They played until the nurse tired and gave Joan a piece of cloth to embroider. Time passed so slowly, she started to doze in her chair, but Agnes woke her, saying she should not sleep now or she would lie awake at night. So she sat and gazed out the window.
“Child, come away from there. You look like you’re in a trance.”
Joan slid from her stool and paced about the room. There was no point watching for the return of the hunters. The window faced the wrong direction.
“Joan, you are wearing a rut in the floor. What is bothering you today?”
She thought of everything that bothered her: the horse her father had chosen for her champion, Henry’s peevishness whenever Papa was around, Richard’s indifference, the count’s warning, her mother’s fear. And last night she had taken the queen’s side against the king. She had only meant to help Mama, not hurt Papa.
The door to the chamber burst open to admit Charisse and a bevy of maids.
Charisse said, “The hunters are back. The king is going to Chinon. We must pack.”
Joan shuddered with misgivings. It was only mid-afternoon. Hunts usually lasted till dusk.
“He’s in a foul mood,” Charisse continued. “He dismissed six of the young king’s companions.”
Joan sat hard on the bed and groped for Tessie. Why would Papa send Henry’s friends away? Charisse began throwing clothes into a trunk, taking no care to sort or fold them.
Agnes asked, “Was there any—?”
“Nothing. There was nothing. No one knows what happened. The king was seized with a violent fit of temper and ended the hunt.”
“Where is the queen?” Agnes asked.
“She’s already in the wain, waiting.”
“And the princes?”
Charisse stopped and looked at the nurse. All around them, maids gathered up ribbons and clothes, pillows and combs, tossing them into trunks and banging the lids shut.
“Still on their horses, but the king has men all around them.”
Joan’s heart pounded so hard she thought she would faint. “Like prisoners?”
Charisse turned to her. “Oh! Oh, darling sweet, no. Not like prisoners. Like naughty boys. He just wants them back in Chinon so he can scold them in private.”
“Scold them for what?”
“I don’t know, sweet. Just hurry. Let Agnes run you down to the wain. The servants will be here for the trunks any minute.”
Amaria appeared at the door. She clutched the jamb and leaned forward, pressing her hand to her bosom as she struggled to catch her breath. “Joan!”
Joan jumped up. “Yes?”
“Come now! The king is accusing the queen of hiding you away. He wants to leave!”
“But I’ve been here all day.”
Amaria beckoned her forward. “Come. I’ll take you.”
Together they ran to the stairs. At the top of the stairwell, Amaria paused to gasp for air. “I had to search all over for you,” she said.
“Amaria? No one is hurt?”
“No.”
“What is going to happen?”
“Sweet Mother Mary, Joan. How should I know?”
Amaria hurried her down the steps, then through the semienclosed walkway connecting the guest tower and great hall. The hall was filled with courtiers and ladies who smirked behind their hands as Joan passed. Papa stood at the door, arguing with the red-faced lord of Limoges.
The lady of Limoges spotted them, and relief broke across her face. “Here she is, sire.”
Her father whirled about and glared at Joan. “Where were you hiding?”
“I…I…” She started to cry. Why was he so angry?
“Put her in the cart.”
A man lifted her and carried her away. He didn’t take her to her own wain, but to an open two-wheeled cart that held a few kitchen girls and boxes of larder supplies. Too frightened to complain, she wondered if her father would fault the man or if he’d done it on the king’s instruction. But why punish her? What had she done?
DUSK FELL, BUT THE CORTEGE DID NOT HALT FOR SUPPER. THE kitchen girls shared their meager scraps of bread and cheese with Joan. If they hadn’t, she supposed her father would have let her starve. It drizzled, and she thought he might rescue her from her misery. Instead, she huddled for a long time under a fusty, wet blanket with the other girls.
It was night when the rain stopped. Clouds dispersed, revealing a full moon bright enough to light the way. The cortege changed horses at a village Joan did not know, then pressed on. The rain had converted the dirt road to mud. Drivers led their horses in a snaking pattern to avoid the quagmire. Joan’s cart swayed side to side as if rocked by waves. One by one, her companions drifted off to sleep, but she sat upright. She didn’t like traveling at night, especially without Agnes, and since the way was unfamiliar, she couldn’t guess how long it would take. Limoges was in the Limousin, south of Poitou, while Chinon lay to the north in Anjou. Mama liked to claim southerners had better manners, that northern Frenchmen were almost as barbaric as the English and the Irish. But Joan had not been impressed by any courtesy in Limoges.
Night gave way to the chirruping arrival of dawn, and Joan became conscious of awakening maids and stamping horses. She must have slept after all.
Her tongue felt thick, and her throat, parched. When one of the girls produced a skin of water, she had no choice but to drink from it. The water tasted of dirt. She wondered what the servants were thinking. Her father was famous for impetuous changes in his itinerary—maybe it was nothing more. Even as the hopeful thought formed, she recognized it as vain.
Fog settled upon them during the morning hours, and when it lifted, spitting rain began. They stopped only for fresh horses. Joan thought her father must care more for his beasts than for his children. At last, after a long day’s rolling passage northwest through dormant vineyards and fields sharply scented with rotting chaff, the road began its descent to rejoin the Vienne River. Ahead, she could see the many pale gray towers of Chinon Castle. The sprawling fortress sat atop a spur of rock, its lower walls nearly hidden by trees.
When they drew near, the castle gates opened. The castellan met them, and servants flocked to unload the carts. The weary kitchen girls followed a steward sent to fetch them. A groom led away the horse and cart. Joan stood alone at the castle door while people swarmed about with purpose. She knew Chinon. It was her father’s most important fortress in Anjou. She could make her way to the right chamber. But she was afraid to leave on her own. What if Papa were to look for her again?
Agnes found her. “Oh, Joan! You are as wet as a fish.”
“It rained.” Her eyes welled with tears.
“Come. We’ll find some dry clothes.”
“Where is Mama?”
“With the king.”
“And my brothers?”
Agnes looked away. “With the king, too.”
“Can I go to them?”
“No, child. He didn’t send for you.”
Her shoes left damp marks on the stone floor as she followed Agnes to their chamber. Inside, maids arranged the bedding and aired dresses as though it were just another day, but Joan could not shake away her fear. Agnes helped her out of her wet gown and chemise and into dry ones. Then she combed Joan’s hair as gently as Charisse would have.
The other maids left when they completed their tasks. Only Agnes remained.
“Can I go to find John?” Joan asked. He wouldn’t be with Papa. Her older brothers excluded him from their schemes. Still, he might have heard what happened on the hunt.
“I think you should stay here.”
Agnes found her some sewing. Joan was tired after the night’s poor sleep followed by a tedious day of travel. Her stitches zigzagged and her thread tangled. When she nodded off, Agnes didn’t wake her.
She woke when Amaria brought stewed pears and boiled eggs, and she ate until her stomach felt bloated. “Amaria, what is happening? Did Mama and Papa argue?”
“Probably.” She
shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Where is Henry?”
“Joan, don’t badger me.”
Joan frowned. Her mother said a princess had to be aware of all the undercurrents at court. She would be angry that everyone was keeping her daughter in the dark.
“I want to talk to my mother.”
Agnes chided, “Be patient, Joan. They’ve fought before. You know that.”
She knew. But it hurt every time.
In the evening, bells called them to supper. With relief, Joan noted her mother and father together at the head of the table, though her father looked sullen and her mother defiant. Her brothers sat apart—Richard and Geoffrey in their usual company. Since that was their preference, it wouldn’t have worried her, except the young voices were unnaturally muted. Henry sat among a group of older knights. Throughout the meal, she watched him cast furtive glances around the hall—he looked as though he were measuring the distance to the doors.
Agnes bent over her shoulder. “You are not eating, child. Are you unwell?”
She nodded without thinking.
“Come, I’ll take you back to the chamber. You’re better off in bed.”
She rose and followed Agnes; no one stopped them. She thought it likely no one cared that they’d gone.
LONG AFTER SUPPER MUST HAVE ENDED, CHARISSE CAME TO the chamber. “Are you awake, sweet? The queen asks if you are ill.”
“May I go to her?”
Charisse pulled at her fingers, then nodded. “But if she says you must leave, don’t argue. Don’t give her any more trouble.”
“Is my father angry about what the count of Toulouse said?”
“He’s always angry about something. Don’t fret so much.”
The passage that led to her mother’s quarters stank of burning oil, and the lamps cast overlapping shadows to menace them as they walked. Charisse brought Joan to the antechamber, where six maids already lay two to a bed. She knocked on the door to the queen’s bower.
Amaria opened it a crack. “Lady, it is Princess Joan.”
“Let her enter,” her mother said. She sat in bed, her legs under a gray linen sheet. Heavy blankets were kicked to the footboard. Her unbound hair fell past her shoulders, and her eyes were swollen—she looked tired. “Joan, what is wrong?”
“I don’t know, Mama. I’m frightened.”
Her mother sighed. “Come here.”
Joan climbed into the bed and felt comforted by its softness and the lily scent of her mother’s hair.
“Why are you frightened?” Eleanor asked.
“Because no one will tell me what is wrong.”
She thought her mother smiled for a moment. But then the regal face grew stern. “Why don’t you tell me? What do you think?”
“Papa is angry. He’s angry at Henry. And…” Joan’s breath rushed out. “Count Raymond spoke to Papa.” Her mother nodded. “And…and I spoke to Count Raymond’s son.”
“Are you afraid your father is angry with you?”
“No.” She was, but it was the least of her fears. “He doesn’t care what I do, Mama.”
Her mother hugged her. “Sweetling, I told him Amaria talked to young Raymond. You just wanted your poppet.”
Joan’s heart lightened. She hadn’t hurt Papa. He didn’t know.
“He’s not suspicious of you. He won’t let me speak to your brothers, but I doubt he’ll keep you from them—he knows how you worship Richard. Tomorrow morning you must try to see Richard. You must find out what your father said to him.”
“But—”
“Shush now.” She laid her hands over Joan’s. “A princess must be brave. And she must know whom to trust. You trust Richard, don’t you?”
She nodded. She trusted Richard. She wanted to trust her mother, too.
“You’re a smart girl. Someday, we’ll make you a queen, won’t we? Where would you like to be queen? France?”
Joan wrinkled her nose. She didn’t feel like playing her mother’s favorite game.
“Shall we marry you to young Philip?” Mama pressed.
Joan shook her head. Her family did not like France, even if Henry was married to Margaret, the elder of Prince Philip’s sisters, and Richard was supposed to marry Alice, the younger.
Mama laughed, a little trill. “Lie down, darling.”
She laid her head in her mother’s lap.
“What about Jerusalem?” she said, smoothing Joan’s hair. “Or Sicily? Or maybe you could be an empress.”
“Mama,” she groaned, “I don’t want to marry a king. I want to stay with you.”
“Sweet Jeanne.” The Occitan pronunciation caressed like an endearment. Her mother pulled the sheet up and lay beside her. Snuggled in her mother’s arms, Joan fell asleep.
GASPS AND THE SCREECHING OF WOMEN IN THE ANTECHAMBER woke her. Joan sat up and clutched her mother. Pale dawn light filtered through the shutters, enough to see armed men storm through the door. The knights drew up short before the half-dressed queen.
Her father led them. “Where is he?”
“Who?” her mother asked.
“Your unholy whelp.”
“Unholy? That would be yours, then. Melusine’s blood.”
“Better sons of the devil than sons of yours. Where is Henry?”
“Henry?” Joan thought her mother sounded surprised, but the surprise was lost in laughter. “Sire, he was in your care, not mine.”
Her father drew close, his face choleric. Joan ducked as his hands flew out from his sides. He dragged the queen from bed, one hand on her arm, the other in her hair.
“Where is he?”
Eleanor steadied herself and pushed away the king’s hands. “He was imprisoned in your antechamber last night. How could you have lost him? Where are his guards?”
“One is dead. The other, missing.”
“Who killed the dead one? You or Henry?” She laughed again. “You fool. Henry must be halfway to France by now.”
“France?” His jaw slackened. “Not France, Eleanor. Henry is too soft for treason.” His voice was so even, so cold, Joan couldn’t tell if it held hatred or hurt.
“If you believe that, then seek him where you will.”
Her father ground his teeth, thinking, then he turned to the knight at his right. “There are five or six castles where he could be heading. Send out search parties…and one also to the French border. The young king must be apprehended.” He looked back at Queen Eleanor. “If I do find him in France, he will find himself in hell.”
She smirked. “You won’t find him anywhere if you and your brigands keep loitering here. Look at Sir Rufus gawking at Joan.”
Joan gasped. The young knight’s eyes widened, and his face flushed red. She pulled the linen up to her chin. Her father glared at him, then at her mother.
“I’m bringing Henry back, Eleanor. And when I am through with him, he will curse the womb that bore him.” His voice was thick with anger.
“Your children hate you.” Hers was ice-water thin. “You cannot blame me for that.”
CHINON CASTLE WAS HER FATHER’S FORTRESS. THOUGH ITS exterior was starkly beautiful, the interior was merely stark. In older parts of the castle, condensation dripped from the walls so regularly that green moss grew on them in sheets. In Poitiers, niches held cushioned benches or flowers; here, they held spiderwebs or nests of mice.
Joan made her way through the east gallery. It was now late afternoon. The tapers on the wall were spaced too far apart—even when all were lit, the gallery was dark. The gloom suited her purpose. She was hiding.
After everything that had happened that morning, she would rather disappear altogether.
Her father had given orders for Sir Rufus to be blinded by hot irons. The punishment took place in the tilting yard just before morning prayers. Unwilling to watch, Joan stood behind the door to the yard, but she heard Rufus scream.
The grumbling knights nearby did not fault the king. Everyone knew Mama had accused Rufus falsely to h
asten the men out of her chamber. But didn’t Papa know that, too?
She wondered who would have borne the blame if the gift horse had thrown the young lord of Toulouse.
She turned a corner, reaching her destination in ten more paces. The secluded alcove had been a chapel under one of Chinon’s previous lords. It had fallen into disuse, its furnishings scavenged for other chambers, but a pretty stained-glass window remained, allowing a thin patch of brightly colored light to dance across the floor. She liked to pretend that it was her own chapel, or a nursery for Princess Tessie.
Joan slipped through the arched entrance and sidled along the wall to sit where no one walking past could see her. She had overheard many things from this vantage point, since the gallery was often used by servants, but she didn’t expect any answers to fall upon her ears. Did Henry run away because of what the count of Toulouse said? Could he really have gone to France? Mama always said to answer a question, start from what you know.
Mama taught that a princess must not only understand the policies of the realm, but she must also understand its enemies. Joan understood why the king of France was their enemy. King Louis of France put his first wife aside because, though she’d given him two daughters, she’d failed to produce a male heir in fifteen years of marriage. His first wife was Mama, Duchess Eleanor of Aquitaine.
What happened next was one of Joan’s favorite stories. The French king had treated Mama cruelly, leaving her alone and disgraced, prey to any lowly lord who thought to enhance his lands by seizing hers. To whom could she turn? Who could be so bold as to offer her succor, when to do so meant angering the powerful king of France?
One of the king’s own vassals did—Prince Henry of England, duke of Normandy, count of Anjou. Papa! A scant eight weeks after the annulment, Papa stunned Christendom by marrying Mama. Within a year, she gave birth to a son.
King Louis’s humiliation was not yet complete. The next year, Papa became king of England when Stephen—the usurper—died. Papa was now wealthier and more powerful than his overlord. And Mama was a queen again.
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