The Wolf at the Door

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

  * * *

  In the week that followed, the Earl of Pembroke was left to the ministrations of the monks. He was too ill to receive visitors, too heavily drugged to discern more than white-clad shapes of his physicians. The arrow-cut on his jaw was healing, though it would leave a long, ugly scar. But the leg wound was more serious, for it had become infected and the monks feared that they might yet have to amputate the limb. Meanwhile, they fed their patient on a thin, monastic diet, and continued to drain the poison from his wound. Throughout the week he lay silent, for the most part asleep, yet sometimes with his eyes half-open, seeing nothing but the blur of candlelight or the sliding progress of the sun.

  Those vistors who called at the monastery were told that Earl Marshal could not be disturbed and sent away. However, it was from them that the monks learned of events in the castles of Rouen and Gaillard, and they decided to keep the truth from the warlord.

  They stationed two of their burliest brethren at the entrance to the infirmary, while the abbot himself took charge of all letters and messages of goodwill. He had not realized until now that the patient was so popular or in so much demand, and he told his monks to do their best for the master of Pembroke and Striguil.

  A worldly man, the abbot acknowledged that Marshal’s death would not only be a tragedy for England, but also for the Cistercian Order. The monastery at Rouen would become notorious as the place where he had died, and there would be no question of founding another community on his lands. After all, his widow Isabel de Clare was unlikely to thank them for having failed to save her husband.

  Excusing the guards and physicians, the abbot ordered the other monks to attend a night-long vigil, and decorated the chapel with the candles left over from Lammas.

  * * *

  Exactly seven days after Marshal had been carried into the austere infirmary, he was awoken by the sound of scuffling in the passageway outside his cell. Confused by the fumes of mandragora, he imagined that the monastery had been invaded by would-be assassins. Groping at the wall behind his head, he wrenched down a simple stone cross. As chalk and plaster littered the pillow, he hauled himself upright, wincing with pain, then clasped both hands around the solid granite shaft. He raised the cross high, not for comfort in extremis, but as the only available weapon. Swung or thrown correctly, the religious artefact would cave a man’s skull.

  There were further sounds, a loud gasp of indignation, a yell for help, and then the door was pushed open and the pock-marked William of Briouze shouldered his way into the cell. He did not immediately recognize the scarred, emaciated figure, and hesitated before accepting that it was, indeed, Earl Marshal. He had expected to find the warlord thinner than usual, but not pared down to the bone.

  ‘Lie back,’ he growled. ‘You’re in no danger from Briouze.’ Then he closed the door and advanced to the foot of the bed.

  Struggling to come alert, Marshal peered at him and let the cross sink slowly to the plain woollen coverlet. ‘Well, well,’ he mouthed, ‘here’s a treat. Our governor turned vandal.’

  ‘It was the only way,’ Briouze said bluntly. ‘The monks believe they own you. This is my fifth attempt to see you, and I was tired of being refused.’

  Marshal gestured at the cross, and said, ‘Lift it off me, will you? My leg’s sufficiently painful, without having it crushed.’ He sank back as Briouze removed the polished stone, then asked, ‘What was that all about, outside? God forbid that you cut your way in here.’

  ‘No, I just eased two of them aside, that’s all.’

  Marshal managed to twitch a smile. ‘I can imagine. But why this— easy visit, my Lord Governor? Did you think I was malingering?’

  Briouze shook his head. ‘We know the extent of your injuries, Marshal, and we pray you’ll recover. But we have heard nothing from you, and it was decided-I decided to collect your views in person.’

  ‘Views on what, William?’ His mind slowed by the mandragora, he made a vizor of his hand and massaged his temples. He heard Briouze say, ‘On the fifty letters you’ve been sent,’ and he pushed his hand up over his skull.

  ‘Sent, maybe, but not received. You say you’ve heard nothing from me, but equally, I’ve heard nothing from you. Not a single word, let alone the contents of fifty letters.’ With a snarl of exasperation, Briouze glared at the door. ‘Much as I thought. Those damned monks have kept everything from you! They’d do better working for the French!’ His voice had risen to a bellow, and he was tempted to go in search of the abbot. And this time, if anyone stood in his way, he’d do more than ease them aside.

  Still fighting the effects of the drug, Marshal asked, ‘Why would they intercept the letters, William?’ Then, in answer to his own query, ‘Unless they knew the contents would distress and weaken me. Is that it, my Lord Governor? Is the news so bad that the monks thought to protect me from it?’

  Briouze turned to face him again. ‘It seems we are both unprepared, Earl Marshal. All of us at the castle, we accepted that you were too weak to write, or even dictate your replies, or, at the worst, unable to read the letters with your own eyes. But we were sure they would be read to you, and that you would have learned about – things.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marshal said, ‘but you will have to teach me.’ Having forced his way into the monastery, the visitor now felt trapped. He made a last, feeble attempt to delay the moment – ‘I’ve no desire to worsen your condition’ – then nodded reluctantly as Marshal said, ‘You won’t. Just say your piece, William, and say it straight out. Remember, I’m fifty letters behind.’

  Briouze cleared his throat, set his feet flat on the boards as though to ride a blow, then said, ‘The first thing you should know… The attack on Gaillard, it failed… The king’s fleet never reached the barrier. In truth, they did not get halfway there.’ Seeing Marshal stir, he hurried on, ‘Your part in the raid was successful, everyone speaks well of it, but it was not enough. If King John had gained the barrier and destroyed it, the French force would have been divided. But, as it was, the enemy simply moved down from the bridge and used the barrier as a crossing.’

  Marshal was pushing himself upright. Briouze did not know whether to help him or stand his ground. In the end he stayed where he was, assembling his answer to the next, inevitable question.

  ‘They never reached the barrier? Why not, my Lord Governor, why not? The river was clear between Rouen and Gaillard. They could not have failed to reach itl’

  ‘Calm yourself, Marshal. Yes, the river was clear, but it’s also tidal and—’ He shrugged with embarrassment, aware that what he had to say next would riot only sound tragic, but comical. ‘It’s tidal, the Seine, but the king did not take that into account. The night of the attack, there was a full moon, when the water’s pulled down to the sea. But no one thought to study the tides, and the current proved too strong for the oarsmen. They made some headway at first, but by the time they’d covered half the distance they were exhausted. After that, they drifted back downstream with only the helmsmen to steer them. From what we can gather, eight of the vessels tipped over in the river, and at least ten more were swept past their moorings and went on to founder in the estuary. By all accounts, King John lost—’

  ‘The devil gut King John! How many were lost from my contingent? How many knights died in the French camp or at the bridge, and for nothing! Tell me that, Briouze! List my casualties for a change!’

  Without warning, the latch was lifted and the door pushed open. The abbot entered, followed by the monks whom Briouze had eased aside. One was still massaging his bruised chest, while the other favoured an elbow.

  ‘I was in the garden,’ the abbot apologized, ‘else I’d have been here—’

  ‘Not now!’ Marshal snapped. ‘Not for a while!’

  ‘But you should know that this man assaulted both Brother—’

  ‘And will again,’ Briouze assured him. ‘Leave us be.’

  Marshal nodded sourly. ‘Yes, abbot, leave us be. Go back to your garden. Or bett
er, unearth the letters you’ve been keeping from me.’ His face drawn by pain and emotion, he watched the monks bluster and retreat. Briouze laid a hand flat against the door and pushed it shut, then glanced anxiously at his compeer.

  For the moment, Marshal’s strength was expended, and he did not repeat his demands. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed, his head and shoulders still speckled with chalk and plaster.

  ‘So the attack failed, eh, William? And the supplies? Were any of them off-loaded?’

  ‘I regret, they were not.’

  ‘Then Gaillard is still besieged.’

  Briouze nodded, realized that Marshal’s eyes were closed, and said, ‘Yes, and short of salt and arrows.’

  ‘Does the king plan another rescue attempt?’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Well, does he?’ He waited for Briouze to speak, then opened his eyes in time to see confusion add its ravages to the pock-marked face. The continued silence brought Marshal forward and, as he peered at his discomforted visitor, he realized that there was worse news to come.

  ‘What is it, William? Was there another attempt, another failure?’

  ‘No, my lord, and there won’t be, for the king left us this morning.’

  Marshal frowned, as though defeated by the complexity of the words. ‘King John has left us? He’s left Rouen?’

  ‘He’s left Normandy. He’s on his way to England.’

  Still dulled by the drug and the knowledge that his knights had died for nothing, Marshal repeated what he heard. ‘He has left Normandy, for England. And Queen Isabelle, has she gone with him?’

  ‘She has, with him and the remnants of the Treasury. In my opinion, we shall not see either of them again on this side of the Channel.’

  There was another silence, broken only by the creak of the boards beneath Briouze’s feet. Marshal had sunk back on the dusty pillow, his eyes open, his gaze held by a patch of sunlight high on the wall. To his bemused mind it looked like the forecastle of a galley, or a half-fallen tower, and it served as the inspiration for his words.

  ‘I should not be surprised at what you’ve told me, for our high-heeled monarch has been at the mercy of the currents all his life… Thank you for visiting me, my Lord William… Now, with your permission, I’ll lie here and listen as the walls of Normandy crash to the ground…’

  Briouze found himself bowing to his compeer. Then he left the cell and made his way through the monastery and on to the cobbled street, emerging near the west gate of the city. Once there, he thought of going back to tell Marshal about the murder. But he was not yet ready. Not quite.

  Chapter Six

  Ebb of England…

  September–December 1203

  Had the Sparrowhawk been truly a bird of prey, she would have savaged her husband before he had ever left Normandy.

  The royal party had zig-zagged across the duchy, riding south from Rouen to the riverside castle of Bonneville, and thence north-west towards Lisieux. The king and queen were escorted by less than twenty knights, together with a dozen household servants, each of whom bore responsibility for a pack-horse or a saddled palfrey. The riders were aware that Philip’s spies would have reported their departure from the city and that French patrols would be scouring the countryside. As a result, King John had left the bulk of his entourage at Bonneville, packed his seals and jewellery into nondescript panniers, and issued his diminished force with plain, hooded cloaks, the uniform of the wayfarer. Nothing could guarantee their safety, but dressed in their unremarkable garb, they were more likely to pass for merchants than monarchs in disguise. During the first week, their anonymity was further protected by bad weather, and they managed to reach Lisieux without being challenged.

  On the road, John and Isabelle kept silent, sometimes riding abreast, more often apart. The fate of the river-borne assault on Château Gaillard had left the king tetchy and dispirited, and he hunched in the saddle, lashed by the late summer rains and swamped with self-pity.

  His dreams of a second Mirebeau had been literally washed away. He had not dared visit the stricken William Marshal, but had instead convinced himself that he should return to England and organize a full-scale invasion of his lost territories. The decision was reasonable enough – if a year overdue – but the method showed the weakness of the Angevin condition. The king and queen had not so much departed the city as fled from it, cloaking their identities and staying clear of the well-trodden paths. With large areas of the duchy in enemy hands, or at least sympathetic to the French, the rain-soaked group could not tell which of the suzerains would reaffirm his loyalty, or which would claim them with a Judas kiss. Ever cautious, the king insisted that his escort stand guard throughout the night, ten men to a watch, and that the party ride on before dawn. Then, once out of sight of the manor or castle, the travellers changed direction, veering again at midday. These evasive tactics left them unchallenged, though from time to time they found themselves huddled amongst the dripping trees, whilst one of the servants went off to ask the way.

  Throughout the latter weeks of September, the royal party continued its slow, erratic progress towards the coast and Barfleur. The rain that had helped conceal them gave way to the final heatwave of summer, and they removed their hoods in favour of broad-brimmed hats. The knights were forced to discard their helmets, burying them in a thicket, but not before they had secured John’s irritable assurance that they’d be recompensed for the loss. As for Queen Isabelle, she had refused to cut or plait her hair, and it was decided that in the event of her being challenged, she would identify herself as the daughter of the eldest voyageur.

  John pleaded with her to show proper humility.

  ‘Say as little as possible, and for God’s sake don’t argue with them. It’s unlikely they’ll recognize you, unless any of them saw service with the Lusignans, but a high-born manner will certainly arouse their suspicions. You are supposed to be a merchant’s daughter, and that’s the impression to give.’

  The Sparrowhawk responded with a shrug. ‘Timidity is an unnatural state,’ she told him, ‘though I dare say it comes more readily to some than others. What will you be, my lord, when they question you? An apprentice in a smithy? Or does such work have too much fire and noise about it?’

  ‘Just play the part,’ John snapped, ‘and we might all get back to England.’ He noticed that his fellow travellers had moved away, deaf and blind to the exchange. Studiously avoiding his gaze, they resettled their hats, murmured amongst themselves, stretched and yawned or lifted their buttocks from the sweaty saddles. They had been on the road – more accurately off the roads – for twenty-three days, and they were well aware of the growing dissent between king and queen.

  * * *

  It had started at Rouen, the night John had returned wet and shaken from the near-comic disaster on the Seine. Those knights who had stayed behind to help Briouze garrison the city had been horrified by the news, but were even more disturbed by its effect on the king. He had arrived back in tears, blaming first the oarsmen who had failed to combat the current, then the local boat-owners and fishermen for denying him such crucial information. Within an hour he had fabricated a conspiracy. The attack was never meant to succeed, for all those who knew the ways of the river were in the pay of the French.

  Several of the more senior knights remembered his brother, Richard Lionheart, and they were hard put to hide their disgust for the present monarch. Would that Richard were alive, they thought; a man bom to victory, yet made implacable by defeat. There’d be no tears or laying of blame from the Lionheart. He’d simply tell his oarsmen to rest, salvage what remained of the flotilla, then wait for the tide to turn. But he was dead and gone, his place taken, though no one would say filled, by the snivelling Softsword.

  A number of the barons reminded him that he had planned the attack in secret, closeted in his private chambers with Queen Isabelle. He had intended to repeat his triumph at Mirebeau, but this time, greedy for acclaim, he ha
d clutched the plans to his chest. He could blame whomsoever he liked, but he could not evade responsibility for the fiasco. King Richard would not have done so. But then King Richard would have tested the tide.

  Later that night, John had turned to Isabelle for comfort, and been immediately rebuffed.

  The young queen had never forgiven him for recalling William Marshal to Rouen, nor for the fulsomeness of his welcome. Trotting across the castle yard like a common ostler, and catching at the harness of the horse… Pleasing to the crowd, perhaps, but scarcely the actions of a king…

  Nor had her respect for him been restored by the blizzard of letters that had then swept into the castle, all of them addressed to the beloved and wondrous Earl of Pembroke. John had allowed his authority to be usurped by an arid old man, and the entire court had seen how Marshal’s popularity outweighed that of their chosen king. Isabelle thought it a miracle that her husband had not offered to open each letter as it arrived, then kneeling, present it for Marshal’s scrutiny…

  There remained a third, more personal grievance, and one she made no attempt to allay. She had never mentioned it to John, fearing an onset of his Angevin sickness, but she nursed it and looked forward to the day when she would ride through the gates of Pembroke. Then, and only then, would she produce the heavy silver buckle that the king had presented to Marshal as a gift for his new-born daughter, the buckle that Isabelle had promptly stolen from the warlord’s box. She would show it to John, and to the Arab, and to her namesake, Isabel de Clare. And then she would throw it to the ground and let whoever wanted it stoop and wipe it clean. King John was not the most sensitive of husbands, but even he would sense her disapproval. In future, if he had jewellery to spare, he could give it to his wife, not to the squalling offspring of his knife-nosed tormentor. The Arab was already rich in popularity, rich in power, rich in paternity. Neither he nor his spawn had need of silver buckles from the king…