The Devil's Cup

by Alys Clare

‘Don’t worry, Brother Watt,’ Josse said reassuringly. ‘If this poor woman is raving in fever, then in all probability her words don’t mean much anyway, so I’m sure it’s not important.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Watt muttered. Then: ‘You’ll ask her?’

  ‘As soon as I see her,’ Josse said.

  Meggie was on her way back to the House in the Woods. She had been deep in the forest, thinking, communing. She had gone first to the tiny dwelling beside the new forge that she was trying to think of as home, but, once she had done a few desultory chores and swept out the forge, she found she couldn’t settle. There was no sign of Jehan – the forge furnace was cold – and she discovered that, unusually for her, she badly needed company. Her father’s house called her, and she saw no reason not to answer.

  She was very worried about Jehan. She suspected – no, more than that, she was all but certain – that he had joined up with the band of Bretons with whom he originally came to England five years ago.2 Jehan and his companions had been driven by one single, simple purpose: to a man, they hated King John, because they held him responsible for the murder of their beloved Arthur, the son of Constance of Brittany and her husband Geoffrey, who had been John’s brother. Their intention then had been to seek out John and kill him. There was no reason at all, Meggie reflected anxiously, to think any of them had changed their minds since: they wanted to see the King dead. And, apart from the fact that all of them would suffer appallingly when they were caught (Meggie was quite sure it was when and not if), there was something else.

  She knew what the King had done. She knew all his faults, as did most of his subjects after seventeen years of his rule, and she didn’t doubt that, even if he hadn’t actually murdered his own nephew, he was more than capable of it. When you tallied up all the evil things he had done in his lifetime, she mused, there was no doubt that he probably deserved death.

  But she had met him. More than once. And, despite her common sense, the wiser part of her mind and her full awareness that you should never trust a man of power and particularly not a king, something in her responded to something in him. She had fought it, tried to banish whatever it was from her mind and her heart, told herself she was a fool and ought to know better.

  But she had never quite succeeded.

  I do not want Jehan and his hot-headed Bretons to kill him, she thought as she trudged along. Then – and she had no idea where the thought came from – He is sick, perhaps already dying, and the thought pains me so much.

  She stopped dead, shaken by the sudden certainty.

  How did that happen? she asked herself wildly. Then – and it calmed her a little – she realized where she was. She was deep in the most secret depths of the Great Forest, in the area that had once been the dwelling of the Forest People, her own maternal ancestors among them. If there was ever a spot where messages from another world were likely to reach her – accurate messages, at that – then surely it was here.

  She walked on, still a little shaken. To distract her mind, she allowed her thoughts to return to Jehan. She had to admit to herself that life together hadn’t been so good recently. She loved him – at least, she amended, she was fairly sure she did – and physically he still had a strong power over her. His dark aspect had always been such an attraction: black hair, long and glossy, eyes that sometimes were as dark and shiny as jet, and the brown skin he had inherited, along with his overall air of foreignness, from his grandmother, a woman of Ethiopia. He was beautiful, and she never tired of looking at him.

  But, she reflected honestly, you couldn’t go on spending all day in bed making love with someone; not, anyway, after you’d worked the initial hot-blooded passion out of your system, and after the novelty of living together had faded a little. Sooner or later, you had to settle down to real life. To work; to cooking, cleaning, washing; to the constant presence of another person; to the expectations and demands of someone else when you were used to coming and going much as you pleased. She had tried very hard, but she hadn’t been able to settle to the domestic life that Jehan seemed to be asking of her.

  To begin with, as besotted with her as she was with him, he hadn’t objected when she took time away from him to be alone in the hut in the forest. Recently, though, he had begun to frown when she announced she was going there for a day or two, as if the prospect of her absence was unwelcome. And, rather more worryingly, he had been saying that the time had come for them to make a deeper commitment to each other, and she knew without him specifying that he was thinking of a child. Forced to look deep inside herself, she had come to the sad realization that this wasn’t what she wanted. She knew, as had her mother and no doubt her grandmother before her and all the other herbalists of the forest, how to prevent conception and, although she had never told Jehan, she had discreetly taken the necessary steps. If he wondered why, after five years together, she had not become pregnant, he didn’t ask.

  She was close to the House in the Forest now. She increased her pace, for she had had enough of her troubling thoughts. I am too like my mother, she said to herself ruefully. She knew in her very bones that it would be a terrible mistake to go against her very nature only on the grounds that she loved Jehan and wanted to make him happy. I would be doing what he wants, yes, she thought sadly, but it’s not what I want. And surely the huge, life-changing decision to bring a child into this hard world should only be made if you are utterly sure that it is the right thing to do and know you would give all you have to make that child secure and happy.

  Most women, she realized, didn’t have the choice. Thanks to her mother’s teaching, Meggie did.

  And she wasn’t sure at all.

  And there was something else: something that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Jehan. In recent months, he had been different. She had tried many times to work out how he was different, and the best she had come up with was that he was often preoccupied, tended to be short with her when she interrupted his brooding – although he always apologized afterwards – and that, most concerning of all, he had taken to being absent, often for several days at a time, with very little reason other than a vague, ‘I’ve been looking further afield for work.’ Since they were often so busy at the forge that both Meggie and her brother Geoffroi were called upon to help, this didn’t really make sense.

  There was something on Jehan’s mind and – coming back to her starting point – she believed she knew exactly what it was.

  Although she did her utmost to put the dangerous memories out of her mind, sometimes – far too often – she still dreamed of the stocky man with the bright blue eyes who had once offered to teach her how to wield a sword.

  TWO

  King John of England was travelling north.

  Since the beginning of September, he had been engaged on the planning and execution of an all-out attack on Prince Louis and the rebel barons. After the success of the feigned advance designed to relieve the siege of Windsor Castle, he had swept in a wide semicircle to the north and west of London, heading towards Cambridge with the aim of cutting off the rebel-held lands of East Anglia and Lincolnshire. The plan was to establish a stronghold at Lincoln, from which his forces would be able to keep the rebels under control.

  As if Louis’s invasion and the threat of the growing army of barons were not enough, there was also Llywelyn ap Iorwerth in the west, advancing out of Wales, capturing English-held castles and impudently styling himself ‘prince’. Also, there was Alexander II of Scotland and the invitation by the barons of northern England for him to take control of Cumberland, Westmorland and Northumberland; how unlikely had it been, John thought angrily, that his response would be to say, Oh, no, I don’t think so, thanks. To increase the pique of that particular wound, Alexander had recently marched south to do homage to Prince Louis for his new English lands and John, racing to try and intercept him as he hurried north again, had only just missed him. His fury over Alexander’s escape was burning up inside him and at times he could barely
contain it.

  As he rode towards Lincoln on that warm late September morning, the King’s depression grew. Reflecting morosely that, since there appeared little in his life to be cheerful about, he might as well run through every last thing that was concerning him, his thoughts turned inevitably to his wife.

  It had been sixteen years since he had abducted her from her betrothed, Hugh IX of Lusignan, and, before there had been time for anything but a lot of righteous anger, disapproval and a general wringing of hands, married her. The gossips and the prudish old monks who wrote the accounts of his doings all said it was nothing more or less than strong sexual attraction. They were wrong. That had come into it, naturally – although Isabella had been a child in years, she’d had a woman’s body and a woman’s subtle mind – but the grand gesture had not been as impetuous as it had appeared, and had mainly been to curb Hugh of Lusignan’s alarmingly growing power. Marriage to the daughter of the count of Angoulême would have given Hugh another great tract of land to add to what he already had and, in John’s eyes, that hadn’t been a good idea at all; if anybody was going to gain Angoulême via marriage to Isabella, much better for it to be him.

  With hindsight, however, he wasn’t so sure. For one thing, he had made bitter enemies of the entire Lusignan clan, and they hadn’t waited long before demonstrating their furious disapproval in the form of rebellion against John’s rule in his French territories and an ultimately futile alliance with Arthur of Brittany. Although it was true that, in recent years, Hugh and the rest of the Lusignans appeared to have lost some of the hot heat of their righteous indignation, John did not entirely trust them.

  And, over and above all that, there was Isabella herself.

  For a time, she had been exactly what he’d needed. She certainly hadn’t failed in the prime duty of a queen, having given him five children in eight years, the first two the longed-for boys. The trouble was, John reflected, that he’d treated her like a child – a knowing, subtle, scheming and exotic child – early in their marriage, and it seemed to have become a habit. Whether it persisted at her instigation or his, he never quite made up his mind. It suited him to know she was securely guarded in these dangerous times, and he persuaded himself it was for her protection. She went along with it willingly enough, but his knowledge of her was sufficient to understand that she would not have done so unless there had been some benefit to herself. What that might be, he had not yet fathomed.

  She is tired of me, he admitted to himself. She was compliant enough when he bedded her, but he’d had enough women in his lifetime to know when a woman’s passion was genuine. Isabella’s was not. Despite himself – despite the fact that he knew full well there were few, if any, moments when his queen was left alone – John suspected that she had her eye on someone else.

  He was haunted by a conversation he’d once had with her. He’d remarked somewhat bitterly that his marriage to her had cost him dear in terms of what he had lost, and, quick as a flash, she had shot back that she’d lost the best man in the world for him.

  Those thoughts were too depressing. With an effort, the King turned his mind back to the present crisis.

  He wished he had some means of acquiring an accurate tally of who was with him and who wasn’t. The trouble was, to have any value, such a count would have to be taken practically every day, with all the barons of England being asked where they planned to stand for the next twenty-four hours. Sometimes the King despaired of the whole damned lot of them. What sort of a man changed sides depending on which leader was in the ascendant? Even when the vacillating barons were with him, their support was of questionable value if they couldn’t be relied upon to stay with him.

  He longed for the comfort of solid, well-tried friendships; for loyal men whose support he could rely on, and who wouldn’t change their minds and dash off to join Louis the instant he managed to advance half a mile or take a couple of puny and strategically unimportant castles.

  Which was why, in camp a week or so back, he had yelled for his scribe and had those letters written.

  One of which he’d sent to his brother’s man, Josse d’Acquin.

  From up ahead there was a flurry of activity, and a small band of men came cantering towards him, their horses sweaty and frothing, the men themselves splattered with mud, one of them with a black eye and another bleeding from a cut on his cheek. The leader pulled up his horse and, not pausing to dismount but attempting to bow from the waist as he sat in the saddle, panted, ‘My lord King, good news!’ He paused to gasp in another breath. ‘Your advance force has driven off the rebels besieging Lincoln and already our troops are entering the town!’ The dried mud on his cheek cracked as he beamed his delight. ‘Furthermore, I am instructed to tell you that your orders concerning the religious houses and the tithe barns in the vicinity have been thoroughly carried out. The buildings are in ruins, the barns are all burning and the crops are destroyed.’

  John nodded. ‘The rebels are fleeing?’

  ‘Aye, my lord, in the direction of the Isle of Axholme.’ The man risked another smile. ‘I wish them joy of it,’ he added, ‘we’ve been there already, and we took what we could carry away and burned the rest. Those blasted rebels will find no help or sustenance out there.’

  At last, the King permitted himself a small smile. ‘Good,’ he said softly. Then, turning in the saddle to address his personal bodyguard, riding as always just behind him, he called out, ‘Go on into the city and find me somewhere suitable to lodge. With a bath!’ he shouted as they hastened away.

  This night I shall sleep under a proper roof, he thought, and, with any luck, lie in hot water and wash the filth of too many days on the road and too many nights in a tent from my aching body.

  He sighed.

  Then he put heels to his horse and rode on towards Lincoln.

  Josse had not expected his household to greet his announcement with cheers of delight. He had not, however, anticipated quite so much resistance, and expressed so swiftly: the letter from the King had only arrived that morning, and already everyone, from his beloved Helewise to the youngest child of his household servants Tilly and Gus, had managed to find a quiet moment to say, with varying degrees of politeness, consideration and diffidence, that they thought he was making a big mistake.

  They all believe I’m too old! Josse thought furiously, pausing in the seemingly endless task of preparing his kit. They have become accustomed to seeing me pottering about the house and the immediate vicinity, rarely venturing further than the abbey or, occasionally, down into Tonbridge, and they think I am capable of no more!

  It stung to realize that those he loved and respected saw him no longer as the brave, adventurous knight he had once been. But in his heart he still was that man: it might well be that this venture to join his imperilled King would be his last – in fact, in his more honest moments, Josse accepted that it probably would – but that was no reason not to answer the summons! Wasn’t it something very special, to have a personal request from King John? One, moreover, on which the King had actually written a few words with his own hand?

  Josse still saw those poignant, scratched-out words. And he knew he wasn’t capable of ignoring the appeal. No matter how much his family and his servants disapproved, he was going.

  He had finished with his gear. His sword shone bright, its edge as keen as he could make it. His knife and dagger were in their sheaths, similarly sharpened, the leather of the scabbards soft and glistening. His mail coat was free of rust, he had shaken the dust and the creases out of his surcoat, and he had packed a leather bag of clean personal linen and a washcloth. His horse, the big, golden-coated Alfred, well fed, gleaming from a thorough grooming, stood swishing his long, dark tail. Josse had managed to convince himself that Alfred, at least, was as eager as his master to be on the road.

  When he could think of nothing else to keep him out in the stables, Josse straightened his shoulders, drew a deep breath and went back into the house. He went first to seek out Hele
wise: of all his loved ones, it was she he must convince. No, he amended, not convince; he didn’t think he’d ever manage that. But what he hoped he might do was explain to her that he had no choice, he had to go, and he’d much rather do so with her blessing.

  He found her sitting on a bench beside the house, catching the morning sun. He sat down beside her and took her hand. ‘I—’ he began.

  But, turning to him with a smile, she interrupted him. ‘Don’t, my love,’ she said quietly. ‘I know what you would say and there is no need.’ She paused, and he thought he saw the glint of tears in her grey eyes. ‘I do not want you to go to the King, but it is not because I believe you incapable of helping him, for he would not have summoned you if he thought you’d be no more than a hindrance.’

  A hindrance! Josse opened his mouth to protest, but again she stopped him.

  ‘I don’t want you to go because I love you,’ she said simply. ‘You and I are getting old, dear Josse, and we will not have many more years together. I am selfish, perhaps, but I begrudge every day – every hour – that I do not spend with you.’

  He tried to answer – to say something jolly about being back safely before she even knew he’d gone – but found he couldn’t speak. So he just held her hand a bit more tightly.

  ‘Go with my blessing,’ Helewise continued. ‘I shall pray for you as often as I can, and keep you always in my thoughts and in my heart.’

  He managed to mutter, ‘Thank you.’

  He thought she’d finished. But, after a while, she said, ‘There is, though, one condition.’

  His heart sank. ‘Oh?’

  He saw her smile, briefly. Then she said, ‘Take Yves with you for good company and take Geoffroi for his strong arms.’

  ‘But I don’t want them to accompany me!’ he protested. ‘They mean far too much to me, both of them, and I won’t have them going into danger … Oh.’

  Too late, he realized what she’d done; how neatly she had wrought from him that admission. With a very sweet smile, she said, ‘Now you know how we all feel about you.’