The Devil's Cup

by Alys Clare

  I am here till the end, he told himself.

  He didn’t know exactly what that end would be, and he found he had neither the ability nor the will to think beyond it.

  Throughout the long night, Meggie tended the King. To begin with her remedies seemed to ease his symptoms, and he revived sufficiently to summon wine, served in a silver cup. He drank a little, pronouncing it good, but didn’t finish the draught.

  She didn’t know exactly when the realization came that he was dying. He had moments of lucidity when he talked, even joked, with the men who incessantly and insistently clustered around him. Meggie wished they would all go away, but she knew that was not the way of it when a king lay fighting for his life.

  She slept briefly. Josse came to find her and, taking her hand, led her away to a small room where he, Yves, Geoffroi and about a dozen other men had bedded down. Her father tucked her up in his own bedroll, and the warmth, the familiar smell, were like a restorative.

  And so the sixteenth day of October rolled unnoticed into the seventeenth.

  SEVENTEEN

  17–18 October 1216

  Meggie stayed with the sinking King for as often as she was allowed. His state of mind was now vacillating quite dramatically. Sometimes he was lucid; making logical, practical plans for the next few days and weeks, turning over the likely progress of the struggle in the north with common sense and a realistic assessment of his strengths and weaknesses. Sometimes he was the vibrant, charismatic blue-eyed man she had encountered in her own forest home. Once he said, holding her hand, ‘We should both have had the courage, you and I, Meggie, to follow that particular path and see where it led us.’

  She knew what he meant, for she had felt the same herself, more than once.

  She responded with a suitably light, flirtatious remark.

  But her heart ached at his use of should have. He knew, just as she did, that they had run out of time.

  For sometimes – most of the time, now – he simply lay there, eyes closed, occasionally moaning in pain but more often unconscious.

  In the kitchens and out in the courtyard, men muttered the rhyme composed by a French seer back in the reign of King John’s father: Henry the Fairest shall die at Martel, Richard the Poitevin shall die in the Limousin, John shall die a landless king lying in a litter.

  It hurt Meggie to hear it. She didn’t think he could hear – he was probably beyond that now – but, aching for him, suffering with him, she discovered she had a very strong urge to hit anybody who hurt or upset him.

  The abbot of Croxton came back. John seemed to quite like him, and greeted him with an attempt at a smile. It was rare for him to treat a man of God with kindly tolerance, and Meggie wondered if that was an indication that he knew death was close. The abbot was a comfort, that was clear; he heard the King’s confession and administered the sacrament.

  Late in the day, the King drew upon his last strength and, summoning the grandest of the lords attending him, listened intently while one by one they swore their oath of allegiance to his elder son, Prince Henry, appointing William Marshal to act as regent until the young prince was of age and also to act as his guardian. Josse had come to join Meggie, comforting her simply by his strong, loving, safe presence, and they stood together in the outer chamber, straining to hear, wondering how Queen Isabella would feel about William Marshal’s appointment.

  When the gaggle of lords and clerics had gone and John was lying back exhausted upon his pillows, Meggie went to return to his bedside. Josse stopped her: ‘Go and breathe some fresh air,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll sit with him for a while. He seems to like a friendly face from the old days,’ he added, as if his offer had somehow been boastful.

  She gave him a hug.

  When she came back, Josse was standing in the doorway, looking back at the sleeping King with a strange expression on his face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked urgently.

  He came out of his reverie and gave her an apologetic grin. ‘Nothing – no change. He’s just been dictating his will.’

  She went back into the little chamber.

  She took up her position by the bed. Four of the King’s body servants stood in the corners. The outer chamber was full of important men.

  We’re all waiting, she thought.

  As the light began to fail, lamps were lit. There was only one lamp in the little room, and the light was soft and forgiving. It probably wasn’t sufficient for anyone to observe that she had taken the King’s hand. She didn’t really care if they did. Nobody, she believed, should die without someone holding their hand if there was anyone there to do it.

  Night fell. As midnight approached, a strong wind suddenly blew up, blowing and buffeting round the castle, howling.

  John died an hour after midnight, and the wind rose briefly to a gale.

  Everything changed in that moment.

  Meggie was ushered out of the little chamber. Not that she wanted to stay, for she had said goodbye and she had sensed the moment when the King’s spirit had fled. There is nothing to stay for, she thought as she stumbled out into the outer chamber. I do not care what becomes of the body.

  The abbot of Croxton returned, with his cortege of monks. There was a lot of praying, and the smell of incense. Then they began on the corpse. The heart and intestines he would take away, he announced in a sepulchral tone. He would oversee the embalming process, which his monks would carry out. Towards daybreak, when the eastern sky was just starting to show a pale line on the horizon, more monks arrived to stand vigil. Mass was said for the King’s soul.

  Meggie found a quiet corner, lay down on the floor, and fell asleep.

  Early in the morning, Josse found her. He sat down beside her and gently placed her head on his lap, stroking her soft hair. Presently she awoke. She stared up at him. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’

  ‘He was peaceful, at the end. He’d told them all he wanted them to do, and I suppose that helped.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Then, for that seemed inadequate, he added, ‘It was well that you were there, sweeting. Both your remedies and your presence were a comfort.’

  But she didn’t answer.

  She struggled to sit up, looking around her, a bemused expression on her face. ‘I was dreaming …’

  He waited, but she didn’t elaborate.

  ‘Yves and Geoffroi are downstairs,’ he said presently. ‘They’re ready to go.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Go? Oh, yes. Of course.’ Then – and he sensed she was making an effort to speak of practical matters when her mind was clearly far away – she said, ‘What will happen now? With the rebel barons, I mean, and the threat from the north?’

  He thought for a few moments. ‘It’s most unlikely that the rebel barons will oppose Prince Henry’s accession,’ he said very quietly. ‘The ones who have allied with Alexander of Scotland will probably abandon him, for there was only any point in fighting with him while John was King, and they’ll have no quarrel with the new order.’

  ‘What about Prince Louis, and the invasion in the south?’ she whispered.

  ‘The same, I believe, will apply,’ Josse replied. ‘I hope so, anyway. With any luck, Prince Louis will realize that support is gradually fading away and go back where he came from.’

  ‘What about you, Father?’ she asked. ‘You’ll go home – you, Yves and Geoffroi?’

  ‘Aye, we will. Geoffroi can barely wait to set out.’ He hesitated. ‘But surely you will be with us?’

  She was getting to her feet, and didn’t answer. Turning to him, she said, ‘I’ll come down and see them.’

  Puzzled, more than a little worried, Josse followed her down the steps, across the huge ground-floor chamber and out into the courtyard.

  She hugged Yves and Geoffroi, exchanging a few words with them. Then Geoffroi turned to Josse and said, ‘Now can we go home?’

  ‘We can, son.’ Josse smiled at him. ‘In fact, I have a task for you, for while the Ki
ng was dictating his will, somebody asked what was to become of that fine chestnut gelding he set such a store by. His glance just happened to be on me at the time, and he’s bequeathed the horse to me.’ He dropped his eyes modestly as Yves exclaimed with pleasure. ‘He said he wanted his favourite horse to go to a loyal old friend, and he chose me.’

  Geoffroi’s face lit up with delight.

  ‘Before you utter a word,’ Yves said to him very firmly, ‘you’re not riding him all the way back. We’re going to rest my old Hector, since he’s still favouring that sore foot, so the three of us’ll ride your horse, your father’s horse and the chestnut.’ He grinned. ‘Josse and I have already agreed that he and I will draw straws for who goes first with the chestnut.’

  Josse turned to Meggie, who had been standing silently beside him. ‘Now, tell me what’s happening,’ he said firmly. ‘I had assumed you’d be riding with us, and that we’d find the time for you to tell me what you’re doing here?’ Despite himself, he found he’d turned the remark into a question.

  Meggie shook her head. ‘I can’t leave with you, Father, although it’s possible I’ll catch you up on the ride south. I’m not alone, and I’m sort of responsible for the person with me.’

  Josse frowned. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Remember how I was summoned to Hawkenlye Abbey to tend an old woman?’ He nodded. ‘It’s her son.’

  ‘But why can’t he—’

  ‘Oh, Father, it’s far too long an explanation and it’ll have to wait,’ she said with rare impatience. ‘I’m really sorry’ – his dismay must have shown in his face – ‘but I must go.’

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, hugged her uncle and her brother, then, without another word, hurried away.

  She had been thinking so hard. The King was dead – she couldn’t dwell on that yet – and she didn’t really understand why he had died. She knew that her remedies ought to have helped. He might have remained sick and weak for days, perhaps longer, but he shouldn’t have died.

  She made her way through the mass of people. Although it was still early, it seemed that the entire population was abroad. She knew where she must go and what she must do there. She hoped fervently that she wasn’t too late. As she emerged into the large room with the little chamber leading off it, she began to pray.

  Against all expectation, immediately she saw what she had come for. She strode across the room and picked it up, instantly turning and hurrying away. Her heart banging and jumping with terror, she told herself, Stay calm. You’re only doing what everyone else is doing – clearing up, tidying the room – and if you act just as they do, you’ll be safe.

  She crossed the outer room. Descended the spiral stairs, even managing to exchange a remark with the woman just ahead of her about how tricky the narrow steps were to negotiate when your hands were full. She strode across the vast space whose wide doors opened on to the courtyard, and she merged with a large band of women heading out towards the town.

  Presently she broke away and walked calmly off down a side street. She doubled back, once, twice, three times. When she was quite sure nobody was either following or watching her, she slipped away and set off for the place where she and Faruq had agreed to meet.

  He was waiting for her. He was sitting on a low rise beside the stream that flowed between the willows, and the horses were tethered among the trees, peacefully grazing.

  He stood up as she approached and, to her great surprise, put his arms round her. She thought she felt him sob.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, no, but I wish I was!’ he cried. ‘Meggie, it was there, I saw it, I almost had it, but I was a coward and I hesitated, and someone came and took it!’

  She took his hand and led him into the shelter of the trees. The undergrowth was thick and well grown, and she didn’t think either they or the horses would be visible from the road. She said calmly, ‘We’re going to have something to eat, and we’ll tell each other what we’ve been doing. I have … there’s something I have to do – a test, I suppose – and I’ll tell you about that too.’ She glanced at him, and all at once she was quite certain that she knew the truth about the things that had mystified her. ‘Then we shall sleep, and, later in the day, we’ll set off south.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Josse and his party set out almost as soon as Meggie had run off. Josse waited hopefully for a few moments in case she changed her mind, but then Yves took his arm and gently ushered him away.

  It was a relief to leave, and he had to admit it. As they rode off he turned round for a last look at the place where King John had died. There had been orders not to spread news of the death. But how could you keep such a thing quiet? Josse thought. The castle was thronged with people, busy saddling up and leaving. The large contingent of Flemish knights that the late King had recruited to fight for him had clearly heard the news, and they were packing as swiftly and efficiently as if there was a prize for the quickest. Quite a lot of those scurrying off down the road, Josse observed, were bent double under large packs and had presumably been helping themselves to anything portable that they could hide away. Then, suddenly, it occurred to him that this was what a place always looked like when the King’s train rolled away. If somehow you hadn’t learned of John’s death, he realized, there would be nothing to say this morning was different from any other morning.

  Progress was slow to begin with, for most people seemed to be going in the same direction and it was difficult for the three mounted men – one of them leading a fourth horse – to make a way through the crowds. But gradually they overtook the foot traffic and the carts, and the road opened up before them.

  Josse was still distressed and not a little angry that Meggie wasn’t riding with them. Yves, guessing what troubled him, said, ‘Josse, she’s a grown woman and used to making her own decisions and looking after herself. She’ll be all right.’

  His brother’s words had, as they always did, comforted him.

  The weather was depressing. The wind that had risen in the small hours had dropped as suddenly as it had begun and the mist had come creeping back, now covering the ground to a depth of about eight or ten feet and making visibility poor. The mist bore droplets of moisture that soon permeated cloaks and hoods. It was very cold.

  Presently they came up behind a big group of riders who had left the castle earlier. There wasn’t room on the narrow track to pass, and, Josse reflected sourly, they weren’t in a hurry any more. He, Yves and Geoffroi resigned themselves to waiting until the road widened.

  Jehan was waiting with Yann Duguesclin’s three killers. They were on the edge of a small pine wood just outside a town. He understood that the King had been staying in a castle in the town and was to leave this morning: the spies watching from a distance had reported very early on the activity around the castle that meant King John was on the move again.

  Jehan didn’t know why he was with the three silent men. His job had been to stay close to them to tend their horses. He’d done that, but he couldn’t understand why they insisted he rode out with them this morning. What were they doing? Was this yet another mission to gather intelligence about the King’s movements? But surely the spies had already told them where he was going next – north, to Lincoln, as soon as he was feeling better. The fact that he was moving out this morning implied he was, so why—

  Just then one of the silent men broke into his thoughts. Pointing, he said very softly, ‘There.’ The other two followed the line of his outstretched arm.

  ‘You’re sure?’ one said.

  The first man nodded.

  ‘Then the plans have changed,’ the second one muttered, ‘for that road doesn’t lead to Lincoln.’

  The first man didn’t reply, other than with a faint shrug. Then all three put heels to their horses and set out on the road south. Nobody said a word to Jehan. After a moment, he kicked the bay gelding into a lively trot and went after them.

  The weather was awful. The ra
in had set in, and what had begun as a light drizzle hardly distinguishable from the swirling mist was steadily intensifying. The ground was quickly becoming sodden, and many little streams and brooks were beginning to flood. The mist had worsened. Riding at the back of the column meant that they had to force a way through ground already churned up by hooves, wheels and feet. When Josse suggested to Geoffroi and Yves that they try to loop across open ground to the right, returning to the road ahead of the large, slow group, they readily agreed.

  The manoeuvre was proving to be a good idea. They had elected to overtake at a spot where there was a low, flat-topped bank beside the road, and cantering along it was a relatively easy matter. Quite a lot of those riding in the long train stared up at them, and a man muttered audibly, ‘Flashy buggers.’ Turning to look back, Josse noticed that several other riders were copying them.

  Yves, who had been looking at the people they were passing, gave a mild exclamation of surprise. ‘Oh, look, Josse,’ he called, ‘there’s that young lad I spotted back at Lynn – the deaf one I thought was a spy. I wonder what he’s doing here? I haven’t seen him for days.’

  Josse turned to where Yves was pointing. He saw a young, pale face, staring up at the three riders on the top of the bank. He’s only a boy, Josse thought.

  The lad’s eyes met Josse’s. He stared for a moment, his mouth open. Then an expression of growing horror flooded the thin face and, frantically turning in the saddle and looking all around, he gave a strange, wordless cry.

  The archer had his target in his sights. He stood utterly immobile, arrow nocked to the bow, hands steady. The mist swirled then cleared again.

  The arrow flew, straight and true.

  Jehan Leferronier, because of a freak little breeze that parted the mist just as the arrow struck, saw who had been hit, and understood what would inevitably happen.

  And he knew he could never return to his forge in the woods above Hawkenlye Abbey.

  Riding along the bank behind his father and his uncle, Geoffroi was trying to control the spare horse as well as his own. Even for him, very used to the ways of horses and extremely strong, it was a struggle. To add to his frustration, some of the others in the slow procession – who had copied Josse’s idea and clambered up on to the bank – had managed to get between Geoffroi and his two companions. Now he was separated from Josse and Yves by a group of five mounted men, a couple of lads on ponies and a determined old boy staggering along under a huge sack. When the mist swirled thickly, as it was doing now, Geoffroi totally lost sight of his father and his uncle.