by Alys Clare
And she a child of sixteen!
Was it true? Was Henry of England truly the father of Joanna’s son?
Josse leaned forward and took hold of de Courtenay by the shoulders. Tightening his fingers till they dug deep into the sinewy flesh – he could sense de Courtenay brace himself against the pain – Josse said, ‘If I ever discover that you are lying to me, and that Joanna’s son is not the child of Henry Plantagenet, then, so help me, I shall find you and kill you.’
De Courtenay met his eyes. You could not, Josse had to admit, fault his courage. ‘It is the truth,’ he said simply. ‘Believe me, I led her to his bed. I was there when he took her.’
Josse almost killed him there and then. Digging in his fingers still further, eliciting a faint moan from de Courtenay, he said, ‘She was a child, man! Your own kin! And you sacrificed her to an old man’s lust!’
‘He’d had his eye on her from the moment she arrived,’ de Courtenay panted. ‘If it hadn’t been me, then somebody else would have fetched her to him. Aaagh! And I thought – aaaagh!’
Josse slackened his grip a fraction. ‘You thought you might as well gain the glory,’ he finished. ‘Attract a little of the royal benevolence for yourself. Eh?’
‘Why not?’ de Courtenay countered. ‘And he was grateful – you had to give the old King that, he never forgot when you’d done him a favour.’
‘And, not content with that, you then gave your beautiful niece to an old goat who used her like a whore throughout her marriage,’ Josse breathed. ‘Why Brittany, de Courtenay? Why send her so far afield?’
De Courtenay was looking at him strangely, an expression of calculation mixing with the pain in his face. ‘You’ve spoken to her,’ he said softly. ‘Great God, but you know all about this from her! Don’t you?’
Josse tightened his hands again and de Courtenay screamed in agony. ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said. ‘Why dispatch her to Brittany?’
De Courtenay’s face was dead-white. ‘Because I wanted everyone to forget about her,’ he said, gritting his teeth. ‘To forget she’d been at court, to forget, if they’d ever known it, that she’d slept with the King. To be ignorant – aaagh! – of the fact that she was pregnant when she wed de Lehon.’
Josse was nodding his understanding. ‘So that nobody but you and she would know that the boy was King Henry’s son. So that you could keep that precious piece of information secret. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
Josse relaxed his grip. Instantly de Courtenay curled in on himself, nursing his shoulders with the opposite hands.
‘And,’ Josse went on, thinking out loud, ‘now that Joanna is a widow, you think to persuade her to join you in whatever you are plotting and—’
‘You don’t see it, do you?’ de Courtenay said, his voice husky. ‘You don’t understand why I want the child now.’
‘Now that his father – his adoptive father – is dead. No, I can’t say that I do.’
De Courtenay gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘It has nothing to do with de Lehon,’ he said. ‘Forget about him, everyone else has, he was a terrible old man. Think more widely, sir knight. Think, if you are able, of court circles.’
Court. The old King dead, King Richard away in Outremer, Prince John putting it about that he might not come back and dropping heavy hints that he would make a better King than his absent brother. But, despite his progressions around the land, failing to win popular support.
‘Who,’ de Courtenay prompted, ‘stands to be King if Richard does not return?’
‘Prince John believes it should be him, but—’
‘But Richard instructed that Arthur of Brittany be confirmed as his heir. Yet who in England wants to be ruled by a four-year-old baby, with a Breton mother into the bargain?’
‘Well, I—’
De Courtenay was kneeling up in front of Josse now, face alight. ‘Don’t you see what a pearl we have, Sir Josse, very nearly within our grasp? If I can only find him, what a prize! Eh?’
‘You mean Ninian,’ Josse whispered.
‘Ninian? Is that what she calls him? Well, we can soon change that – William, perhaps, or Geoffrey, and we’ll tack on a FitzHenry, heaven knows the lad’s entitled to it. Then we’ll present him. Look, we’ll say, King Henry’s true son, of the blood royal, conceived at Windsor, with witnesses to prove it!’
‘Prove it?’ Panicked, Josse lit on the one thing that was at all approachable. ‘How so?’
‘There were more than just the King, Joanna and I in that bed,’ de Courtenay murmured. ‘And I already have assured myself of their support. In return for what I have sworn to pay them, they will attest to the dates and identify Joanna. The child’s date of birth is on record. Anybody who can do simple addition can work out the rest for himself.’
‘And there’s the eyes,’ Josse muttered. ‘I knew I recognised those brilliant blue eyes.’
‘Ah, all to the good!’ de Courtenay cried. ‘A family resemblance was almost too much to hope for.’
Joanna, oh, Joanna, Josse was thinking, this was why you were on the run. Not escaping from de Courtenay for your own sake, as I thought, but for Ninian’s. Because you could not stand by and see your precious child made a pawn in a desperate power game. A pawn who, if de Courtenay were to miss his footing for an instant, would be swiftly and silently disposed of. Never to be heard of or seen again.
That’s why she let me bring her here! he realised in a flash. Why she agreed to the plan to lodge Ninian at Hawkenlye, while she laid a false trail elsewhere! That was why, of course, she asked those strange questions. Was New Winnowlands far off the beaten track? Could somebody find it if they were determined? I, poor fool that I was, believed it was because she feared for her own safety, feared that de Courtenay would find her. In fact, it was quite the opposite.
She wanted de Courtenay to find her.
Because, all the while he was pursuing her, it meant that Ninian was safe.
Feeling sick, he realised that she had used him. Oh, aye, she had her reasons – he had never doubted the power of mother-love – but, remembering those passionate nights with her, he felt as if she had just spat on him.
He raised his head and saw that de Courtenay was watching him, with what looked remarkably like compassion.
‘She can be very charming,’ he said. ‘It runs in the family. She quite won the old King’s heart that Christmas. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, he’d have given her anything she asked. Only she was too proud.’
‘She—’ Josse’s voice broke. He began again. ‘She would never agree to her son being put forward, being paraded openly as Henry’s son.’
‘No, I fear you are right,’ de Courtenay admitted. ‘But then it is not crucial to have her agreement. If I can only find the boy, tell him who he is and spirit him away to where I have friends and supporters waiting, then Joanna swiftly becomes irrelevant.’
‘You—’ Josse started. Then he made himself stop. Better, surely, to let de Courtenay continue. At least then Josse would know what he was planning to do.
‘Join us!’ de Courtenay said eagerly. ‘What a future we could have, Sir Josse! You could say, quite reasonably, that as a loyal follower of King Richard, you were keen to do what was best for the realm he left behind, and what better, from Richard’s point of view, than a new start? God knows, he detested all the kin he knew about, why not crown one he’d never met? It could scarce be worse!’
‘Aye, aye,’ Josse said, ‘you may be right. And we could win popular support, think you?’
‘Of course!’ de Courtenay said confidently. ‘The people are so fickle, so shallow of thought, they’ll believe anything if it’s presented to them plausibly enough. And, in all conscience, they won’t take readily to either John or Arthur of Brittany.’
‘No, no, I can see that.’ Josse was thinking hard. ‘So, we take the boy off to London or to Winchester, proclaim his parenthood, get your witnesses to swear that it’s all true and then have him ado
pted as heir?’
‘Yes!’ De Courtenay was on his feet now, almost dancing. ‘Why, man, he could be crowned King before we know it! And then we’ll be sitting pretty. The power behind the throne, eh? What a prospect! What do you say?’
Josse, too, got up. Slowly, pretending to stretch, pretending still to be working it all out. But, as he straightened up, he reached down surreptitiously to ensure he still carried his dagger. His sword, he could see, was within reach, propped beside the fireplace.
‘I think,’ he said, keeping his tone calm, ‘that it is an outstanding plan.’
‘I thought you would!’ de Courtenay said gleefully.
‘Except you’ve forgotten something.’ Josse tried to sound merely a little worried, as if the objection were only a small point.
‘Oh, there are any number of details still to be worked out,’ de Courtenay agreed. ‘What has occurred to you?’
‘What has occurred to me,’ Josse said, pretending to reach for another log to throw on the fire, ‘is this.’ His hand flew past the stacked logs and landed on the hilt of his sword.
Swinging the blade up, aiming its awesome point straight at de Courtenay, he said coldly, ‘You are premature, Denys. Clever, devious, but premature.’
He took in the surprise on de Courtenay’s face, the very first look of doubt. He found that, despite everything, he was quite enjoying himself.
‘What you have forgotten,’ he said pleasantly, ‘is that, as far as we know, King Richard is still alive.’
Chapter Seventeen
Even then, de Courtenay rallied and went on the attack again.
‘You can’t be sure of that!’ he cried. ‘And he’s on Crusade! Even if a Saracen scimitar doesn’t get him, the dysentry probably will!’
‘You do not convince me,’ Josse said coldly.
‘And if he dies, then what?’ De Courtenay took no notice of the interruption. ‘Queen Berengaria means nothing to him, they say, he spends so little time with her that, if she’s to become with child, it’ll more likely be a second immaculate conception! And John has no children – his wife hasn’t been seen anywhere near him since the day they said their marriage vows! I tell you, these ruling Plantagenets have no future! Oh, think, Sir Josse! Put up your sword and let’s talk our plan through!’
‘Our plan?’ Josse shouted. ‘No, de Courtenay! Do not dare to include me in this!’
‘But—’ The handsome face creased into a puzzled frown. ‘Just now, you were – you seemed to—’ His expression cleared. ‘Ah, I see. You were amusing yourself at my expense, weren’t you? Playing me on your line, like a fisherman with a leaping salmon.’
The smile was still there, as wide and as radiant as ever, but, in some all but imperceptible way, de Courtenay’s face had altered.
For the first time, Josse had a tiny glimpse of what lay behind the charm and the affability. What, when he thought about it, he had always known must be there. For this man had tortured and killed Mag Hobson.
What he saw was infinite cunning. And a ruthless, limitless capacity for evil.
But it was there and gone so quickly that it could have been a trick of the light …
When in doubt, take the initiative.
Gripping his sword tightly, gaining a rush of confidence from the familiar feel of it in his hand, Josse said, ‘We have nothing more to say to one another, de Courtenay. I think you should leave.’
‘Leave,’ de Courtenay repeated quite softly. ‘Yes, yes, perhaps I should.’ He gave an elegant shrug. ‘Ah, well, I did my best. We should have made a formidable team, d’Acquin, you and I. But it was not to be.’ He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘A pity.’
He began to turn away, walking slowly, with slumped shoulders, towards the door. Josse, only partly taken in, let his concentration lapse. His brain still trying to assess the implications of that momentarily-glimpsed, alien look that had so briefly crossed de Courtenay’s face, he let the point of his sword drop.
Only by a little.
But it was enough.
Spinning round, his own sword drawn so swiftly that its movement was a silvery blur, de Courtenay was on to Josse.
And there was something else: a vitally important factor which, considering de Courtenay had always been a potential adversary, Josse ought to have noticed instantly.
He was left-handed.
The quick and automatic reactions that came from a lifetime as a fighting man came to Josse’s rescue; his own sword was up again even as de Courtenay launched the first savage swing, and he made contact with the blade as it homed in towards his chest. But the attack came from Josse’s right side, and de Courtenay’s sword, held in his left hand, bounced off Josse’s blade and, as it fell, sliced into Josse’s upper arm.
It did not hurt, not straight away. But Josse knew he was injured, gravely so, by the gush of his own warm blood which he felt flood up from the wound, seeping through his sleeve and beginning to drip on to the floor.
And, more significantly, by the sudden loss of strength in his right arm.
Shifting his sword to his left hand, he rushed at de Courtenay, trying to find the space in the man’s defence, trying to see how he swung, where he left himself vulnerable. He made contact, and a flower of bright blood appeared on de Courtenay’s chin.
But it was a small wound – de Courtenay appeared barely to notice it.
Again, Josse lunged, but de Courtenay seemed to be thinking too quickly for him, so that, whatever Josse tried, whichever quarter he attacked from, his adversary was ready, parrying the heavy sword blows, his own weapon always there to defend him from Josse’s fury.
But Josse was the attacker, that was for sure, and de Courtenay the defender; I must keep this up, Josse thought, fighting the worrying dizziness that was threatening to unbalance him. My only hope is if I keep him on the retreat.
For the alternative – for de Courtenay to gain the advantage and make Josse defend as he attacked – was not to be contemplated.
Josse did his best. But he was losing too much blood. And, although he was trained in the use of his non-dominant hand, he had never had to fight a man of de Courtenay’s vicious determination under such a combination of handicaps.
Slowly, steadily, de Courtenay wore him down.
There was a moment of perfect balance, then, as their two swords unlocked, Josse experienced a split-second’s blackness. He let his left arm fall.
When he was once more himself, it was to find de Courtenay forcing him backwards, sword whistling through the air, aiming for the junction between Josse’s neck and his left shoulder. Gathering what strength and wits that remained to him, he tried to deflect the blow.
And, throwing himself off balance, fell to his knees.
He tried to fight the nausea and the faintness, tried to reach for his dagger – de Courtenay was above him now, he might be able to slide the smaller blade into his belly, or, if not that, then wound him sufficiently to arrest this onslaught …
He slumped forward, sword falling from his hand, his head drooping between his shoulders.
And waited for the end.
After a small eternity, he felt the edge of de Courtenay’s sword kiss against his neck. Closing his eyes, he offered a swift prayer: forgive me, oh, Lord, my many sins, and …
Nothing happened. No whistle of a fast-descending blade, no sudden appalling agony as the blade bit.
He opened his eyes and tried to look up at de Courtenay.
He had drawn his dagger, and, with his sword shifted to his right hand, was trailing the dagger’s point across the bare skin of Josse’s neck and cheeks with his left.
‘A more handy weapon,’ he murmured, ‘for what I have in mind. Not easy, is it, Josse, to slit off a man’s ears and nose with a sword?’
Josse tried to elbow him away but the removal of one of his supporting arms made him fall to the floor.
‘Oh, dear,’ de Courtenay said with mock sympathy, ‘the lion has turned into a kitten! Here, puss! Feel the tickl
e of my blade!’ Josse winced as the dagger nicked a piece of flesh on his neck.
Then, as if he had abruptly tired of playing, de Courtenay bent low over Josse. He put down his sword and pressed his right hand to Josse’s throat, constricting the windpipe, making Josse’s already blurred sight fail altogether as the blackness encroached. The dagger pressing against Josse’s cheek, de Courtenay hissed, ‘Before I slit your throat, you will tell me where I may find her boy. Don’t try to tell me you don’t know, because I am fully aware that you do.’ The dagger punctured the skin. ‘And, each time you answer my question, where is he? with the answer, I don’t know, I shall slice off one of your features.’
Josse, lying on his right side, tried to find his dagger with his left hand. There! No, no, no. There! No … yes.
His hand closed over the slim hilt.
‘Now,’ de Courtenay said, ‘where is Joanna’s child?’
‘I…’Josse closed his eyes and moaned, faking a rush of faintness; he didn’t have to try hard to make the act convincing. ‘De Courtenay wait, I—’
The dagger bit again. ‘Where is the boy?’ came the inexorable voice.
‘You must let me think!’ Josse cried, ‘I’m so dizzy I can’t get my wits to work!’
De Courtenay’s hand on his throat tightened, and Josse lost consciousness for a few seconds. Opening his eyes again, he found de Courtenay’s face directly above his, and the eyes were burning with a dreadful mixture of furious intent and sadistic pleasure.
‘There!’ he said. ‘Now, breathe deep, Josse, while I permit it, then tell me what I want to know.’
Josse filled his lungs and, as he did so, drew his dagger from its sheath.
‘That’s better!’ de Courtenay said conversationally. He began to tighten his grip on Josse’s throat again. ‘Now, this time, sir knight, you will tell me. Before I choke off your air, you will reveal what you have done with the boy. Or else, when you next regain your wits, you will find that you lack an ear.’
De Courtenay’s dagger pressed against the back of Josse’s left ear. At the same time, de Courtenay’s other hand was slowly stopping him from breathing …