“King John’s men raped and killed one of York’s daughters, the one called Mary Margaret, I believe, and threatened the other two. Lord Robert de Ros begged for clemency, whereupon the king said he would spare the family and castle for ten thousand pounds, to show that you do love us. I believe Lord Eustace de Vesci gave a like sum. I hate a man who either seduces or kills a lord’s family!”
Nicola abruptly left.
“Ich doona belave that Eustace . . . !” Enoch jumped to his feet. “Eustace would fight!”
“Would you, Lord Enoch?” Lord Robert’s face crumbled. “Lady Gunmora is dead.”
Enoch was too stunned to speak. So was I. We gazed silently at the bucolic scene before us. Two larks dove into our grain.
“She was a fine woman,” Lord Robert continued in a choked voice. “Furthermore, if you came up Dere Street, you saw only half the destruction. From Scotland, John harried down the other side of England with equal ferocity; he razed close to fifty castles to my knowledge.”
The larks rose again. Then sang.
Lord Robert’s eyes were bloodshot. “What do you suggest we do, Lord Enoch? Call a meeting of the twenty-five barons who signed our charter? Assuming that they’re still alive, do you think they’ll accuse the king of breaking faith? Evoke the Magna Carta? Technically, he was within his rights: He waited the fifteen days.”
Enoch replied heavily, “Can Magna Carta help at all in this case?”
“You know it can’t.”
Enoch stood. “Ye be suggestin’ somewhat.”
“Any treaty is only as good as the people who sign. We made a pact with the devil.”
“Yif ye’re suggestin’ assassination, find anudder mon.”
The moon rose over our plowed field before Lord Robert spoke again. “I don’t want you to kill the king, Enoch.”
“Then who?” I asked.
He took his time. “No one; the king will die a natural death sometime.”
I laughed. “You have a long wait for that event. His mother, Queen Eleanor, died at eighty-two.”
“But his father, some say, died young of natural causes,” Lord Robert repeated. “Others say John murdered him. In either case, John’s death must be natural when it comes.”
I heard his tone, not his words. “You mean, seem natural.”
“Seem, be, the same thing.”
“Seem, murder, the same thing.”
“Sum Scottish kings war murdered.”
Again we were silent.
“I still prefer the word ‘natural.’”
“To seem natural is still murder.”
Lord Robert put his hand on my arm. “Do you have the skill?”
“Oh yes. Now ask if I have the will.”
“I willna have Alix be the assassin!” Enoch shouted.
“Hush! Of course not, I agree. But neither do I want her to be a victim, as Gunmora . . .”
Or Theo.
“The king moves constantly,” I said slowly. “I don’t mean his invasions or his harrying, but just his ordinary life is on the road. No one knows where he is.”
“Or where he’ll suddenly appear,” Lord Robert agreed. “Remember Eustace’s story of how the king arrived at Alnwick with his entire entourage?”
Enoch muttered, “Leith . . .”
“Do you want her to suffer the fate of Theo?” I rose. “Where is the king going after he finishes harrying? Do you know?”
“Dover Castle, I think. He’s gotten wind of the French invasion.”
“Quhat French invasion?”
“Most of the barons want to invite another king to rule us; Prince Louis of France, for example. They see the problem as we do: John is hopeless.”
“Quhy nocht King Philip?”
“Prince Louis has a more legitimate claim. He’s married to Lady Blanche, Queen Eleanor’s granddaughter. But this Prince Louis . . .”
“Is another foreigner,” I finished for him, “and you feel we’ve had enough invasions from the Continent. England is for the English!”
“You read my thought!”
“Aye,” said Enoch, forgetting that he was Scottish.
Again we sat in silence.
“It won’t be easy,” Lord Robert warned. “He’s clever.”
Never underestimate his intelligence.
“No one ever knows where he’ll be,” I repeated.
“No king should be abuv the law.”
“He’s much too clever for a frontal attack.” Lord Robert stood. “Clever, but still vulnerable. He must have some weak point.”
“He eats and drinks to excess.”
Lord Robert shook his head. “Poison leaves traces. Unless you know one . . . A natural death . . .”
“Ye want Alix to be yer assassin,” Enoch declared.
“Oh no, I happily volunteer—I’ll do anthing she tells me to. As I said, seems. The actual person may be difficult . . .”
Enoch spoke so softly I could hardly hear him. “Ich doona want her to tak the blame.”
“If we’re clever, there shouldn’t be any blame,” I said.
“Exactly so,” Lord Robert approved.
“Do you have any notion of where the king will be when he finishes his harrying?” I asked again.
“Dover.”
I rose. “Then I’ll prepare to go at once.”
“Nocht wi’outen me.” Enoch rose as well.
“And Leith?”
“She’ll stay here.”
By which I knew he was serious.
I was serious as well.
And terrified.
And elated.
Who Killed King John?
Book Three
17
Through the gray-green frets of a thornbush, I studied the guards at the curtain wall of Dover Castle. Six people applied for entry while I watched; three were turned away. Finally, when two guards had departed the gate, leaving only one on duty, I heaved my bosom and waddled forward. The guard turned dead eyes in my direction and asked perfunctory questions in a thick foreign argot: What was my business with the king? I pretended not to understand and repeated Queen Isabella’s name again and again. How long did I intend to stay? It depended, I had come to serve the queen, I replied in langue d’oc. My name was Lady Marie-Franoise; I was from Aquitaine. He stared at my papers uncomprehendingly, then at my burgeoning belly and my many moles with obvious distaste. Still, he was uneasy; he clawed my papers with his dirty paws. When I cried suddenly, “Queen Eleanor!” he waved me through.
Panting, I paused for a moment inside the gate to permit my heart to beat normally again. I was Daniel entering the lion’s den, for wasn’t King John in residence? Aye, the red flags fluttering above said he was, which I already knew. At the same time, I was triumphant, for hadn’t Enoch begged me to reconsider? Hadn’t he argued against my plan for days?
Yet soothly I was still far from inside Dover Castle. I stood now in a narrow alleyway between the new curtain wall and the older castle wall, also gated, also guarded. I crouched behind a shrub to prepare for my second assault. My hip pads had slipped, and one of the moles on my face had dropped off somewhere. I found the purple pimple in the sand, and lost my bust—Benedicite, I must add a second strip of linen to hold it in place. My abdomen had also slipped a notch, not enough for anyone to notice, but enough to affect my walking. I minced as if holding my water.
The second set of guards—ten in number—were more literate and more diligent. Dressed in the familiar black and red of the king’s official guard, each one examined the pass I’d received from Queen Isabella; then they checked my person with hard piercing eyes (though not with their hands, Deo gratias); one seemed to know me—was he from Beynac?—but surely not. They engaged me in conversation in langue d’oc; chirping and huffing, I must nonetheless have sounded like a native. I lowered my eyes, however, pretending that something had entered one, for Enoch had warned that my silver eyes might give me away. The guards passed me through.
The castle
proper was still a mile away. The lane was almost invisible in the patchy grass. Though I’d studied this park many times from above, it had appeared less rough and not of such great size from a distance. I glanced over my shoulder, then hiked my left breast.
The whole area sloped subtly uphill from the Channel; the ancient Roman lighthouse, though still to my left, was more squat and more decrepit when seen close; the half-dead linden trees cast faint shade, the soil was rocky and sandy. Dover Castle itself was neither a country house nor a castle so much as a tall, forbidding military fortress. Pocked with arrow slits, the square behemoth loomed ever taller as I neared, a hundred feet high. More, for the base sat in a declivity between two small hillocks. A perfect abode for the king of darkness. My entire body trembled; I looked over the wall behind me to find the inn of St. Martin’s, where Enoch and I had taken residence. The faint outline of its thatch reassured me.
A red flag with three snarling lions waved above the entrance: aye, John was in residence.
Again, I faced a group of guards, Brabantian routiers, no doubt whatsoever, yet tall and blond as Vikings. They probed my credentials again, repeating the same questions in Norman French while I replied in langue d’oc; we didn’t pretend not to understand one another.
Then one disappeared inside the tower; when he reappeared, it was in the company of four knights. I struggled not to gasp—I knew these men! Alberic de Marines, Evrard de la Beauvrire, William de Gamache, Baldwin de Bthunes—all knights from king Richard’s court. Deus juva me, to face men I knew well and who knew me, especially Baldwin—oh, certes they would see through my silly disguise. Why hadn’t I anticipated that John would take over Richard’s household?
But they hardly even glanced at me. I was almost hurt, then bemused: I was getting a taste of what lay ahead in my later years.
They gestured me through the castle door, chatting and japing in langue d’oc about some tournament, as if I weren’t there. Now their indifference gave me opportunity to examine the castle, for my life might depend on familiarity with its design.
Dover Castle was a hollow square with a private garden in its center, thus forming still another wall around the family’s private space. Memorizing my entrance as if it were an exit, I noted that the small rooms nearest the door had windows overlooking the park; the rooms themselves, obviously for storage, were piled high with rusting armor, the outer windows accessible only if one climbed over the armor; there were actually four such rooms before we entered what must be the Great Hall. A long, narrow dark room constructed entirely of Caen stone except for red-tiled floors and with no windows whatsoever, it nonetheless boasted Toulousian tapestries depicting tournaments on the walls, and we passed a long table in the center, nothing more. At the far end of the Great Hall, my guides signaled I should wait. In a few heartbeats, Richard’s top butler, an older man named John Williams, stared at me with milky eyes.
I held my breath; if anyone recognized me, he would. Whether it was his fading vision or the darkness or my disguise or the fact that neither of us spoke that saved me, I didn’t know. At a signal, I followed his rapid pace through a series of fourteen more dark storage rooms, some piled with more armor, some with rugs and hangings, at least two—maybe three—with crates of foodstuffs. John Williams turned to be sure I didn’t stumble when we stepped briefly into the garden, then back into the tower.
He spoke over his shoulder, “The queen’s quarters.”
I nodded, with my eyes lowered. The tiled flooring was now polished, the storage rooms dedicated to feminine wardrobe. Herbs and flower juices masked any noisome human odor. More Toulousian tapestries disguised the walls, these with beautiful damsels kneeling amid flowers, and sleepy unicorns. In the distance, a countertenor sang his sad plaint of love to the pluck of a lute.
Master William turned again. “This is the queen’s Great Hall.”
A large chamber opened before us and I could no longer lower my eyes, for I must see. Benedicite, never had I beheld such riches, such beauty. Flowered tapestries billowed across deep, flowered carpets underfoot. If the black tower was hell, this was heaven! Small tables loaded with cakes surrounded an indolent queen stretched on a long couch. She held out her hand and smiled. Such beauty! Such sweetness! I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep from crying aloud! Blue-green tilted eyes, hair thick and black as any Gitano’s, teeth white as ivory, lips like cherries . . .
“Lady Marie-Franoise, at last!” She sang rather than spoke.
She swung off her chaise, whereupon her rich tunic fell open to display high pointed breasts and a black furry animal between her legs. The queen was naked!
She laughed—I tried to hold my gaze on her face. Beautiful, aye, very white whites of the eyes, long curling fingernails and toenails.
“Look all you please!” She laughed again. “Do I remind you of Queen Eleanor?”
And I understood—or thought I did. Though Eleanor had been ancient in the years I was with Richard, I’d heard rumors of her licentious dress when young. Only what was this beauty doing with a murderous king?
“Well, now you know why I accepted your application—as everyone knows—I’m quite besotted with my departed mother-in-law. But why did you seek me?”
So soon! I swallowed nervously. “I was curious to see one of such beauty, but I admit to an ulterior motive. I pray you can gain me audience with the king.”
“Same as everyone.” She dismissed me on the spot.
Though surrounded by a dozen laughing young beauties, each in rich attire, each sipping Bordeaux from a silver goblet, I felt utterly rebuffed until one young lady stepped forward and introduced herself as Lady Damiana; could she please show me to my quarters?
Thank you, yes, I said, and hoped I hadn’t alienated the queen forever. I followed Damiana again through the same small rooms until we reached the ladies’ quarters, a dark space covered with mats for sleeping with the curtained queen’s bed at one end. Where did the ladies go, I wondered, when the king visited his lady? I thanked Damiana profusely and declined her invitation to return to the queen’s Hall.
“There will be more music,” the lady argued, “and fine fruit to go with the cakes. Are you certain?”
Yes, I was weary from a long journey.
In short order, I lay alone in a closet. In the distance, music wafted softly, followed by women’s laughter. I crept out through the series of small rooms, out through a high window above the arms, and into the garden. The queen’s quarter was the only room with light. Doubled over, I crept forward to the sound of music. Once there, I removed one of Bonel’s small diamonds from my false breasts, held it to the queen’s torchlight, which it reflected brilliantly, and turned it thrice toward the top of the hill. I waited for twenty heartbeats before a torch arched three times in reply.
Enoch knew I’d entered the castle safely.
The queen was haughty and remote the following day, as if I’d never viewed her naked body. More disturbing, she made no mention of my request.
I glimpsed the king myself, however, on that very same day. I quickly ducked behind a bush to view him through the wands, and I didn’t believe he’d seen me. He talked earnestly with two prelates, then led them into the chapel at the far end of the castle. Though his back was turned, I saw at once that he’d lost weight since Runnymede; no longer a slender boy to be sure, he was nonetheless well proportioned, almost a normal man. Harrying is good exercise, I thought. My heart thumped like a kettle. To see him, fat or slender, was to recall Thorketil and Edwina, Lady Gunmora, the peasant girl. Theo.
On the third day, Queen Isabella summoned me to her side to ask questions about Queen Eleanor. Now most demurely gowned in a white tunic sparkling with brilliants at her throat, her manner was condescending. Did John remind me of his mother in appearance? They had the same coloring, did they not? And the same intelligence?
I granted the coloring, both with honey-blond hair and similar smiles, but pleaded ignorance about intelligence. Though I knew Quee
n Eleanor to be exceedingly intelligent—intelligent enough to conceal her sharp intuitions—I’d never met the king except for having seen him from a distance. If she could get me the interview I sought, I would make a special effort to appraise his mind.
Her green eyes were flecked with brown dots. “I trowe, Lady Marie-Franoise, that you may be more crafty than either the king or his mother.” Didn’t I know that her word was good? Please be patient.
I was crafty enough not to remind her that she hadn’t given her word. Was she giving it now? No, I would not be patient with an evasive queen. Intelligent or no, I was determined.
The days passed. Though I learned her habits, the queen evaded me. Except for my purpose, I would have avoided her as well, for she irritated me with her false hospitality. Nor did I see the king again. The entire atmosphere at Dover was poisonous—everyone seemed false. Lady Damiana and Lady Festalle became friends of a sort, but both were discreet about the queen, by which I gathered that something was seriously amiss. Did John abuse her? I knew better than to ask them about the king. Sometimes at night, I crept into the garden. Once Enoch signaled again; it was a question asking if I was still all right. I signaled back that I was, though I was far from certain.
One morning I met the queen in the garden by accident. Since we couldn’t escape one another, she took my arm and resumed her queries about Queen Eleanor. Of course, their coloring was different, but did I not think their features similar? Even the king said so, which was one reason he’d fallen in love with her at first sight. Did I know their story? And he’d told her that first day that she reminded him of his mother. I was stunned. By now I was certain that it would be hard to find two women more far apart than Isabella and Eleanor: one dark, one fair, one seriously seductive, one playful and evasive with men. Yet I did sense that Isabella shared Eleanor’s political ambitions. And, while I had no proof in either case, I suspected that both hated their husbands. For, despite her descriptions of their courtship and certain intimate details about their honeymoon in Normandy, Isabella despised John. She didn’t have to say so; I knew. Yet, instinctively, I couldn’t sympathize with her.
The Prince of Poison Page 26