.
“Boot hu did the hermit hear?” E
noch asked, dismissing the supernatural. “Summun clase to the plot betrayed us.”
This must be true. The Hall grew darker.
“Has anyone heard from Lord Robert or Lord Eustace?” I asked.
Enoch rose. “A knight be comin’ tomorrow to tal us summit.” He left the Hall.
The following day, Enoch waylayed me in in the cheese house. “Be it possible that the king suspects ye in the plot?”
“Aye, I told you he saw me, Enoch.” Then I realized the import. “Why do you say so?”
He didn’t answer directly. “We mun ha’e mar security.” His eyes moistened. “Fer Leith. Quhan yer Theo . . . We mun secure Wanthwaite . . .” He reddened. “Ond we mun be mar nice to each udder. Ich want Leith to remember . . .”
We both wept; I wanted her to remember her mother.
“You think you’ll be able to find a legal solution?”
“Ich want to avoid war, boot . . .”
“You’ll do it, Enoch. And I’ll help you, I promise.”
But what law could stop a king? Yet there must be some price for wrongdoing, even if—especially if—that law was broken by a king.
What had happened to Lord Robert and Lord Eustace? Did they have to be included in our legal attempts? After what they’d done to Enoch? I despised both of them. A bigamist Enoch might be, but that gave them no excuse to throw him to John’s dogs.
Or me either.
That same day, when I walked briskly into the Great Hall with Leith in my arms, the Scots were discussing the law.
“Precedent. Law is custom based on precedent. King Henry I wrote a charter o’ the barons’ richts.” Enoch’s brow furrowed.
“The barons, oh yes. Their pathetic rights!”
I thought of the legal solution to our marriage. An ancient law. I must accept the dissolution because it was legal—and the pope had ways of enforcing the law. Who would enforce England’s new law? Would we even have a new law? Didn’t John have to accept it?
“The king terrifies me.” I whispered. “He’s not stupid—he knows he breaks the law and custom at every turn, and he doesn’t care.”
No law could protect me if he chose to murder me. Theo was lying in a mass grave at Windsor. Would I join him?
Enoch watched me. “Do ye think that he micht kill Leith?”
I started—Enoch had read my mind. “He saw her, Enoch! When he saw me, he saw her! She doesn’t claim the throne . . . unless . . . he may have heard something of my speech to the barons.”
He gripped my hand. “I’ll never lat Leith . . .”
Die, as Theo had died.
The next morning, a runner came from the Channel; Enoch and I were to follow him to the ridge—the very ridge I had taken from the sisters’ house and that Enoch had been supposed to use to escape—where we would meet a knight who would bring news of Lord Robert and Lord Eustace.
The runner, an anxious young boy dressed in dun, was exceedingly relieved when we agreed to go.
“Git Leith ready,” Enoch ordered.
Since I saw no reason why she shouldn’t accompany us, I did so. The ridge was as safe as Wanthwaite. By midmorning, we gazed down at the shimmering valley below, sweet as I remembered it.
I hugged Leith. “A few more feet and you’ll be able to see a castle.”
“I see it a’ready!” Enoch spurred his steed to an outcropping.
I gasped! Flames shot around the castle! Tiny black figures darted in and out. Other men in red and gold fought against them desperately.
My peasant girl in red waved from the flames. I drew back.
“Royal mercenaries,” said Enoch.
The black figures outnumbered the castle knights. Faint screams rose eerily after people had been pushed into the moat. Even from this distance, we could see blood flowing from a decapitated body.
Leith was fascinated—I put my hand across her eyes.
A knight with a black noseguard pushed against my steed. We’d been seen! Enoch raised his ax—then apologized.
The knight was Sir Alexander of Lord Robert’s household, the man we’d ridden to meet. Without speaking, he pulled beside Enoch to view the conflict below. The black villains dragged two screaming women onto the moat bridge, where they raped and killed them, then threw them into the water below. More blood. The villains were fast and efficient. Then two little girls received the same treatment. Then two boys.
“Quhat be the villain quat leads?” Enoch whispered.
“Falkes de Braut.” One of John’s most notorious brutes, found in a Norman prison.
“Whose castle is it?” I asked.
Sir Alexander wasn’t certain.
He then informed us that Lord Robert and Lord Eustace were safe in Normandy; the king knew their acts and had formally exiled them.
“Hu did the king larn they war his assassins?”
“From a hermit.” Lord Alexander turned on his frisky steed. “Lord Robert now suggests we exploit the king’s struggle with Pope Innocent III. It’s his only hope.”
Both Enoch and I looked blank.
“The pope has put the interdict on England and excommunicated the king—that was his punishment.”
While we digested this incredible news, the knight turned back to the battle below. It was Lord Fallaise’s home, he believed upon reflection; strange, for that lord had ever been loyal to the king.
When the sun was high, he rode back toward the Channel.
Enoch and I watched the mayhem below a while longer until, as if stung by the same thought, we turned back to Wanthwaite. King John was sacking castles in this area.
“What do you think this Lord Fallaise did to deserve such treatment?” I asked. “Is he part of your Brotherhood?”
Enoch pondered. “Mayhap he couldna send the ten knights the king demands fram his vassals.” He sighed. “Mayhap the varmint wants the castle. Do he need a reason?”
I was thinking of those children who’d been raped and killed. Nature took enough babes without people doing it. Leith had survived her first year, unlike several other infants at Wanthwaite. I wondered about my own mother. Had she had other children? Had I not been an only child after all, but the only child who’d survived? I pulled the sleeping Leith closer.
Enoch stroked Leith’s hair. “He be comin’ close, Alix.”
“Can we defend ourselves?”
Nottingham had resisted the king and York had not. Both had paid an equally terrible price.
We’d reached our descent to Dere Street.
“Where does he get the coins to pay mercenaries?” I asked.
“He pays wi’ jewels. He ha’e the largest collection of jewels in the kingdom.” He glanced at me. “Though nocht the Crown Jewels.”
I shivered in the sun. Jewels. It couldn’t be a coincidence, it was fate. Could John be bribed? If so, what was his guarantee? I reviewed Bonel’s jewels in my mind; only my rubies might appeal to John; though small and pale, they threw light like hot coals.
Enoch and Thorketil built a wall on the far side of the Wanthwaite River. Then they pounded tall, pointed palisades slanted to impale horses. I sent the women to clean out the labyrinth. By the end of the month, it, too, was lined with rough palisades, and the sliding door was oiled with a strong lock inside. Meantime, the women had beaten most of the rats to death; what they missed, they turned over to two large feral cats.
Thus we prepared.
“Be it possible to rule a country wi’out fightin’?” Thorketil asked two days later. “Otherwise, why have a king at all?”
“Law replaces fighting.” I said. “The king or someone could enforce the law.”
“Does law replace a king?” he pressed, as if he hadn’t heard.
The concept of a king was strong; every clan had its chief, every tribe its leader.
“We mun fight to enforce the law!” Enoch cried, showing his Scottish bias. “Our men con defeat any king!”
“We go to court to enforce the law,” I said. “We don’t need a king.�
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Everyone stared, but Enoch instantly capitulated. “History be on yer side, Alix. Whan Richard war in Normandy, his justiciar Hubert Walter ruled England wi’out an army and wi’out a crown, and he used the courts richt enow.” He laughed bitterly. “Boot nu we be ruled by a king here in England. Quhan auld Hubert finally died, King John sayed, Nu fer the ferst time, I be truly king of England. By that, he meant he would fight!”
The killing had begun.
“Perhaps if he retook Normandy, he might leave England alone,” I said.
“Aye, except he’ll ne’er take it becase he doesna fight weil.” He sighed. “’Tis perplexing.” He fretted his brow. “His fantastick cell be better than mast, they say, boot warriors doona need to be canny, just to be brave.”
“And lucky,” Thorketil added.
“Aye.” Enoch drank again. “Ond they mustna gae to sleep on the job. The king gaes fishin’ or fades . . .”
“Fades? How?”
“Gits distracted, loses purpose, taks a nap; I doona knaw.”
He stared without speaking.
A few weeks later, Sir Guy d’Avent rode into our park to enlighten us about John’s quarrel with Rome; Pope Innocent III favored the French king in the constant wars between France and England. His point in repeating this old news was to find some way to exploit it.
“The French king ga’e the pope money fer his favor,” Enoch said flatly.
The knight admitted that this was true.
How did this effect Bonel, who now lived under French rule? Did he give King Philip money?
On the other hand, said the knight, King Philip refused to give up his concubine and return to his queen; he sought an annulment to his marriage from Rome in vain.
“This pope doesn’t permit annulments,” the knight said.
Enoch and I exchanged glances.
The pope was therefore wavering in his backing of Philip against John. I personally thought that John must be more villainous than Philip—how could the pope waver?
Because of money. This pope was gifted in the collection of gold.
Furthermore, John refused to accept Cardinal Stephen Langton, the pope’s choice to be archbishop of Canterbury, which put the pope in a dilemma. Not only had Stephen Langton been born in Lincolnshire, which would give us an English archbishop, but Langton had taught law at Paris University for twenty-five years. The quarrel echoed the more famous case of Becket.
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