by Alys Clare
Then he stuck his knife into the jar of peaches, stabbed half of a fruit and ate it. It must have been acceptable, for quickly he ate four or five more. Then, a hand on his belly, he pushed the cellarer away.
He ate no more food. But he went on drinking.
‘I believe,’ Josse said privately to Yves as the evening wore on, ‘that he drowns his rage and his sorrow at the loss of that baggage cart.’
‘And, perhaps, the lives of the men who died,’ Josse added.
Yves sighed. ‘So it is to be hoped. But life is cheap, and precious objects hard to come by.’
During the night, the King was taken ill.
Josse, deeply asleep between Yves and Geoffroi, was woken by the sound of running feet. He knew, even as he struggled out of sleep, that something was very wrong. There was a mood of fear and he could hear monks talking in loud, worried voices. Not waiting for his companions to wake properly, he leapt up from his hard bed and ran out into the passage, falling into step behind a young monk carrying a large bowl and running towards the King’s quarters.
King John lay half on and half off his shelf of a bed. He had been copiously sick on the stone floor and the tiny room reeked. There was a mess of faeces on the harsh sheet. John was only half-conscious, one hand clasped to his belly, moaning in pain.
The young monk leaped forward, just in time to catch another gush of vomit. An older, grey-haired monk beside Josse leaned close, introduced himself as the infirmarer and said, ‘You have been travelling with him. Do you know what ails him?’
Josse led him a few paces back down the passage. The King might appear to be barely conscious, but it wouldn’t do at all for Josse’s words to be overheard. ‘He suffered in this way back at Lynn,’ he whispered. ‘Then, as perhaps now, an incautious consumption of alcohol was at the root of it.’
The infirmarer nodded sagely, as if drunken kings vomiting up great puddles on the cell floor were a daily occurrence. ‘And what is the remedy?’
‘Plenty of good, clean water. He should be encouraged to keep drinking, even if it comes straight back up again.’
The infirmarer made a face. ‘Oh. A busy night, then, for our young monks emptying the bowls.’ Even as he spoke, the young monk in the King’s cell came hurrying out and another replaced him. ‘I will go and see about the water.’
As the long night went on and the King showed no signs of improvement (in fact, Josse thought anxiously, he seemed even worse), the monks began to try other remedies. He had no idea what they were, and found himself wishing that Meggie was there. He watched the monks’ efforts, none of which appeared to bring much relief. He found himself wondering how hard they were really trying, realizing belatedly that he might have made an error in attributing John’s sickness to over-indulgence. For these Cistercians were vowed to a severe life of self-denial, poverty and simplicity, and thus would have little sympathy for a man who made himself so ill through his own lack of self-control, even if he was a king. And, Josse fumed to himself, greatly disturbed by the continuing sights, sounds and smells of the King’s continuing distress, in all likelihood the monks looked upon painful and distressing sickness as a punishment from God that must without doubt have been earned, and they expected other men to do as they did, and accept it with joy, since it offered the chance of earning forgiveness.
None of which, Josse concluded, was availing the poor, suffering King in the very least.
13 October 1216
By morning, it was evident that King John was extremely unwell. ‘Dysentery,’ pronounced the infirmarer firmly. ‘Either that or rather too lavish partaking of the preserves and the new cider.’
Josse overheard him say that to the guest master, two not terribly sympathetic men viewing a sinner’s divine punishment with a certain amount of complacence. I would wager, Josse said to himself, neither of you dared say that to the patient himself.
The infirmarer and the abbot tried to persuade their royal guest to rest and attempt to recover his strength. But John refused to listen. He would not remain bed-bound and, contrary to advice, the moment he could keep anything down he demanded wine. The Cistercians had no wine and so could not indulge him. Unfortunately for the King’s suffering, contorted guts, many of his lords had their own supplies and were only too pleased to gain a little favour by supplying it.
It seemed to Josse, hovering close to the King’s cell and watching and listening closely, that John was suffering from some sort of paranoia. ‘He doesn’t trust anybody,’ he reported anxiously back to Yves and Geoffroi. ‘The monks in particular seem to make him absolutely furious, and just now he hurled a vomit bowl at that sly-looking monk who assists the abbot and told him not to show his face again.’
‘Why doesn’t he trust them?’ Geoffroi asked. ‘Does he think …’ Disbelief flooded his innocent face. ‘Surely he doesn’t believe anyone’s trying to poison him?’
‘I don’t know, son,’ Josse admitted.
‘You look sad, Father,’ Geoffroi said. ‘Why don’t you go and talk to him? It might stop you worrying, and it would undoubtedly comfort him.’
‘I’m not sure that it would,’ Josse said. He wasn’t at all certain he wanted to run the risk of having a bowl of vomit hurled at him. Even when very unwell, the King was a good shot.
‘Geoffroi is right,’ Yves added, glancing affectionately at his nephew. ‘You showed me that letter the King wrote. Yes, Josse, I know he sent it to many men, but how many do you think had that personally written appeal?’
Josse looked from his brother to his son. Not wanting to appear weak and unwilling to either of these men he loved, he agreed to try.
To his surprise, the King both knew who he was and seemed to welcome him. ‘I am sick, old friend,’ he muttered. ‘I do not know what ails me. I have been sick from drink before, but not like this.’
Josse could well believe it. John hadn’t looked healthy since the great feast at Lynn and its aftermath. Now he looked truly terrible, and Josse thought he had lost quite a lot of weight.
‘How can I—’ he began.
But the King interrupted. Leaning closer to Josse, he said quietly. ‘I keep having visions. It’s this fucking monastery, and these fucking bare-arsed monks – they make me think I’m back in my horrible prison of a cell at Fontevraud where they penned me up as a child. Remember?’
He seemed so desperate for Josse to say he did, that without thought Josse said, ‘Aye.’
‘There you are, then!’ said the King. Confidingly again, he said, ‘They couldn’t turn me into a monk then, no matter what privations they imposed and what threats my devil of a father made, and they won’t now!’
Josse, about to protest that nobody would dare even to try to turn a king into something he didn’t want to be, realized King John wouldn’t have heard if he did. He was lost in hallucination; even as Josse watched, he put out a hand and tried to push an invisible attendant roughly away. ‘Get out, you bastard! Don’t you dare come near me!’
Then, just as abruptly returning to the real world, he said courteously, ‘Pass me my silver cup, will you? I think I’ll have some more of that wine.’
There was little Josse could do but obey.
He watched as the King drank his wine. To his amazement – for he would have thought more alcohol would be the worst thing – the King seemed to rally. A little colour infused his pale, sunken cheeks. He met Josse’s eyes, and a faint smile stretched his wide mouth. ‘Not dead yet,’ he murmured. ‘See?’
The he sat up, swung his legs round off the bed and placed his feet firmly on the floor. ‘Give me your hand, Josse,’ he commanded.
‘My lord King, ought you to—’
‘Shut up, Josse.’
Josse watched as the King’s personal attendants were summoned to help him wash and dress. When he had been prepared to his own satisfaction, John told Josse to fetch his captains. Shaky on his feet, leaning on his body servants, the King went out to meet them.
‘We move on,’ he s
aid in a loud voice. ‘Make the necessary preparations. We ride early tomorrow.’
The bravest of his officers dared to begin a protest. ‘My lord, surely you should—’
But King John turned on him like a wildcat. ‘You think the attack in the north will wait while I lie recovering on my sick bed, do you?’ He strode over to the officer, almost spitting with anger right in the man’s face. ‘I have loyal barons in the north, men I’m relying on to fight beside me when Alexander makes his move, but even now they’ll be wondering if they have chosen the right allegiance. All the time I waste my time here in this ghastly place, they’ll be steadily deciding I’m not worth fighting for and, for all you, I or any of these fucking monks know, every last one of them is on the point of joining the rebellious forces allied against me.’
Courageously the officer had one last try. ‘But could representatives not be sent on your behalf, my lord King? A message could be sent, and—’
‘I have to do it myself!’ King John roared. The great cry seemed to weaken him, and he leaned briefly on the shoulder of the stouter of the two attendants. ‘I must act,’ he added, more quietly. Then, with words that Josse thought were almost unbearably poignant, he whispered, ‘There is nobody else I trust.’
Meggie was sick with frustration and worn out with trying to keep her fast-growing fear at bay.
For three days now she and Faruq had been searching for the King and his train, but they had found no one who was capable or willing to tell them where he was.
‘Would you not think,’ she cried to Faruq, ‘that a king attended by servants, courtiers, loyal old knights and a huge amount of baggage, not to mention several hundred soldiers, might be quite easy to locate?’
‘I would,’ Faruq agreed solemnly. She had the distinct impression he was trying not to smile.
‘I’m sure they know!’ she burst out. ‘So why don’t they tell us? What is the reason for the secrecy?’
‘They do not trust us, any of them,’ Faruq said. ‘You are a woman and I am a foreigner, and so neither of us is worthy to be told the truth.’
But Meggie hardly heard. ‘“Make your way to Sleaford,” the man at Spalding told us,’ she ranted, ‘“or maybe Newark would make better sense”. And what he meant by that, I really couldn’t say.’ She scowled, furious with the man for being so vague. With herself for not obtaining better advice. ‘So we race off to Sleaford, but there was no sign of the King’s imminent arrival and, moreover, nobody there seemed to be aware he was even expected!’
The last word was a shout of fury. Faruq, nodding sympathetically, murmured, ‘It was indeed frustrating.’
‘So we thought that meant he wasn’t going that way, and, increasingly desperate in case we missed him, we flew like the wind to Newark. And then …’ She broke off. It still pained her to think about what they’d been told at Newark.
Faruq edged closer to her. They had made camp for the night, and were sitting either side of their small fire. They’d eaten a good supper: despite the sparse population in the area, and what seemed to an outsider to be vast stretches of lonely, misty, watery ground, dotted with the occasional low hill, crisscrossed with waterways of every size from tiny ditches to small rivers, there were settlements here, with inhabitants who farmed their land efficiently and were able to sell – or occasionally give – food and drink to travellers. Tonight they had eaten fresh bread, eggs and thick slices of bacon fried in their own fat in the little metal tray that Meggie had stowed in her pack and that they had used as often as they had something to cook in it. There had been a generous flagon of excellent ale to drink, which they were sharing between them.
‘It was a large disappointment to be greeted at Newark with such news—’ Faruq began.
Meggie grinned. ‘I think we’d say a big disappointment.’
‘A big disappointment.’ He echoed her emphasis carefully. ‘Thank you. Yes. I watched your face while the man at the gates spoke to you, and I saw very clearly your distress.’
The King was indeed on his way to Newark, the gate guard had said. Well, that had been the latest report, although it was quite possible the plans would change. Then he’d added, almost as an afterthought, ‘They’re saying he’s unwell.’
‘What exactly does unwell mean?’ Maggie asked. Faruq, knowing the question wasn’t for him, didn’t answer. It was in any case about the twentieth time she’d asked it. Then a sound between a sob and a laugh broke from her: ‘It can’t be what I’m so afraid of, can it?’
Faruq took her hand. She was surprised at how comforting his touch was. ‘You cannot know,’ he said calmly. ‘All you have been told is that King John is not well, but I think you must ask yourself how worried the man at Newark appeared to be. If he had learned that—’
‘If he’d been told the King had camp fever or something, he’d have been extremely worried, wouldn’t he?’ she said eagerly, twisting round to look at him. ‘But in fact he seemed only mildly concerned.’
‘And he only added that the King was unwell after he had answered your enquiry, whereas had the King and all his train been in peril of infection, he would surely have told us that important piece of intelligence at the outset.’
Meggie, who had long accustomed herself to Faruq’s somewhat formal and elaborate way of speaking, heard only about every other word, but that was enough. ‘Yes. Yes,’ she said emphatically. ‘So really I don’t need to worry that …’ But she couldn’t say it.
‘That your father, your brother and your uncle are in danger,’ he finished for her. ‘No. I do not believe there is cause for concern. Not in this respect.’
They sat for some time in easy companionship. He still held her hand. With their free hands, they slowly and steadily drank the last of the flagon of ale.
‘So,’ Faruq said presently. ‘What shall be our plan for tomorrow?’
She sighed. She had been thinking about the same matter, although, thanks to the ale, with marginally less anxiety than usual. ‘I would very much like to go out and search for them,’ she said eventually, ‘for, although you have reassured me about the possibility of sickness in the camp, I can’t shake a sense that I need to find them, urgently, because …’ She trailed off. ‘I don’t know.’ She had tried and failed to put from her mind the frightening images she’d seen in the Eye of Jerusalem. Now, as if those were not enough, she was beset by other apprehensions, which she feared even to think about. ‘Something’s happened, or something is going to happen, and I sense evil.’
‘As do I,’ he agreed surprisingly.
‘You do?’
‘Meggie, you know by now something of what brought my mother and me here. We believed what I search for so desperately was in the vicinity of Queen Isabella, and, on finding that was not correct, I concluded that it had to be with the King.’ He looked at her intently, his light eyes reflecting the fire’s small flames. ‘Now that we are so close, I know I am right. I too sense evil, and I have a fair idea whence it emanates.’
‘But surely that’s not possible!’ she protested. ‘Wherever the King is with this tainted, dangerous thing, he’s not just up the road, and I can’t believe you can feel evil over a distance of many miles!’
He didn’t answer, other than with a faintly dismissive shrug.
Which in a way, Meggie realized, was in fact a great deal more alarming than if he’d vehemently defended himself and said, Of course I can!
She waited until the shiver of fear had subsided. Then she said, ‘In answer to your question, I would very much like to set off and look for them. But, since we have no idea from which direction they’ll be approaching, that seems pointless, so I suggest we stay here, in this quite comfortable camp, and wait for them to come to us.’
FIFTEEN
14–15 October 1216
The King, his household and his long train were on the move again.
The monks at Swineshead Abbey had been unable to deter him from setting out, and Josse, watching as the abbot, the guest maste
r and the assembled monks stood in line to bid their King farewell, thought that to a man their disapproving expressions said, You are being very foolish in thus risking your health, but you are a king and we are merely monks and therefore we wash our hands of you.
He wasn’t sure he blamed them.
On the first day out of Swineshead they travelled as far as Sleaford, a distance of a little over a dozen miles. For King John, capable of travelling almost three times that in a day when really pressed for time, it was unbelievably slow.
But King John was not himself. Josse was riding close behind him and could see John’s distress all too plainly. The King was vomiting periodically, not stopping but leaning sideways in the saddle and retching weakly, producing a mere thin yellowish liquid that splattered feebly on the ground. His posture, bent almost double for much of the time, suggested that his stomach was cramping, his guts tying themselves in knots. He was bloated with wind, his belly swollen like that of a gravid woman, and he was straining to pass it, with little success. He had emptied his bowels catastrophically earlier, crouched by the side of a road behind the inadequate shelter of a hazel break, and he was very evidently sore and uncomfortable. He was flushed and sweaty-faced, clearly running a fever, which appeared to increase as the day went on.
The night was spent in Sleaford. The King, according to the rumours, retired very early and refused all food, although he managed a cup or two of wine.
The next day followed the same pattern.
White-faced, in agony, King John ground his teeth as he rode to keep from crying out. Sitting in the saddle must surely be torment, Josse thought with deep pity, yet John utterly refused to stop and rest. But the King’s great courage failed in the mid-afternoon and he called a halt, his attendants racing off to seek somewhere to make camp and spend the night, and finding lodgings in an isolated, all-but-derelict convent, where the semi-roofless cloister offered the only shelter for everyone except the King, who was found a bed in a tiny cell. Josse and his companions were too far away to overhear any distress he might have suffered as they all tried to sleep, which, he reflected guiltily, was probably to their advantage.