by Alys Clare
When Newark was in sight and there were only a couple of miles to go, John roused himself from a brief sleep. ‘I will ride now,’ he said, in the sort of voice that was never questioned.
He couldn’t manage the beautiful chestnut gelding, for the horse was highly strung and required his rider’s full attention. So one of the lesser men of the train was summoned from the ranks further back and ordered to give up his horse, an amiable, plodding grey mare with a sway back and a patient air. Then – although every man there would far rather he hadn’t witnessed it – they all watched as the King was helped into the saddle.
Grey faced with pain, eyes screwed up against the daylight as if it pierced him, upright on the old grey mare, the very tension in his body proclaiming the effort it took, King John rode the last mile and a half into Newark.
The dignitaries of Newark came out to meet him. He was escorted to the bishop of Lincoln’s castle and, as he and his inner circle rode through the narrow streets, Josse watched in admiration as he stretched his sore lips in a smile like a rictus and returned the eager greetings of the crowds who welcomed him.
Once inside the castle, however, he collapsed.
They took him straight to the quarters that had been prepared for him. Up a narrow spiral stair – circumnavigated with enormous difficulty, since the King was now unconscious – and into a wide room that took up most of the floor area of that level, off which there was a private chamber where, at last, the King was laid on a soft bed.
Josse stood aimlessly in the outer room, wanting so badly to help but having no idea how to. Presently, with a bustle of attendants and some muttered conversation, a man in monk’s garb arrived.
‘That’s the abbot of Croxton,’ a man close to Josse muttered. ‘They say he has medical knowledge and a reputation as a healer.’
The abbot remained in the inner chamber for some time. When at length he emerged, someone – one of the attendant monks – whispered a question, and the abbot shook his head.
Josse was so absorbed in the drama that, when Geoffroi sought him out, he had to take hold of his arm to get his attention. ‘What is it, son?’ Josse demanded, frowning.
Geoffroi said, ‘There’s someone who’s asking for you.’
‘But I can’t come now! The King …’ He stopped. Had he been about to say, The King needs me? But then it wasn’t really very reasonable to think that, for what in heaven’s name could he do to help?
‘Very well, but I mustn’t be long.’
With enormous reluctance, Josse followed Geoffroi back down the narrow stair and out into the courtyard.
Meggie was waiting for him.
For a few moments he simply stared at her, quite unable to deal with the fact that she whom he most wanted to see was standing there before him. He found he was praying: a simple prayer of gratitude, repeated over and over again: Thank you, dear Lord. Thank you.
He took her in his arms, pulled her close and hugged her. He felt the strength of her arms as she hugged him back, and heard her say softly, ‘I have found you, and Geoffroi tells me all three of you are well.’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘We are.’ Then, loosening his hold so that he could look down into her face he said, ‘Dearest, you are needed – come with me.’
He led her up the spiral stairs. As they emerged into the outer chamber, the abbot of Croxton came striding out of the little room where they’d put the King, his attendants hurrying in his wake. Noticing Josse, the abbot paused briefly just in front of him.
‘I have provided what comfort I can, both of a physical and, more crucially, of a spiritual nature, but I fear he has made himself extremely unwell,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He stinks of stale alcohol, which of course is the very worst thing for a man in his condition to have imbibed.’
‘He had to do whatever was necessary to keep him travelling onwards,’ Josse replied, stung by the abbot’s critical tone to defend his King. ‘He—’
The abbot waved a dismissive hand. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he said impatiently. ‘I go now to prepare one or two remedies of my own, and in the meantime, don’t let anything pass his lips.’ He scowled ferociously, as if suspecting rebellion, then dived for the steps and hurried away.
The outer chamber seemed very crowded – Josse recognized the faces of many of John’s group of close intimates – but the smaller room contained only the King and four body servants. Bending his head to enter in beneath the low arch of the doorway, Josse held up a hand to Meggie, telling her to wait.
Josse approached the still figure lying on the bed. ‘My lord King,’ he said gently, ‘I have someone here who wishes to help you.’
He watched as the eyelids fluttered briefly but remained closed. ‘If it’s the abbot, tell him I’m not ready for the sacrament yet,’ John muttered. ‘Bloody man would have me in my grave while I still draw breath. Stinks of fish, too.’
Josse smiled. ‘It’s not the abbot, I promise,’ he said. ‘May I allow her to approach you?’
The King opened his eyes as Josse said her, and stared up at Josse. ‘A woman?’
‘Aye, my lord.’
John gave a soft sigh. ‘How long is it since I saw a woman?’ he mused. ‘I don’t count those weird nuns at the convent last night. I’m not sure if they were even human, never mind female. Yes, yes,’ he added impatiently, ‘fetch her!’
Josse turned to the doorway and nodded to Meggie.
Meggie had already guessed who it was that her father had summoned her to see. As she stood there in the crowded room, she mentally prepared herself. She felt very apprehensive – not an emotion that normally troubled her as she approached a patient – and she didn’t fully understand why.
She kept her eyes on Josse as he went over to the bed and spoke a few words to the man lying on it. When her father turned to beckon her, she was ready. She straightened her gown and walked into the little chamber.
Josse stepped back and she went to stand over the King. She stared down at him, her heart wrung with pity. She had been able to smell him from outside, and now, standing so close, the stench was overpowering. His tunic was crusted with vomit, his chemise was filthy, his hose were unspeakable.
She knew without even examining him that something was profoundly wrong. And then she understood, at last, why she and Faruq had been driven so relentlessly to find him. There was evil here, as both of them had well known.
She stepped away from the bed and went right up to the nearest attendant. She had no idea who he was, nor of his seniority. It didn’t matter, and she was too angry to curb her tongue with courtly politeness. She said with quiet vehemence, ‘Why has he been allowed to get into this state? You should be ashamed! Fetch hot water, soapwort, soft towels and clean garments, wash him from his hair to his feet, dress him in something soft and comfortable.’ The attendant hurried away, and she returned to kneel down at the King’s side.
It was cruel in the extreme, she thought, to allow a man as fastidious as the King to have become so filthy; mired in his own waste, soaked in sweat and stinking like a cesspit.
He looked at her and in the familiar blue eyes, dulled now with sickness and pain, she saw his humiliation.
She took his hot hand. ‘My lord King, I have sent for the means to bathe you and dress you comfortably. While we wait, please tell me what ails you, and what pain and discomforts you suffer. I have some knowledge of healing and I am here to help you.’
He looked at her for some time. Then he said softly, ‘Limestra.’
She was very surprised. She had thought him too ill to recognize her, but not only had he done so straight away but also, it seemed, he had remembered how they came to know each other. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘Still I await those lessons in swordsmanship that you promised to give me.’
He shifted on the bed, wincing. ‘You will have to wait a little longer, my Meggie.’
My Meggie.
Controlling the painful emotions, she said briskly, ‘Now, tell me what is wrong.�
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If he was embarrassed at the change from man and woman to patient and healer, he gave no sign. With admirable frankness and brevity, he listed his symptoms. Then, while the attendants hurried back with everything she had ordered and set about cleaning him up, she asked to be shown to somewhere with a good fire where she could boil water and begin preparing the remedies.
Firmly she put her horror at the King’s condition to the back of her mind. He doesn’t need me or anybody else feebly weeping over him, she told herself, he needs a capable healer.
She went through her pack to check what supplies she had – it made good sense, when travelling, to be well prepared – and she asked the plump, kindly woman who had shown her to the little room with the hearth and the jars of fresh water if she could supply what Meggie lacked. Soon she was concentrating so hard on the various tasks that everything else faded.
The King had described a complex set of symptoms. Meggie, at a loss to think of any sickness that encompassed them all, decided to treat them piecemeal. He complained most of the pain: agonizing pain, in his head and in his belly. ‘It feels as if my guts are in knots,’ he told her, ‘and I am bloated like a sheep’s carcass on a flooded river. There can be nothing left in me, and I pass wind constantly, yet the bloating will not subside.’
She had asked his permission to put a hand on his belly. It was grotesquely distended and as hard as a rock.
Against diarrhoea she prepared a thick oat-based drink containing water pepper and lady’s mantle. To counter the spasms she prepared a strong-smelling mixture of peppermint, fennel and dill. He needed above all to sleep, so finally she set to work with chamomile and lime, adding a very carefully measured amount of the highly efficient but potentially deadly poppy milk that she always kept tucked in a secret pocket in her pack.
She decided to prepare one more remedy, although she hoped very much that it wouldn’t be needed. She had surreptitiously put her fingers on his wrist to feel his heartbeat, and what she’d detected had concerned her. She had dried foxglove leaves with her and, as she set about her remedy, she remembered Tiphaine – she’d been Sister Tiphaine then – showing her what to do.
In a time of such fear and distress, the sweet, peaceful memory was doubly welcome.
Lastly, because she knew he was a man who prized cleanliness and must be profoundly upset by his own stench, she prepared aromatics, crushing together lavender and rosemary so that their strong, fresh, invigorating smell filled the air.
She became aware that the plump woman stood in the doorway. As Meggie looked up, she said, ‘They’re ready for you.’
And Meggie went to treat her patient.
Faruq had found a place in which to conceal himself while allowing him to keep close watch on the quarters in the castle given over to the King’s use. He had been waiting for the right moment for what seemed hours, although he suspected it was only the tension that gave that impression.
He’d been alarmed when the big, thick-set young man came running up to Meggie, but then they’d started hugging each other, and Meggie was laughing and exclaiming with relief. Even before she’d turned to Faruq and said, ‘This is Geoffroi. He’s my brother,’ Faruq had marked the resemblance and already guessed. Geoffroi had dashed back inside and, very shortly afterwards, her father had appeared and hurried her away.
He wasn’t worried by Meggie’s absence. Anticipating that they might need to separate, they had sought out a meeting place. Whichever one of them emerged first from the castle would fetch the horses from where they were stabled in the town and go to await the other.
He realized it wasn’t a foolproof plan, but it seemed the best they were going to come up with.
Faruq had observed how busy the castle was. The building itself, the courtyard and the surrounding streets were hectic with rushing, anxious people, and nobody seemed to spare him a glance. In a moment of detachment he thought with absolute conviction: Now. The right time is now.
He made his way inside the castle to what must be the guest quarters and, tagging on behind a trio of men cursing and sweating as they carried a huge chest up the narrow steps, emerged into a large room where more men in the King’s livery were unpacking food, linen, blankets, furs, ornaments, a beautiful altar cloth and a heavy silver crucifix. In the middle of the floor, getting in everyone’s way, was a large wooden chest bound with bands of metal and bearing several locks which looked like a vast jewel box.
Faruq had come to precisely the place he sought. He felt again the strong conviction: This is the moment.
He slipped into the deep shadow formed where two walls intersected at an acute angle. Nobody noticed. Several people came past, all of them in a hurry, many of them yelling and all of them clearly anxious. Not one turned to demand who he was or what he thought he was doing.
He relaxed and let his eyes roam round the large room. Soon he spotted the area on which to concentrate. Fortuitously quite close to his place of concealment, two of the King’s servants knelt before a huge box which carried the King’s tableware: knives, platters, bowls, some precious glassware carefully padded with handfuls of straw and, finally, emerging from a cocoon of soft sheep’s wool, a glitter of gold and silver as the most costly items were unpacked.
‘We should leave these in the chest and lock it,’ one of the men muttered to the other. ‘Surely he’ll not be needing his best stuff, sick like he is?’
Then other man paused. ‘Hmm. I don’t know. When he wants something he wants it that same instant, and if one of us has to go round hunting for the keys before we can satisfy him, there’ll be trouble.’ He paused again. ‘Leave most of the best stuff,’ he said finally. ‘We’ll put out the pewter goblets, the silver cups and the two gold platters and we’ll pray that’ll do.’
Even as he spoke, he placed the objects on the shelf where he had been stowing the other objects.
Faruq knew it as soon as he saw it.
He drew an involuntary breath, slowly letting it out again.
At last.
Time had passed. He didn’t know if it had been a long or a short time. He was concentrating so hard that he had no idea.
He had almost given up. It was there, only a few feet away. But there was always somebody in the room and, so very close to his objective, he dared not risk a hasty move.
Darkness fell and there was a flurry of activity as people dashed in, grabbed objects and dashed out again. The item for which he had travelled so far, however, remained on the shelf where the servant had put it. Faruq’s hopes slowly rose.
Then, quite unexpectedly, the moment came. Briefly there was nobody in the room and, except for a trio of guards on the outer door, which opened on to the steps leading down to the courtyard, Faruq was alone. The guards were talking in a desultory manner, leaning against the walls, tired and bored.
And they were looking outwards rather than inwards.
Without pausing to think about it, Faruq stepped forward.
But even as he did so, there came the sound of running feet and a young man came flying into the room. His eyes were wide, his face was red and sweaty, and he began instantly to run his fingers along the shelves where the platters, goblets and cups had been arranged. Then, with a furious curse, he yelled to the men in the doorway, ‘Where’s the King’s personal stuff?’
Faruq, back in the shadows, heart thumping with shock, prayed silently. Don’t let him take it. Don’t let him take it.
But then, with a sigh of relief, the young man selected an object and ran off.
Faruq wanted to slump to the cold stone floor and curl up into the smallest possible form. So close! he wailed silently. I was so close, and I lost it!
He thought of his mother. How could he even begin to tell her? How would he …?
But then some sense of self-preservation roused him and he knew he had to leave. The doorway leading out into the courtyard was far too well guarded, but if he was discovered where he was, all alone in the dark corner and with no reason to be
there, he’d be in trouble. There seemed no option but to slip out after the running youth.
In a well-disguised camp in a carefully chosen location, Jehan waited to see what would happen next.
Yann Duguesclin’s spies had done their work well, and he had a far more accurate picture of the King’s precise whereabouts and state of health than most of the people within the castle. His plans had been finalized, and the assassination detail knew what they had to do.
Jehan was by now in a state beyond anxiety and regret, and very nearly beyond fear. He recognized his extreme folly in so willingly and eagerly rushing to join in and support a cause he no longer believed in, but it was far too late now to do anything but endure.
For he had seen what Yann Duguesclin’s fanaticism drove him to do when he sensed his great plan was being threatened. One of the men who had befriended Jehan was a fresh-faced, naïve youngster who, like Jehan, was a native of Brittany who had settled in southern England. He had a comely wife, or so he told them, and a little child, another on the way. Also like Jehan, he had been raised on tales of King John’s devilish treachery; of the cruel slaying of his nephew, Arthur of Brittany, the beloved of his people, in order to clear John’s way to the throne. He, too, had revenge in his blood, so that, when the opportunity arose to act, he hadn’t hesitated.
But this pleasant young man had changed his mind.
Believing Yann Duguesclin to be an honourable and reasonable man, he had gone to him and asked to be excused. ‘I thought I could be part of this, you see,’ he had said apologetically, ‘and I was desperate to help strike the blow.’ He had hung his head. ‘Seems I was wrong. I’m no killer, sir. I miss my wife and I want to go home.’
In a strike as fast as a snake’s, Yann Duguesclin had drawn his knife and cut the young man’s throat. As he lay at his feet, horribly liquid gurgling sounds coming out of him, Duguesclin wiped his knife and said calmly, ‘Nobody leaves.’
When he closed his eyes at night and tried to sleep, Jehan still heard those terrible noises.