She thought she would enjoy being with females who were not oblates, nurses, or nuns but soon discovered otherwise. The princesses in Poitiers bickered and gossiped among themselves, then quieted whenever she drew near. Worst was Alice’s haughtiness. She was not even married to Richard, yet she acted as though she were queen over everyone. When Joan complained, her father told her to leave Alice alone.
She grew impatient to leave Poitiers behind. Thankfully, her father could dismiss courtiers and servants as quickly as he marched an army. Within a week, they left for Verneuil.
ONE EVENING LATE IN JUNE, A LARGE COMPANY OF KNIGHTS arrived. The hungry men descended upon the torch-lit dining hall in a clamor that brought all the women of the castle running. Hurrying to join her father, Joan bumped into a man she recognized as old Sir Walter, the lord of Sarum.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said, blushing at her clumsiness.
“Princess!” He smiled a greeting, surprising her. Of course she expected him to know her, but it always surprised her when men behaved kindly.
Young Sir Walter came up beside her. “Father, there is a place—oh, excuse me, Princess.” He made a deep bow. His hair was combed smooth and severely parted. His eyes were bluer than her father’s. He was handsomer than ever and obviously knew it. She remembered the rude way he had treated her in Gisors.
“Sir Waldo,” she said with the slightest of nods. It was gratifying to see the smile freeze on his face and confusion cloud his eyes. She turned back to the father. “I have other people to greet, if you will excuse me.”
As she walked away she heard the son ask, “What did she call me?”
Old Sir Walter answered, laughing, “I believe she called you a fool.”
The glow from her small triumph quickly faded. Something important was happening. Otherwise, these men wouldn’t be here. She wove through the crowd until she reached Sir Robert. “We meet again, sir.”
He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Lady, I don’t know anything.”
She laughed. “Yes, you do. You might as well tell me. You know I’ll find out.” She didn’t really expect him to tell her anything before telling the king. It didn’t matter that the other knights close by were watching—she was pleased just to see him. Sir Robert was the exception to the rule; she had come to expect kindness from him.
Bells sounded, and servants began bringing platters heaped with slabs of venison and warm puddings of bread and goose liver. They were supposed to be tomorrow’s supper. She wondered what the steward would find to serve instead.
The knights jostled each other to find a place on the benches alongside the tables. Joan looked for her father; he was sitting beside Alice.
While they ate, Sir Robert went to the king’s side and spoke in his ear. Henry’s face darkened. Before the feast ended, he rose and left the table with Robert—Joan noticed several other knights leave their places to follow. Swallowing her pride, because she couldn’t swallow her impatience, she slipped up to the head table and sat in her father’s seat.
“What did Sir Robert say?” she asked Alice. Joan was irritated when the girl merely shrugged. “Didn’t you listen?”
“He was talking to the king, not to me.” Alice popped a piece of bread between her wine-stained lips.
“You were right there!” Joan bit her tongue. Scolding would not accomplish anything. Yet how could Alice have lived alongside Mama for so long and learned nothing?
“I don’t know. Something about Wales. Or Scotland.”
“About Prince David ap Owen? Or King William?”
Alice’s forehead wrinkled. “Which one did the king have a truce with?”
“King William.”
“It was him. He broke the truce.”
THE RENEWED SCOTTISH OFFENSIVE SO WORRIED THE KING that he no longer dared leave England to its own defense. Taking an advance force north to Barfleur to arrange passage across the channel, he charged Sir Robert to follow with the women. Princess Alice complained from the moment her plump bottom touched the cushion of the wain. Three hours into the ride, Margaret slapped her—Joan decided Henry was blessed in his wife.
When they arrived at last in Barfleur, Alice shoved Joan aside to be first from the wain, then flung herself into the king’s arms. Joan blinked in surprise to see her clasp her arms around his neck and kiss him. Her father put his hands on Alice’s arms, but not to dislodge her. For a moment, he gazed intently into her eyes. Finally, he pushed her away and turned.
“Joan, girl, the boat is waiting. We sail tonight after the baggage is loaded. I’ll allow—”
“Jeanne.”
Joan whirled at the sound of the voice. Her mother stood several paces behind, surrounded by guards.
“Mama!”
A knight put his hand on her shoulder.
“No,” the king said, “let her go.”
She ran to her mother’s embrace, breathing in lilies and herbs. “Mama, where were you?”
“Oh, sweetling. A few places I couldn’t be found. Where did he keep you?”
Joan’s throat tightened. Her mother believed she’d been no more than a prisoner. “Fontevrault.”
“Have you had a chance to talk with your brothers?”
“No. I saw them, though, at Gisors, before—”
“That’s enough.” Her father came up behind. “Ask me, Eleanor. Don’t use the girl.”
Her mother didn’t answer. She tilted her head slightly and looked down her nose. Joan tried to memorize the way she did it. The queen spoke—malice made her voice thin.
“War agrees with you, Henry. You look quite virile for an old man.”
“Confinement agrees with you. You look very docile.”
“The way you like your girls,” she answered mockingly. Her gaze passed over his shoulder to where the other princesses still stood.
The king winced. “Don’t be petty. You used to be so much cleverer. We’re going to England. I know how well the weather suits you.”
“Where in England? The weather varies.”
“Tut-tut. Joan is listening.”
He gestured with his head, and Eleanor’s guards closed around her. Her mother walked away, her back straight as a mast. How could they do this to each other?
That evening, forty ships set sail, heavily loaded and riding low in the water. Joan didn’t even know which one her mother was on. The princesses sailed with the king. He had them locked in the hold, safe from the ogling of sailors. Except for Alice. The king kept her somewhere else.
JOAN WANTED TO HATE HER FATHER, BUT HER RESOLVE WEAK ened when they disembarked in Southampton. As the other princesses were placed into a wain bound for the English stronghold of Devizes, he came like a penitent and asked her to accompany him to Canterbury. She knew he didn’t have to ask.
When she answered, “Yes, Papa,” though she meant to sound indifferent, he smiled and hugged her hard, saying, “My loyal girl.”
Still, he did not explain the choice of Canterbury over the Scottish Marches. That task fell to Sir Robert, who said the count of Flanders and her brother Henry also were coming to England. Because the king feared the latest setbacks were evidence of God’s displeasure, he was going to Canterbury to perform penance for Archbishop Becket’s death, penance he had promised the Church years ago.
Joan knew Thomas Becket’s story. As chancellor, he had been her father’s closest adviser and friend. Yet when Papa managed to arrange for his appointment as archbishop of Canterbury, head of the Church in England, Becket repaid the honor by opposing every royal command. Four years ago, renegade knights murdered him in Canterbury Cathedral. Her father was blamed, though it had not been his fault.
They traveled to Canterbury with minimal escort, sending the bulk of the army to await them in London. Just outside the city, they stopped so the king could be stripped of his finery. Donning a hair shirt, he walked barefoot through streets thronged with burghers and beggars, who watched with such solemn quiet Joan’s skin crawled. Did they think
him guilty or was the silence evidence of their awe?
She rode with Sir Robert until they drew close to the cathedral, where the whole party dismounted. The sun on the white facade made her eyes ache.
From the arched doorway, golden cherubs smiled down upon them, but to Joan, the angels seemed to laugh at the king as he passed. He proceeded through the nave to lie prostrate before Becket’s tomb. The bishop made a long-winded speech absolving him of guilt, then every one of the monks gathered to lash him. Joan wept until her cheeks were raw.
Sir Robert led her away from the cathedral at sunset, leaving her father to spend the night at the foot of the tomb. No one bound his wounds. She was afraid he would die.
“He won’t die,” Sir Robert said. His voice was hoarse. She leaned against him, and when he took her arm, she noticed his hand. Crusted blood darkened two of the nail beds.
“I can tell the state of the kingdom by your fingernails.”
He looked startled, then put his hand before his face. “They’ll grow again.”
In the morning, they returned for the bishop’s mass. Her father still lay on the marble floor before the tomb. Joan had not slept and now fought nodding off by staring at him, willing him to move so she would know he lived. Afterward, the bishop raised him up and gave him a drink of blessed water as well as a phial of the martyr’s blood to keep for a relic. Joan was so relieved she almost ran to him, but Robert whispered she must wait.
Outside the cathedral, a crowd had assembled again. Sir Robert brought the king’s horse. Joan watched her father struggle to mount. His guard gathered, shielding him from the eyes of his subjects until he was seated. They rode away amidst an explosion of cheers. Whatever they had thought yesterday, now the people adored their king.
A few miles from town, the cortege stopped. Henry entered a wain and did not come out until they reached London’s White Tower two days later. Sir Robert and a physician attended him. Joan paced before his bedchamber, awaiting his summons. When her legs could no longer bear weight, she sat on the cold floor.
Sir Robert came out just as Joan heard far-off church bells ringing compline.
“How is he?” she demanded, jumping to her feet.
“The physician is letting his blood.”
They waited in silence until the physician emerged.
“Princess Joan? He asked for you.”
Joan pushed past Robert, through the door. The smells of a sickroom assaulted her: old bloody bandages, a chamber pot, the vinegary smell of medicinal wine. A lamp burned near the darkened window, but the wick had not been trimmed, and it gave off more smoke than light.
“Joan, girl? Come here.” His voice sounded thready.
She hesitated a moment before stepping forward. He sat sideways on his bed in the dim light, leaning back on his hands with elbows locked. His face was frighteningly pale and deeply lined. The physician’s young apprentice sat at the bedside rubbing unguent onto his cracked, purple feet. Joan stared at the bruises, unable to look upon the welts on his back.
“Papa, why did you do that?”
He kicked the apprentice on the shoulder, nearly rattling him off his seat. “That’s enough, ham-hand. Get out.”
Knocking over the stool as he jumped, the young man fled the room.
The display of temper gave her courage; he wasn’t dying. She asked again, “Papa, why?”
“It’s too hard to explain,” he grumbled, settling back gingerly on the pillow propped high against the headboard.
“But—”
“Do you love me?” he demanded.
She nodded, eyes brimful of tears. He could ask such a thing?
“If I ever lost your love, I’d suffer worse to regain you.”
Was it God’s love he felt he’d been lacking? Did he fear his sins had turned his sons against him? “Papa—”
“Shut up, girl. Just sit there until I fall asleep.”
It was her presence he wanted, not her questions. She lay on the floor. London was hot in July, and flies swarmed in through the unshuttered windows. She envisioned them settling on her father’s wounds and felt sick.
She tossed and turned and had started to doze a little when a shout sounded at the door.
“What is it?” her father asked, sitting up with a grimace.
“Sire!” Robert’s voice filtered through the heavy door.
“Robert? God’s feet. What is it, Robert?”
Robert came inside, carrying a taper. In the flickering light, his eyes were wild. His hair stood on end. In a high, unnatural voice, he said, “Sire, King William of Scotland is captured.”
“When?”
“The day after your scourging, sire.” He sounded as if he couldn’t quite believe the miracle he reported. Joan hugged her knees, dazed with disbelief and joy.
The king rose from his bed and whispered, awed, “God be thanked, and Saint Thomas Becket the Martyr.” Then he shouted. “Have London’s bells rung until dawn!”
Robert left the chamber. Her father turned to her. “Find my shirt.”
She helped him slide the shirt over the crisscrossed wounds on his back and shoulders. How had he known what had to be done? Because he knew everything. Who could defeat God and her father?
“God does love you, Papa.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and smiled. “He might, but I was talking about Becket.” He lifted his eyes heavenward and shouted, “You knew I meant you no ill. You’ve won, Thomas!” He turned back to her and rasped, “Now, Joan, girl, now, I will win.”
WHILE JOAN’S MOTHER WAS STILL QUEEN OF FRANCE, KING Louis answered the pope’s call for crusaders. Mama scandalized the world by taking the cross and traveling to the Holy Land alongside him. It was a fiasco—even Mama admitted so—and the pope banned women from crusading ever again.
Abandoned in London Tower, Joan now understood why she had done it. There was nothing worse than being left at home to wait. At least she had Sir Robert’s missives to keep her informed.
The count of Flanders and the young king retreated from England to join the French siege of the Norman castle of Rouen. When her father broke the siege and chased them all out of Normandy, King Louis suggested another parley at Gisors. Negotiations failed because Duke Richard did not attend.
Sobbing, Joan tore Sir Robert’s letter into tatters.
A few weeks later, she heard her father had been persuaded to meet with Henry and Geoffrey. He offered generous terms provided they deny their brother support for the duration of the war. Then he took an army to Poitou to deal with Richard.
For a month, Joan waited, on tenterhooks, until Sir Robert returned.
“Your father has been chasing your brother all over the dukedom.”
She looked at his hands, but they were curled into fists. “Did he catch him?”
“They met at Montlouis.”
“Did they fight?”
Robert shook his head. “Duke Richard fell weeping at the king’s feet.”
The image brought tears to her own eyes. “What did my father do?”
“He drew Richard up and gave him the kiss of peace. It is over.”
Joan let out a breath she felt she’d been holding since Chinon. It was over. Her father forgave them everything, just as he had said he would. He had kept his word.
Now he must forgive Mama, too.
THE KING CELEBRATED AT ROUEN WITH A FEAST BEFITTING the return of three prodigal sons. The tables and walls were draped with bright cloths, the lamps burned high with scented oils, musicians played harps to accompany the meal of eels, whitefish, and boar. Jugs of wine were set at every third place so merrymakers could refill their own cups. The king’s laughter sounded above the din as he roamed about the hall.
Joan sat beside Richard. She could not take her eyes off him. He looked as Papa must have when he was younger—strong and handsome. His haphazard dress did not disguise the confident man he had become. His bow-shaped lips, eager to laugh, poked out of a tangled red-gold mustache
and beard.
“Joan, I heard you held Verneuil against Henry,” he said. Henry shot him a dark look. Richard said, “Next time, I want you at my back instead.”
He laughed as she choked. When she recovered, Joan pushed aside her bowl. Her brothers were horrible.
“Where is Mother?” Richard asked, pinching her arm. “Everyone says you sat in Father’s lap the whole war and listened to his poison.”
“I was in Fontevrault.” She wanted to rub her arm but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “He sent Mama to England but wouldn’t tell me where.”
“Why not?”
“Because he knew I’d tell you.”
Richard’s lips bunched beneath his mustache. “So then, sister mine. We must convince him you won’t.”
JOAN SAT BY A NARROW WINDOW IN THE GREAT HALL, STABBING a needle into cloth. Around her sat three lady’s maids of Rouen, taking advantage of the waning afternoon light. Richard entered the crowded room, and Joan tried to make herself small. All week he had been saying cruel things.
Instead of joining the men gambling near the hearth, he came closer. Squatting beside her, he murmured, “Did you know Sir Rufus died? The poor blinded knight?”
“Richard, stop,” she said through closed teeth.
“By his own hand. Just after you left Chinon.”
The needle pricked her finger, and blood beaded at the tip. She stuck it into her mouth.
Richard rose. “Be more careful, Joan.”
She watched him move to the soot-blackened hearth; the firelight made his hair shine red. The knights edged aside to make room. He knelt for the dice and started winning at once.
Yesterday, he had told her Mama tried to escape Poitiers only because Papa had threatened to kill her. The day before that, he had crept up behind her while she prayed in the chapel and whispered women’s names in her ear. “These are some of the king’s lovers. The ones Mama knew about. He liked to torment her.”
Joan fled the chapel. But she couldn’t flee every time Richard entered a room. She couldn’t even tell herself not to listen to her brother’s lies. She wondered if he knew about Alice.
The Queen's Daughter Page 6