Sufficiently critical of John’s attitude towards Marshal, the Sparrowhawk had been in no mood to console her tear-and-river-worn husband.
‘Regard it as a lesson,’ she told him, ‘and learn from it. The attack on Mirebeau was well prepared, but you never really put your mind to the problems of Gaillard. You imagined—’
‘I?’ he howled. ‘Why am I singled out? You were with me when I planned it, when we planned it, and I never heard you speak of currents or the size of the moon!’
‘But I did, my lord. Quite early on. I said it was essential that you take your fleet to the barrier with the flow of the tide, gain control at the change, then return with the ebb. I’ll share your distress, and not for the first time, but you are unfair to blame me for advice you overlooked. Oh, don’t glare so, husband. You were immersed in the memories of Mirebeau, and you chose not to heed my words. In truth, you probably never even heard them.’ She waited until the first furrows of doubt had been ploughed, then said, ‘You listened to no one, my lord, or am I mistaken? Did you ask around? Did you approach Briouze or Marshal, or the captain of your craft? I don’t believe you did.’
The intensity of his gaze had become blurred, his certainty torn at the hem. He stared at her, but he was no longer sure of what she had or had not said. Perhaps she had mentioned something about tides and the pull of the moon. Perhaps, in passing, she had spoken of the ebb and the change and the flow. He did not remember it, but it was possible, and the possibility sapped his strength. Never a Lionheart, the wolf sank weeping to the floor.
Isabelle looked down at him, the man who had snatched her from Hugh le Brun in the valley below Moncontour. The man who had married her and made her Queen of England. The man who had amused her with his cruel wit, aroused her with his sexual prowess, startled her with the brilliance of his tactics at Mirebeau.
The same man who was cowed by William Marshal. The same man who had murdered his nephew and let Normandy leak like oil between his fingers. The man who had found a silver buckle for Marshal’s brat. The man who now sobbed beside the bed, so unsure of himself that he could not even tell when his wife was lying.
She laid an unfeeling hand on his head, felt him shiver and relax, then left him crouched against the coverlet whilst she thought how best to resurrect him.
He had sunk to a piteous level, no doubt of that. England would not survive another year unless its leadership was strengthened, and, if John did not soon re-establish his authority at court and in the country, he might find himself deposed, or worse. How many men, Isabelle wondered, were even now thumbing a knife blade, or leaning forward in some dim-lit tavern, hissing assassination?
The glory of Mirebeau had faded and vanished, and the French no longer peered at the sky in search of Melusine’s descendant. By morning, Philip Augustus would have learned of the attempt to succour Gaillard, and of the fleet that had been so ignominiously washed away. He would know then that John’s earlier triumph had been exceptional, and he would probably unfold the blanket with which to smother the Angevin empire. What better time to advance, than on the heels of England’s self-inflicted disaster?
The Sparrowhawk decided that she and her husband must leave Rouen at the first opportunity. All year, the barons in England had been caterwauling for the king’s return, and there was nothing to be gained by staying on here. The way things were going, the city would be in French hands within a month, and Isabelle did not intend to surrender either her liberty or her crown.
She knew of too many queens and princesses who had been relegated to the drab chambers of some minor castle and, for perhaps the first time in her life, she felt a pang of sympathy for her predecessor, the luckless Berengaria of Navarre.
Once married to King Richard, Berengaria had been widowed and forgotten, ignored by John and the court, befriended only by her mother-in-law, the aged Eleanor of Aquitaine. Isabelle had seen some of the letters Berengaria had written to John, plaintive reminders that he had yet to return her dowry – of which, in fact, little was left – or pay the annuity he had promised her. She was living in a small castle near Toulouse, again supported by Eleanor, a sad and lonely woman who signed her letters with the heart-breaking title, ‘once humble Queen of England’.
It was not a future to which the Sparrowhawk aspired.
She struggled with the problem of John’s resurrection, then frowned sharply as she acknowledged the direction of her thoughts. She would no longer cosset or cajole her husband, but goad him until he was exhausted, then mock him for a weakling. She would no longer giggle at his jokes, but query his malicious humour and warn him that every gibe brought him the laughter of sycophants and the hatred of a friend. A thousand similar comments, and he would be for ever alone in the court, save for the dogs and the servants.
And who was it who had always preached such discipline and self-control? Who was it who had tried to rid John of his excesses, dampen his cruelty, instil in him a sense of compassion, a sense of monarchy? Who, above all, found the king’s humour witless, and consigned his outbursts to the nursery?
Who else but the Arab, the peerless Earl of Pembroke?
Isabelle’s frown vanished in a yelp of laughter, and she glanced down to make sure the sound had not awakened the king. He slept on, hunched beside the bed, mercifully unaware that his wife had decided to implement the teachings of his tormentor, William Marshal.
Had he known, he might well have pleaded with the warlord for further instruction. It would have been a hard and painful tutelage, but nowhere near as miserable as the treatment to be afforded by his sixteen-year-old wife. She was, after all, a predator, determined to save her nest.
* * *
From Lisieux they circled south, then west, then north, to come level with Caen. Each day seemed longer, their progress more erratic, the forests more infested with flies. Their hands blistered in the sun, and the blisters became sores, and they no longer resembled merchants so much as penitents, bound to encompass the world.
Each evening they struggled to sit erect, then retired to their allotted quarters, the escort reacting blearily to the slightest chink or flare, John and Isabelle bickering until neither could remember the last spoken phrase. Already dulled by his defeat at Chateau Gaillard – halfway to Gaillard – the king wept and foundered, while his wife jarred him with her elbow, demanding to know what he would tell the waiting barons, how he would behave when he reached the shingle of England?
And there was always the dawn, and the clumsy, uncertain departure of these imitation merchants. Twenty-three days… Twenty-four… Twenty-five… And then the first chill of October clung like ague to their skins.
They changed direction, swung back and changed again. Habit directed their steps, and one of the more resilient knights made a joke about sailing from Normandy to England, via Spain. But the laughter evaporated and the riders continued to thread their way along the valleys, or force a path between the trees. John and Isabelle kept apart, the king terrified of her questions, the queen aware that he was lost for an answer. Instead, they set their minds on reaching the port of Barfieur. If they did that, they would at least have shared an arduous journey and, God willing, the subsequent voyage home.
A final squabble at the port. And then, for no better reason than that King John controlled the purse-strings, they boarded a fishing vessel, its decks still slippery with scales.
The crossing was mercifully smooth, and the royal party landed somewhere west of Dover, sometime in early October. Neither the date nor the destination were recorded, for the King of England was not at all sure that he would be welcome on the step.
* * *
The guards stood in the shadow of the gate-arch, their gaze taken by a young woman who was leading a mule past the barbican. She ignored their lascivious invitations and the explicit jerk of their bodies, and guided the animal along one of the narrow, sunless alleys that led to the central market.
The men exchanged a few more ribald comments, then glanced left and
right in search of another likely victim. Market day was the best for such diversions; it brought the girls in from the nearby farms and villages, and helped alleviate the boredom of guard duty.
They watched an elderly couple pull a hand-cart along the street. The sides of the cart were draped with plain woollen shifts and a selection of leatherwork, untooled belts and straps and laces. As the couple drew level with the barbican, a tunic fell between the cart and one of the soiled wheels, wrapping itself around the axle. The guards watched, expressionless, as the couple struggled to free the ruined garment, but they made no effort to help.
Eventually, the man and his wife managed to unwind the cloth and continued on their way, grumbling quietly to each other. The torn tunic might have fetched as much as three pence, the price of a young lamb or a gallon of the cheapest wine. If they were lucky, they might still get a penny for it – ‘A bargain purchase, with winter coming on!’
A cripple emerged from one of the alleys and stood, his eyes lowered against the sun. When he had accustomed himself to the glare he hobbled across the street, almost in the direction of the arch. The guards had already noticed, then ignored him, expecting him to limp past, another useless mouth to be fed from Rouen’s dwindling stores. They hoped he would not stop and plague them with the stupid questions so loved of civilians. ‘Is our Lord Briouze at home today? Is it permitted to enter the yard? Do you know, I’ve lived in Rouen all my life, yet I’ve never ventured inside the castle walls? Can I fetch you something, surveillants? Some ale, or fruit, or what you will? We must keep our soldiers in good fettle, isn’t that so?’ Always the same questions, the same over-friendly smiles.
And now the cripple had stopped in front of the barbican and was tapping towards them on an ash-wood crutch.
One of the guards moved forward, holding his spear like a quarter-staff. Idly barring the man’s path, he said, ‘That’ll do. This isn’t the way to anywhere.’
‘No? Then the keep has been re-sited since I was last here. Let me into the shade, soldier, and then one of you can find Lord Briouze—’
‘Stay still, old man, we’re not decoration.’
‘—and tell him the Arab is out.’
The second guard materialized from the shadows. He squinted at the thin, lop-shouldered cripple, felt the juices dry in his mouth, and without a word edged his companion relentlessly against the wall. Marshal nodded and limped, sparing the men their embarrassment. He had been in the Cistercian monastery for the better part of three weeks, and he acknowledged that both he and the garrison had changed. In fact, he thought himself fortunate to have been recognized at all, for he bore little resemblance to the warlord who’d led the charge against the camp and bridge at Gaillard.
* * *
Reeking of fish and still disguised as merchants, John and Isabelle led their party westward along the coast. During the voyage from Barfleur they had drawn up a list of those men – clerics and barons – on whom they could rely for support and a guarded tongue. There were at least fifty, though many of the fiefs and bishoprics were in the north, or too close to a town. The zig-zag flight across Normandy had been arduous enough, and neither the king nor his Sparrowhawk were prepared to undertake another long journey, with its attendant risk of recognition. In a few weeks time they would let England know they were home, and confront their barons, friendly or otherwise. But, for the present, they sought nothing more than a traveller’s rest – a sanctuary from their subjects.
They chose Corfe Castle, the isolated fortress to which Marshal had so reluctantly delivered the twenty-five Lusignan prisoners. An unpleasant habitat for the French knights, but ideal for the King and Queen of England. They would be made welcome at Corfe and greeted with open arms by John’s ardent supporter, Constable Saldon. He would tell them what they needed to know, and then, together, they would plan how best to approach the court.
It would not be easy, this confrontation between a prodigal king and his stay-at-home peers. John would maintain that, had they responded to his call, Mirebeau would have been but the first of a hundred Angevin victories, and the French would now be huddled within their borders, a ruined nation. As it was, the nobility of England stood accused of inertia, even cowardice.
And then in turn, the barons would claim that their king had allowed the advantage of Mirebeau to evaporate. How many months had he spent parading through his territories, the child queen on his arm? Why had he dismissed William Marshal, his most experienced commander? Why had he released the Lusignan brothers, yet seemingly buried alive his nephew, Arthur of Brittany? And as for the celebrated call-to-arms, it had come a year too late. In truth, it was the King of England who stood accused of inertia, even cowardice.
No, it would not be an easy meeting. But at least, John thought, he had time to prepare for it, and could count on the support of Saldon and the increasingly militant Sparrowhawk. Foolhardy the barons who would go against them.
* * *
The habit of a lifetime kept Marshal on his feet. Too restless a man to stay long on a bench or in a chair, he forced himself to limp and hobble about the castle, dragged himself upstairs and down, set himself distance targets – a third-storey room, a section of wall, a corner tower – then made his way there, gasping and grunting. With each successive pilgrimage he let his weight rest a little longer on his injured leg, and lifted the crutch more often from the ground.
The garrison at Rouen saw him misjudge his step, saw the stick slip from under him, saw his good leg shudder and jerk. Time after time they watched him crash against a wall, or merely lean against it, his mouth open, his face shiny with sweat. They were not foolish enough to help him, nor pretend he had passed unseen. Indeed, after the first few days they showed an undisguised interest in his progress, and a number of them dared to shout encouragement. The warlord rarely responded, conserving his energy for the next ten paces, the final flight of steps.
He did not expect a miracle, and none was performed. It took several weeks, several hundred circuits of the yard before he could dispense with the crutch and move unsupported, his left leg swinging in a clumsy arc, the knee joint stiff as wood.
He started to ride again; a less gruelling pastime this, for it required no special effort once he had gained the saddle. However, he had first to mount a block, guide his foot into a low-slung stirrup, and then, for an instant, place all his weight on the injured leg. The resulting growl of pain embarrassed him, but even as he twisted into the saddle he drew comfort from the fact that the leg was still alive. Another month, six months, a year if necessary, and he would mount unaided and in silence.
He owed it to the Cistercians, who had sponged the poison from his wound and stopped short of amputation. He owed it to Briouze and the garrison of Rouen, and to those knights who had accompanied him from Pembroke, ridden with him to Gaillard, then chosen to stay on in the city in which their overlord lay stricken. He owed it to his wife, Isabel de Clare, the young woman to whom he had boasted, ‘You think I’ll be harmed by the French!’ A stupid boast, belied by the ugly scar on his jaw and by the knowledge that however many miles he walked and rode, he would never again break into a run. Nevertheless, he would one day return home, dismount without fuss, then stride to the door. Isabel might frown at the scar and his odd, rolling gait, but she was not to flinch, and his arrival was not to be greeted with tears.
And he owed it to himself as the Earl of Pembroke and Striguil, as the unquestioned leader of – what were they now? A dwindling army? A patchwork force? An abandoned rearguard? Most likely the latter, but even so they had looked to Marshal for guidance, and expected him to lead them without growling.
Briouze continued to run the defence of the city and organize the patrols, though both men heard their reports and studied the letters that arrived from every comer of the duchy.
Whether written or recited, the news was unrelievedly grim. The French were swarming across the borders, encircling this castle and that, no longer opposed, but merely accepting th
e surrender of their disenchanted foes. King Philip’s Breton allies were also driving deep into Normandy, whilst the Lusignan brothers wrought havoc in Touraine and Poitou. It was no longer correct to speak of the English possessions, or the Angevin territories, for they only existed as regions, fiefs, the occasional stubborn fortress.
But the worst news emanated from Rouen’s neighbour, the beleaguered Château Gaillard.
Crouched on its shiplike rock, it dominated not only the loop of the river, but the nearby village of Les Andelys. The huddle of houses had stood there long before King Richard had chosen the site for his Insolent Castle, but the villagers had welcomed this unexpected source of employment, this ready market for their produce, this impregnable refuge. When the first garrison had been raised, a quarter of its number had come from Les Andelys and the surrounding district.
From time to time, the castellan, Roger Lacy, had found it necessary to hang a local-born thief, and there had been the unpleasant incident of the knight, accused of raping a girl from the village. The knight had vehemently denied the charge, but Lucy had thought it advisable to strip him of his horse and armour and send him on his way. The shameful punishment had satisfied the villagers, and they had been further impressed by the castellan’s vow that, if the girl gave birth to a male child, he would honour it as his own.
In short, Gaillard and Les Andelys were well suited to each other, which made the present news all the more depressing.
The Wolf at the Door Page 15