With a well-staged show of piety, Philip Augustus presided over a council of war. John was held in contempt, and the historic links between France and England were severed. Action would be taken to reclaim La Marche and secure its borders, along with those of Lusignan and Exoudun. No unnecessary incursions would be made into Angevin territory, though, naturally, force would be met with force. It was devoutly hoped that King John saw the error of his ways and sued for peace, else who could say where it would end?
* * *
For the past hour rain had softened the thin layer of topsoil, and the horses wallowed as their hooves sank through to the chalk. The twenty riders hunched in their saddles, the hoods of their travelling cloaks pulled forward, mud on the hems. Progress had slowed to a walk, and the escort commander suggested breaking the journey at the next village. Suggested, because one did not give orders to the dowager Queen Eleanor.
Her reply was curt and in character. ‘The next time I dismount will be in Poitiers, within arm’s length of a fire. My bones are too brittle for these long excursions—’
‘Then let’s wait out the storm—’
‘—but now I’m in the saddle I intend to stay here. Don’t tempt me, messire. Once I dismount it’ll be for a week.’
‘It’s another fifteen miles, maybe more.’
‘Then speed us along,’ Eleanor told him, ‘speed us along. At our present rate it will be age that kills me, not the weather.’ She glimpsed his shrug of resignation and drew back the edge of her hood. Blinking against the rain, she said, ‘I can hear your thoughts, messire. “She is a truculent old woman who spurns advice. The journey will kill her, but I’ll be the one who’s blamed.” Isn’t that it?’
‘I assure you, my lady—’
‘But I agree. If the first occurs, the second will undoubtedly follow. So you’d better get me to Poitiers before I expire; it’s your only salvation.’ Her voice carried the full weight of her years, yet the words were framed by the faintest smile and the commander acknowledged that he would, somehow, deliver her safe to Poitiers. If the eighty-year-old Eleanor could preserve such a smile, then she, herself, must be preserved.
The column continued south and was still riding head-on into the rain when it met the Lusignan patrol. There was comedy in the collision, for both parties assumed the other was friendly and disentangled with apologies. It was only when they had reformed and passed on opposite sides of the track that a member of the patrol twisted in his saddle, growled to himself ‘Aliénor?’ then yelled at his companions, ‘C’est elle! J’en suis sûr! C’est Aliénor!’
The hiss of rain added to the confusion, for some of the patrol thought he had shouted ‘C’est une alliance!’ So why the fuss? What was so unusual about friendly patrols passing on the road? Why scream and jabber when— What? Aliénor d’ Aquitaine? Sweet Christ, how the brothers would love to seize her again! And how they’d reward those who brought her in!
The men of Lusignan wrenched at the reins, struggling to turn on the narrow path, then spurred back in pursuit.
But by now the patrol had also been identified. Eleanor’s party wheeled aside and plunged down a steep, bracken-covered slope, riding without direction. Two knights flanked the dowager queen, bruising her with their legs, gripping her shoulders with metal gloves. The rain curtained their flight, but the horses had tracked mud down the slope and it would not take their pursuers long to find the trail. Poitiers was still twelve miles to the south and, even if they eluded this patrol, how many others churned the roads between here and the city?
They must find a more immediate sanctuary. The choice was obvious and limited. They would head for the nearby castle of Mirebeau and pray God they did not lose their way…
There were three local men in the party, and the escort commander roared at them to take the lead. So long as the flight lasted, these three mounted archers would decide the route and issue whatever orders they chose. They were too hard pressed to think about it now, but if they survived to reach Mirebeau, they could tell their friends they’d saved and commanded Queen Eleanor and her knights.
Following the guides, the column ploughed through the valley, swerved west along the edge of a dark, rain-pocked lake, then sent their palfreys racing across a series of natural causeways. Riders twice misjudged the direction of the high earth banks and ran their mounts into the water. Nothing could be done for the men and they drowned quickly, weighed down by their armour. The horses thrashed against the bank, or swam out into the lake.
The nightmare ride continued. The causeways widened, and then the fugitives were among the trees again and at the mercy of thorns and branches. A horseman was clubbed senseless, but he was well enough jammed in his saddle to be carried onward in the rush. The rain and slap of the leaves cloaked any sounds of pursuit, but there was no reason to think they’d out-distanced the patrol. After all, their pursuers might also be guided by men who knew the country.
The trees thinned and the riders reined-in for a moment, their faces scratched and swollen. As the escort commander approached Eleanor he was horrified to see that she, too, bore the marks of passage. They both knew that his concern would achieve nothing, and she waved him away with a curt, ‘Take us on, messire. I don’t welcome an arrow in the back.’
He nodded, wiped at his own watered cuts and the column moved forward again, ascending the first of a dozen humpbacked hills. The guides faltered once and the party was forced to retrace its steps. Then the horses were labouring up another incline and over another bald ridge. Eleanor swayed in the saddle and was immediately supported by the attendant knights. Rain drifted across the hills. The journey seemed endless, aimless, an enacted dream in which the party must be subjected to every natural hazard. Soon they would enter a land of fire and molten rock, or feel the piercing shards of ice carried on the wind. They were already numbed by the rain, battered by the lurch of their horses and the whip of branches, goaded on by the fear of death or capture. They had almost forgotten their destination. It might be a mile away or less, the small, insecure castle of Mirebeau. But however eagerly it beckoned, they could neither see nor imagine it. Before they reached Mirebeau, they must first sample the torments of the world…
The man who saw them emerge from the gloom fitted an arrow in his bow and shouted the alarm. The shout was relayed to others on the wall and more shafts were levelled at the riders. The gate guards slipped an arm through the leather brace of their shields, hefted their spears and ran forward to bar the way. A bell tolled, alerting the constable and his knights, and they strode from the isolated keep, incensed that anyone should choose to threaten the castle in weather like this.
The column slowed and halted. The three guides nodded wearily to each other, then, with some slight reluctance, waited for the escort commander to come forward and reclaim command. The guides had never spoken directly to Queen Eleanor, but they knew her well enough to accept that she would reward them for their achievement. Not today, perhaps, for they were all too tired. But as soon as she was strong enough she’d send them a few coins and a word of thanks. Worldly men that they were, they also knew they’d set aside one of the coins as a keepsake, then spend it when they needed money for a drink.
The escort commander went on alone to meet the constable of Mirebeau. Their exchange was short and to the point, for neither was anxious to leave Queen Eleanor out in the rain. The flurry of movement that had followed the first shouted alarm was repeated, but this time the gate guards formed a protective ring round the visitors, whilst the garrison archers directed their sights at the drifting rain clouds. God grant mercy to any innocent traveller who chose this time to reach Mirebeau, for he’d find himself with a chestful of arrows.
Eleanor entered the castle. Held in the saddle by her knights, she was escorted as far as the keep, then helped to the ground and all but carried indoors. The atmosphere at Mirebeau was compounded of sorrow, fury and embarrassment; sorrow for the old woman, her face torn and disfigured by the whip of the br
anches; fury with those devils who had hounded her; and embarrassment that the castle was unprepared for the arrival of the great dowager queen. There would be some hasty banking of fires and airing of beds, and the wine- merchants in the nearby town had better produce their finest vintage, and by the barrel-load. As for the garrison, as ever under-strength, they could look forward to a wet and dismal night, on guard against the demons of Lusignan. If Queen Eleanor sickened and died – If the castle was attacked and overrun, and she was taken prisoner –Well, it had better not happen, that’s all.
But prayers and determination were insufficient. There were too many loose stones in the outer walls, too few men to patrol the towers and ramparts. Estimates varied, but not by much; the garrison could hold out for a day, two days, maybe three. Of all the places in which Queen Eleanor might have sought refuge, Mirebeau was the least secure.
Whilst the queen’s injuries were being dressed, the constable and escort commander retired to a private chamber to discuss the situation. An ugly and reliable bantam of a man, the constable suggested sending to Chinon or Saumur for help. They’re less than thirty miles from here. If a messenger rode non-stop, he’d reach them within— Why shake your head? There’s a massive garrison at Chinon. The king himself —’
‘The king went north weeks ago, lord constable. He made no noise about it, lest Philip or the Lusignans learn the true state of the defences. You probably don’t hear such things this far south, but the French are pressing us in Normandy, and King John has gone to Le Mans to rally the army. And,’ he added, ‘he’s taken with him the garrison of Chinon and Saumur. There’s no point in sending a messenger to those castles; they’re as under-manned as Mirebeau.’
‘Do I understand this?’ the constable snapped. ‘King John has emptied his most powerful strongholds and marched the occupants all the way up to Le Mans? And, by doing so, he has left us to our own devices? Are you saying, messire, that we’ve been abandoned?’
‘For the while, yes, we have. Any help must now come from Le Mans.’
‘But that’s eighty or ninety miles away.
‘So it is.’
The bantam moved to the window, tightened the laces of the leather curtains, then for want of a proper enemy slapped at the stiff, boiled skins. Turning to his visitor, he asked, ‘And the Lusignans? Where do you place them?’
‘I’ve no idea, though patrols do not generally roam far from home. At a guess, Hugh and Ralf – if they’re working together – are within twenty miles of us.’
‘A day’s fast ride.’
The escort commander dabbed the seeping cuts on his face, ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A day’s ride, once they know where we are.’
‘So you think that this patrol you ran into, you think they tracked you here?’
‘I’m sure of it. But, even if they did not see us ride through the gates, they’ll guess our destination. With due respect, lord constable, Mirebeau is not the most formidable of castles, but it is the only one in the district. The patrol will assume we came here, and the brothers will know of it soon enough.’
‘Then we can expect an attack any time after dawn.’
The escort commander gave an affirmative grunt, not needing to waste the words.
Nevertheless, the defenders took what precaution they could. More to inform King John that his mother had been captured than in any hope of rescue, they sent a messenger north to Le Mans. The man would ride all night and the following day and, even if the king assembled a relief column and dispatched it without delay, it would be a further three days on the road. However hard one prayed, Mirebeau would remain unaided for five or six days – double the most optimistic estimate.
Members of the garrison spent that first night commandeering food and weapons from the town. By dawn they were back within the walls, and trying hard to forget the time when an excited hound had run across the yard and cleared the outer defences without touching the ramparts.
* * *
The messenger rode north through the forests of Poitou, crossed one of the shaky bridges that spanned the Loire, then spurred on into the duchy of Anjou. His thighs were rubbed raw from the exertion and he fell asleep in a village stable whilst a sour-tempered ostler saddled a fresh horse. When the man shook him awake, the messenger discovered that he had been bitten by red ants. Scratching and yawning, he rode on, aware that the sky had grown light in the east.
* * *
The Lusignans had reacted predictably to the news. It had been brought to Hugh le Bran as the senior overlord, and he had listened in silence to the patrol leader’s account. The story had wandered some way from the truth, for the man had been unwilling to admit that his riders had passed within a sword’s length of Queen Eleanor. As the leader told it, the groups had come upon each other unexpectedly, but had been separated by a deep, rain-filled ditch. It was this that had hindered the pursuit. Had it not been for the ditch, the patrol would certainly have captured the old woman and her escort. As it was, they’d chased the fugitives through forests and around lakes and over hills, and were almost within arrow range when the queen’s party entered the castle of Mirebeau. That’s where they’d taken refuge, Mirebeau. Less than fifteen miles away, if one rode directly north-west. Mirebeau, which everyone knew was a child’s castle, ill-knit and weak-walled, and famous for the dog that had vaulted it, clearing battlements and yard and keep. It must have been an exceptional hound to leap three hundred feet, but he’d done it and not once grazed his skin. Anyway, believe it or not, the Lord of Lusignan would have no trouble scaling the nursery blocks of Mirebeau.
Hugh had thanked him for his report, dismissed him and conferred with brother Ralf. They had sheltered in Hugh’s damp pavilion, where they assessed their chances of taking the castle, and with it Queen Eleanor. In less than an hour they had reached a decision; they would postpone all attempts at general insurrection and concentrate upon the hurdle-walls of Mirebeau. If Queen Eleanor was still there and they could capture her, she would be worth a score of minor castles, a duchy perhaps, why not a principality? Philip of France would bid for her, in the hopes of using her against King John, while Softsword himself would give anything to reclaim his mother. He’d offer lands and titles and wealth, but he might also relinquish his hold on Isabelle, for it was common knowledge that the Angevins loved their mothers more than their wives. If the Lusignans held the aged Eleanor, then they held power and could play her off against the two greatest monarchs in the West.
Sometime before midnight flames blossomed on a plateau in the disputed county of La Marche, and the brothers led their troops on a forced march, moving directly north-west. As they neared the end of their journey they saw the sky lighten around them.
* * *
Bloody and bitten, the messenger continued northward through Anjou and thence into Maine. He had stopped twice to change horses, but had otherwise been in the saddle for almost sixteen hours. He could not say how far he had come, nor even if he was on the most direct path to Le Mans, though he supposed he was, for whenever he croaked the question at farmers or passing travellers they nodded and pointed to the north, albeit with a nervous glance at the rider and his foam-flecked mount.
Sweat and the rub of his tunic had infected the ant bites and, at his last halt, he had bought two flasks of rough local wine. He had already finished one, deadening his senses, and he trotted on, reciting ribald poetry and relieving himself in the saddle. He had long since ridden clear of the rain, and now the midsummer sun drew steam from his clothes and tightened its grip on his head and neck. From time to time he patted the leather wallet on his belt. If he did not drink himself insensible and fall from his horse, or succumb to blood-poisoning or sunstroke or the knife wounds of a waiting brigand, then he would deliver the letter from the constable of Mirebeau to King John of England at Le Mans…
* * *
The town had provided everything for their needs. Ladders had been taken from a thatcher’s yard, then tied two-by-two, extending them to the height
of the outer wall. Crude grappling hooks had been forged in the smithy, plunged into the cooling trough, then attached to ropes. A loaded hay-cart was found and small barrels of pitch brought up from the cooper’s cellar. The barrels were lifted on to the cart and split open, so that the pitch oozed down among the hay. Doors were torn from their hinges and carried in the direction of the castle. Sheds had been wrecked to provide beams and stakes. The cart was dragged along the street that led to the barbican gate.
Three hours after dawn, when he was satisfied with the preparations, Hugh le Brun gave the signal to attack.
The castle of Mirebeau had once stood in isolation but, as the town had grown, so the houses had crept closer to the walls. Now, less than twenty yards separated the barbican gate from the youngest buildings, and several of Hugh’s bowmen had already clambered on to the roofs and porches. At his signal they loosed a hail of arrows at the gate guards, whilst other bowmen ran from cover with the doors and shed beams. Propped up by the beams, the weathered doors served as shields behind which the archers could crouch to fit their arrows or mend snapped bowstrings. As each man was ready he leaned clear of the shield and let fly at the defenders.
The knights went in next, lumbering towards the gate, their own leaf-shaped shields held high, their swords not yet unsheathed. Instead, they carried stakes and mallets, or dragged two lengths of rope in their wake. Whilst the archers forced the gate guard to huddle below the battlements, the knights hammered the stakes deep into the ground on either side of the gateway, then hauled the ropes around the anchor posts. Above them, a number of the defenders braved the hail of arrows to hurl down sharp-edged flints, and three of the knights collapsed beneath the avalanche. Their companions dragged them away, leaving the open ground littered with rocks and splintered shields. As they retreated, the knights continued to pay out the ropes, taking care to keep them taut around the posts.
The Wolf at the Door Page 5