The Wolf at the Door

by The Wolf at the Door (retail) (epub)

  Nevertheless, when the facts emerged they would reveal King John in a new and flattering light, for he had been the prime architect of the rescue and had led it from the start. For a while at least there would be no more talk of Softsword, or Couteau-du-Beurre.

  He released Eleanor from his embrace and moved back, incensed by her appearance. Her face was still swollen by theof the branches, her eyes sunk deep with fatigue. What breed of animal would drive an eighty-year-old woman through the forest, hound her into a keep, then lay a fire at her door? What monsters would do this and dare call themselves Christians?

  ‘Now, now,’ she said, ‘don’t look so distressed. I’m no longer in any real pain, and my complexion deserted me years ago. But not, I warn you, my curiosity. I want to know how you accomplished this extraordinary mission. Were you really in Le Mans?’

  He raised a hand as though to touch the scars on her face, then said, ‘Yes, we were. It’s been the rallying-point for the army. As you know, the French have invaded Normandy and are now threatening our castles at Arques and Driencourt.’

  ‘Let’s discuss that later,’ Eleanor deflected. ‘First tell me about the rescue. For instance, how you travelled so fast in full armour. You’ve only struck a night and a day from the calendar, the same time it took the messenger. How could your troops possibly have matched the speed of a single rider?’

  John opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. He had neither imagined nor experienced such success as today and he was determined not to squander his tale. Reason was reasserting itself again, and he was sure that if he told her how it had been, she would lean against the doorway, summon a smile and disbelieve him. John could not have planned this, it isn’t the way his mind turns. He would not be so inventive, unless he’s lying. No, this is not my son’s brew. It does not taste like him. There’s too much flavour in it.

  She would have believed Richard, of course; she had always believed dear Richard. Everyone had accepted the word of Coeur-de-Lion, for a creature as heroic as that was surely incapable of lying. But not so the Lionheart’s brother, not so the wolf. If he was to be believed, he must first find someone to vouch for his story, a man of unblemished reputation and one for whom Eleanor had high regard.

  There was an obvious candidate.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted. ‘Will you tell me how it was done?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘but in the presence of a witness. I’ve recounted several things in the past that were not entirely true, but this time I must be sure you’re convinced. It’s tod good a tale to waste.’ Then, as though changing the subject, he said, ‘Would you like to meet an old friend of yours, Lady Eleanor? I’ll call him up here and—’

  ‘Call who?’

  ‘—we’ll let him bear witness to the truth.’

  ‘Call who, John?’

  ‘Earl Marshal, of course. We know he adores you, and there was ever a section of your heart railed off for him, wasn’t there, my lady?’ His triumphant expression was less smile than smirk. He had regained the initiative. His mother would believe him now.

  She made an effort to shield her emotions, but it failed. William Marshal, whom she had championed for so many years, the spindly young knight who had once saved her life, then later delivered her from sixteen years of imprisonment – a gift from her husband King Henry. Oh, yes, she would like to see Marshal again. What did they call him – the Arab? Yes, she would love it if Marshal the Arab bore witness to John’s victorious tale.

  ‘By all means,’ she said, ‘summon him here.’ And then her voice trembled and she pleaded, ‘God in heaven, John! Bring him to the steps!’

  * * *

  While the rescuers were scouring the castle in search of leftover assailants, the Earl of Pembroke was compiling a list of the senior prisoners. One at a time they were led before the long trestle table, now cleared of its flasks and dishes, and interrogated as to their rank, titles and holdings. In this way the victors could assess each man’s value in terms of ransom. It would take several months to verify the information, but when that had been done the prisoners would be offered the chance to purchase their freedom. Many of them would be left destitute, with no choice but to serve some minor baron, or join a crusade in the hopes of finding fortune in the East. But it was better to be poor and at liberty than to go slowly blind in a dungeon.

  Needless to say, the offer would not be extended to the lords of Lusignan or Exoudun…

  When the prisoners had supplied the initial information, they were granted a further period in which to recollect the extent of their holdings and those controlled by their wives and families. And the contents of their coffers. And the names of such friends as might be persuaded to contribute to the ransom. They had until morning to rack their brains, though Marshal reminded them of the dangers of deceit.

  ‘It’d be foolish and perhaps fatal to undervalue yourselves. Don’t imagine that King John will see your omissions as a mere oversight; he’ll assume you tried to cheat him, and act accordingly. So if you have any saleable horses, list them. Likewise the rents from your farms, the bracelets that decorate your ladies, the tapestries on your walls. Everything will be checked, then checked again, and it’ll go hard with anyone whose poverty is disproved.’

  He gazed at the dull, scarred faces, then went on, ‘Most of you held your titles during the reign of Richard Lionheart, and those of you who knew him well remember his obsession with money. So you can believe me when I tell you – it’s a family trait.’

  On that ominous note he left them to dredge their memories and decide whether or not they’d cheat King John. On balance they thought not.

  Marshal had already informed the king that the Lusignan brothers were in custody and unharmed. He had made no mention of Hugh’s stone-struck ear or Ralf’s broken nose, for . the traitors were unharmed in the sense that they could still beg for mercy, and that was all John cared to know. The warlord had then devoted himself to the list, stopping once as Queen Eleanor emerged from the torchlit shaft. No clerks had accompanied the riders from Le Mans, so Marshal himself had inscribed the names and properties, drying the ink with sand. When he had finished – and delivered his warning to the grim-faced prisoners – he started in the direction of the keep. He was within earshot when Eleanor said, ‘God in heaven, John! Bring him to the steps!’

  The king turned to dispatch one of his bodyguards, saw Marshal approach and said, ‘No wonder you love him; he’s on us before the echoes fade.’ Then he moved aside and watched with amusement as the old friends met.

  ‘What’s this?’ Eleanor queried. ‘Are you a clerk now, William Marshal?’

  He bowed to her, straightened again and said, ‘It seems I am, my lady. Where I once rode in the lists, I now write them.’

  The queen smiled and nodded, then extended her hands, one laid over the other. Marshal raised them to his lips, holding them longer than mere courtesy dictated. He affected not to notice her injuries, though any faint trace of pity he had felt for the prisoners was immediately expunged. They could expect little mercy from King John, but neither could they count on it from the moderate William Marshal, not for a long while yet.

  John had now squeezed all the amusement he could from the meeting. He moved up the steps until he had once more gained ascendancy over the warlord, then said, ‘Lady Eleanor has asked for an account of the rescue. You know how it went, Marshal, so you can bear me out.’

  ‘If you wish.’

  The king could not bring himself to invite Marshal alongside, so he continued to speak down and across, half the time to the Arab, half to his mother. ‘The messenger reached us last evening, sometime around dusk.’

  There was a short silence, until Marshal realized he was expected to signify accord.

  ‘He did, king, an hour before dark.’

  ‘And brought with him a letter from the constable, explaining that Queen Eleanor had taken refuge here and that an attack was imminent.’ He waited for the witness to agree, but Marshal sa
id, ‘It’d be simpler if you told the story straight out. After all, it was your achievement.’

  John glanced at his mother to assure himself she’d heard. My achievement, lady, from the lips of your oldest friend. Mine, so says the Arab.

  ‘Very well,’ he nodded. ‘By the time the messenger reached us, Mirebeau had already come under attack. We did not know where the enemy were quartered, but it was obviously close by. As the constable said in his letter, patrols do not usually venture far from home. Speed, then, was essential. The army grows daily stronger at Le Mans, but if Mirebeau was to be saved, and you, my lady, it would not be by a ponderous column of foot-soldiers and mangonels. Nor even by a detachment of armoured knights.’ He saw Eleanor frown and said, ‘Oh, yes, they were armoured knights that followed me into the yard, though we looked rather different riding out from Le Mans.’ He treated them both to a triumphant grin. ‘I set as my target the time it had taken the messenger to reach us; some twenty-five hours. But, if we were to match his speed, we’d have to sit as lightly in the saddle. In other words, we’d have to undress for the part.’

  ‘Are you saying you set out without armour?’

  ‘Less than that, my lady. Almost without clothes. In boots and shifts, that’s all, and each of us with an extra horse in tow. Can you picture it? Three hundred riders, the flower of our chivalry, charging half-naked through the night?’ He turned to Marshal and exclaimed, ‘I had not thought of it before, but now I thank God we didn’t meet an enemy patrol!’

  ‘And the armour?’ Eleanor persisted. ‘Where was that obtained?’

  ‘At Chinon,’ John told her. ‘Again my idea. The garrison there is depleted – well, the troops are all at Le Mans – but the armoury is one of the largest around. We stopped once to change horses, and then again at Chinon. Look more closely, my lady, and you’ll see that nothing quite fits us. Look at Marshal. Do you think he’d own a sword like that, with its swollen pommel and frayed grip? His is a masterpiece, perfectly balanced, yet he was content to leave it behind.’ With a characteristic touch of vanity, the king scratched at his link-mail tunic and said, ‘I assure you, my hauberks are better measured than this metal pavilion.’

  The dowager queen exchanged a glance with Marshal, then reached out to take John’s hand. ‘I understand now why you thought it was necessary to summon a witness. It is an extraordinary achievement—’

  ‘And more so because it came from me? Yes, of course. If it had been Marshal’s doing, his or a hundred others, you’d have accepted it word for word, isn’t that so? But for Lackland-cum-Softsword to have made his knights divest themselves of their armour, to have led them at a breakneck pace and then trampled le Bran in the gate? No, that would have imposed too high a tax on your beliefs.’ He seemed on the verge of withdrawing his hand, but his bitterness suddenly evaporated and he said, ‘The truth is, Lady Eleanor, that neither Marshal nor the others think as I do. Oh, they’d probably have rescued you, but not so quickly, for they’d never have asked their compeers to undress. Or would you, eh, Pembroke?’

  The warlord could not explain to himself why it hurt so much to say no, he would not.

  * * *

  He presented the list of prisoners. ‘There are more details to be added in the morning, but there’s one name that might be of special interest to you. Among the general group of knights and nobles, and we’ve taken almost two hundred, we found a boy of fourteen or so. I’d have dismissed him as a common squire, except that he was wearing a hauberk of pure silver.

  It was necessary to twist him a little before he’d tell us who he was, and I’m not yet convinced as to his identity. But, if it’s true, your achievement is really crowned. He says he’s Arthur of Brittany, and would that not make him your nephew, and the claimant to your throne?’

  Chapter Four

  The Angevin Sickness

  August 1202–April 1203

  The field-hands stood silent, or sank to their knees amid the stubble. They knew better than to approach the wagon-train and were content to watch it pass and pray they’d be ignored. There was enough misery in evidence on the road without tempting it across the verge.

  This was not the only such train on the move today; a second had already turned off towards Angers, while a third was bound for the Norman county of Mortain. Each comprised five or six ox-carts, escorted by a hundred Angevin knights. There was no misery in that, but in the wake of the carts came the Lusignan prisoners, the knights and nobility, stumbling along head down, their necks encircled by heavy iron collars, their wrists shackled, each bracelet chained to the next. The captives had been stripped of their armour, and this, together with a pair of armed guards, formed the ballast of the carts.

  Progress was slow, though it was still inadvisable to miss one’s footing, for the chains were not long enough to let a man lie full-length on the ground. Those who had fallen – and so far there were three in this train – had been dragged along, arms in the air, their wrists broken.

  The Angevin escort made no comment. They understood how King John had felt when he had seen his mother’s branch-whipped face, and they acknowledged his desire for ven- gence. They had willingly mutilated the enemy archers and men-at-arms, blinding the bowmen and releasing the infantry, minus their hands, and they were only surprised that the king had not hanged Hugh and Ralf from the gate-arch at Mirebeau. But these others, dragged like felons behind the carts, did they really merit such humiliation? They were the enemy, yes, but they were still men of rank, and each could find his equal among the escort. Victor or vanquished, they were compeers, and the riders were perturbed by John’s pitiless display.

  His victory had been so complete… The brilliance of his strategy… The incredible speed of the rescue… The timely collision with le Bran… The unexpected, yet heavensent discovery of Duke Arthur… All this, raising King John on a level with the legendary Lionheart… All this, now sadly diminished by his treatment of the captured chevaliers. It was unworthy. But most disturbing of all, it set a dangerous precedent, for how would English knights fare when they next fell victim of Philip of France?

  Nevertheless, the riders kept their thoughts to themselves, and the carts rumbled on, liming the prisoners with dust.

  It would take the wagon-train two weeks to reach its destination, the massive Norman fortress of Falaise. It seemed appropriate that Arthur and the Lusignans should be incarcerated there, for Falaise was one of the castles that, six months ago, Philip had demanded as a token of John’s good faith. The news of it would make the French fish wriggle.

  * * *

  John had divided the mass of prisoners with a purpose. Philip Augustus would be distraught when he learned of the reversal at Mirebeau, but even with the loss of Hugh and Ralf and Arthur, the French army was still rich in commanders. It also out-numbered anything the English could put in the field and, if the prisoners were known to be under one roof, an attempt might be made to rescue them. But not so if they were scattered, some at Angers, some at Mortain, a few at Falaise, a dozen in this place, a dozen in that, and a further twenty-five transported to England. Not even the cunning Augustus could raise a crop of armies and an invasion fleet.

  Before leaving Mirebeau, John had done his best to persuade his mother to accompany him to Falaise. Her admiration for his victory had made him selfish, and Eleanor found it necessary to remind him that she was eighty years old, whipped raw and in need of peace and quiet.

  ‘I know how much it means to you, a triumphal procession throughout the country, with me on your arm. But think of this, my lord. You will not be parading some young princess, unmarked by her experience. You’ll be supporting a weary old woman, and the people you seek to impress may wonder why you let me be maltreated.

  ‘Let you? Christ’s eyes, do you think I let you?’

  ‘I know you didn’t, but before you put me on show would it not be better to let the swellings go down? Deal with your prisoners and, if there’s no other way, prosecute the war; then, in a month or
so, come and collect me. I shall not have forgotten your achievement, John. Allow me a month, and I’ll tour Christendom with you, if that’s what you wish.’

  He had no choice but to accept. He asked, ‘Where will you be, Fontevrault?’

  ‘Yes, Fontevrault, it’s my favourite retreat.’ With a smile she added, ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be safer there than I was here, at Mirebeau. For one thing, the abbey walls are higher.’

  John nodded sullenly. In a month’s time his victory would be forgotten. Oh, the crowds would turn out to cheer the dowager queen. They always did. But how many of them would have breath to spare for him?

  * * *

  His attitude towards William Marshal was quite different. The warlord was another lodestone to the crowd, but John had no intention of sharing the glory with him. He’d heard how Marshal had crossed swords with Ralf of Exoudun, breaking the traitor’s nose in the process, and if he’d heard it, so would everyone else.

  ‘…then the king came charging through the gate, well, there was nothing left but the stone, and he rode full-tilt into Hugh le Brun – just by chance. But the other Lusignan, Ralf, he was disarmed in a fight with William Marshal. First of all his sword was banged aside, and then the Arab went in…’

  No, there was no place in the procession for the scene-stealing Earl of Pembroke.

  When the carts had been assembled and the prisoners chained and shackled, the three trains set out from Mirebeau.