The bells had been removed from the towers, or swaddled to stop them ringing in the breeze, and the bell-ropes coiled and stored. Mass was no longer celebrated, nor prayers chanted for the dead. This alone committed the soul to an eternal voyage, lost in a limbo between earth and the final judgement. But worse in practical terms, the dead could no longer be buried in consecrated ground, and the gravediggers could be seen at work on the open hillsides, whilst the mourners stood weeping, watched from a distance by their impotent priests.
Lovers could be married, either in the churchyard or, if it was raining, huddled on the porch. Their new-born could be baptized, and confession could be heard, the sinner kneeling at one side of a tree, the priest at the other. But it was a pathetic substitute, shouting one’s sins against the wind.
There were, however, renegades, both at Pembroke and Manorbier. Not that William Marshal and Gerard de Barri were more or less religious than the common-folk, but simply because the services could be conducted in their private chapels, out of sight and hearing of papal spies.
It was a cruel thing to ask, but if a local villager could give fair warning that his mother or father was about to die, the warlords would arrange for him to bring the body to their castle, and say a mass for them. It was risky, though the people of Pembroke were a tight-lipped lot, and they arrived with the corpses in a hay-cart, or concealed beneath a careful spread of fruit.
Beyond that, there was nothing Pembroke or Manorbier could do, for they would not admit the common dead to their family plots. The people would just have to trust in God and pray that He would take to His bosom the souls that floated up from the valleys and hills.
Whenever Marshal or Gerard attended the court, they asked if the king was prepared to receive Stephen Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury. The answer was always the same; not until he bore a perfect likeness to John de Grey, and signed himself thus.
* * *
The Wolf and the Sparrowhawk were drifting apart. It was not a sudden thing, though on reflection it was inevitable. They had changed, John more than Isabelle, and it was only odd that the change had come so late.
At the age of twenty-two, Richard Lionheart’s landless brother had married his cousin Hadwisa – and lived to regret it. He had treated his wife appallingly, insulted and abandoned her and then, ten years later, run to her for help. Understandably, Hadwisa had shown him the door and, by the convenient device of consanguinity, the marriage had been annulled.
His first wife had known him at his worst, or at least at his most callow. She had seen him cowed by his mother, cowed by Marshal, cowed by anyone who spoke above a whisper. She was glad to be rid of him, and he likewise looked back on the marriage with a mixture of embarrassment and regret.
And then, somewhat less callow and with Richard dead and buried, John had abducted the child Isabelle, heiress of Angoulême, and made her his wife and queen. And the same thing had occurred.
The uncertain prince, husband of Hadwisa, had become an uncertain king, husband of Isabelle. The Sparrowhawk had treasured him for his wit, his clever asides, his performance in bed. But, as his enemies had multiplied and his fortunes diminished, she had begun to worry about her own security. Her light laugh was held in check, and she did what she could – what she believed Marshal would have done – to instil in him a sense of responsibility.
But she was too inexperienced for the job, and his spiteful gibes had been replaced with honeyed words and acts of extreme cruelty. He smiled where he would once have sneered, then sent his cronies to take hostages, bully the clergy, impose his will on the people of England. He too mistook harshness for strength of purpose, largesse for generosity of spirit. He withstood criticism better, but he did not learn from it.
And in his free moments he indulged his appetite for other women.
The queen was now twenty-one years of age, the mother of a son, Henry, and physically in her prime. She should have held greater appeal for her husband than ever before, but she had ample proof of his disenchantment. The proof was named Suzanne, and then Clementina, and then Avise, the dowager Countess of Aumale. Just three of his many mistresses, all of whom were accorded his fullest, if shortlived, affection. God’s fist, Isabelle thought, I have actually met these whores! The thick-hipped Suzanne, who will doubtless bear him a bastard or two. And the mincing Clementina, stupid enough to imagine she’ll be advanced by virtue of her outstretched legs. If virtue’s the term. And the pretty-mannered Avise, who dares to put her hand on my arm and talk to me as an equal, because we’re both titled and because she knows we have both been enjoyed by John. The comradeship of the coverlet, is that what she’s after?
But the king’s infidelity was not limited to such favourites as Suzanne and Clementina, nor young widows like Avise. His gaze roamed farther, and he acquired a taste for the wives and daughters of his barons. He resisted no one who took his fancy, seducing the daughter of a friend as readily as the wife of a visitor. He was the King of England, and that helped, but he was also charming and attentive, and rarely beyond arm’s reach of a jewelled token. The women were flattered to have been chosen, and it was only later that they joined the forgotten clique, the group, the crowd.
But the barons were not charmed by the scandal that attached to their women. They snatched them away and withdrew to their fiefs, recoiling from the stench of perfume that billowed from the court.
And then, infected by guilt and rumour, King John grew jealous of his wife. She looked bored in his company, yet smiled with anyone else. She was spending too much time with young men. She was seeing too much of this earl’s son, listening too avidly to that count’s tales. She was standing too close, touching too readily. She was being unfaithful to him, she was adulterous, she was profligate.
He set traps and hired spies. He let her know he would be in a certain place at a certain time, then altered his schedule to surprise her. His failure to catch the Sparrowhawk in flagrante delicto hardened his suspicions. She had her own informers, that was obvious, or had subverted his. She was being altogether too careful, a sure indication that something was amiss.
His clandestine activities helped nourish the rumours, and they in turn grew wilder. Sons of the nobility found themselves banished on some trivial pretext or, hearing their names mentioned, fled before the rumour reached the king.
He was already suspicious of his barons, fearing that the abortive invasions and high taxes would lead to unrest and insurrection. He kept an equally watchful eye on the clergy, confiscating the property of any who sided with Rome. And now he added his wife to the list of suspects, as though he did not have troubles enough. It was only left for him to bruise his horses and kick his dogs, and the pattern of mistrust would be complete.
* * *
Two years to the month after he had surrendered the citadel of Rouen, William of Briouze came home. He had spent the time in a French prison, waiting for his wife and king to raise the money for his ransom. Six thousand marks was the figure Philip Augustus set on John’s loyal baron, and he was surprised the chests took so long to arrive.
But he need not have been, for Briouze’s wife, the immensely strong-willed Maud de St Valérie, had been forced to collect the coins herself. She had appealed to King John, received his promise of help, then waited for his contribution. Half a year later she was still waiting, and sent a fifth and sixth appeal from her castle at Skenfrith.
Then the happy day when the king’s soldiers arrived with tangible evidence of John’s affection for Briouze. Four hundred marks, and a letter in which he expressed the hope that his old friend would soon be free.
Without hesitation, the chatelaine rejected the gift ‘I can spare no more time or paper, but you may tell the king this. His pittance disgusts me. However, for my husband’s sake, I shall forget it was ever sent, and work that much harder to make up the loss. You, messires, will understand why I offer you neither food nor shelter. I cannot afford it, and anyway I will not see John’s men gorge themselves whilst
my Lord Briouze languishes in prison. Now take the money and give it back to the king. Tell him what I’ve said. Tell him he has confused friendship with parsimony. If you dare.’
There were no further exchanges between the indignant John and the outraged Maud de St Valérie. The Briouze family were not impoverished, but the chatelaine found it necessary to sell off a large number of manorial lands and borrow heavily from her friends and relatives. The ransom was paid in instalments, the last at the end of May 1208, and three weeks later Briouze entered the round keep at Skenfrith.
The household servants mistook him for an elderly visitor, one of Lady Maud’s uncles perhaps, or a senior baron, come to ask when her husband would be set free. They were dumbfounded to learn that this was Briouze, for he was not yet sixty and looked older by half. His pock-marked skin seemed as if it would tear at a touch, and his once belligerent expression had become wary. It was the face of a man who has been deserted too often, a man prey to the incubus of foul dreams. His hands shook even when they were not curled around a mug, and his voice had become querulous, as though he doubted that his opinions were any longer of value.
He shared his dreadful secret with his wife, repeating the story time and again, flaying himself with the truth. His description of the assembly hall at Rouen, of John’s insensate fury, of Duke Arthur’s last, inconsequential words – ‘Ensconce me down there with a chair and table and some of your husbanded candles, and I could tell you—’ all of it was recounted in a grey, tremulous voice, and always the same, word for word. He’d had more than five years in which to rehearse it, and the horror remained undimmed.
Maud did what she could for him, this ravaged mockery of the once fearsome Briouze, and she warned their friends to keep silent on the subject of Rouen. They did so, and were sufficiently appalled by the warlord’s condition to waive the debts she had incurred on his behalf. This was a considerable help, for it allowed her to retain what was left of her lands. William’s lands, of course, save that he was too ill to administer them.
The angular and embittered chatelaine said nothing about the murder, nor about John’s subsequent flight from Rouen. Nor did she mention the pittance he had offered, but let the ingredients simmer, stirring them occasionally until she was satisfied that the merest taste would poison an ox.
Then, unbeknown to her husband, she sent a letter of abjectto King John, pleading with him to visit his old friend, the ever-loyal William of Briouze. ‘Bring with you whoever you wish,’ she invited, ‘so that they may judge the true nature of fealty. William loves you, lord king, and, for myself, I realize I was wrong to reject your bounty. Come and stay with us, and you will see that even the most humble house reveres you.’
She laid the flattery as thick as mortar, then went back to stirring the pot…
* * *
The king was delighted by the letter and responded in kind, forgiving the Lady Maud and assuring her that, as soon as it was convenient, he would visit her at Skenfrith.
But before he could leave the court there were more pressing matters to be dealt with.
The first, and least important, was to resolve a stupid argument with two of his barons, Eustace de Vesci and Robert FitzWalter, both of whom believed he was having an affair with their women. FitzWalter had all but accused him of seducing his daughter, whilst de Vesci had taken it into his head that his wife had been disgraced. The thing was getting out of hand, John grumbled. One would almost think the barons wanted it to happen, and would feel insulted if their women failed to catch his eye. The wife of de Vesci? Well, there might be a grain of truth in it. But the FitzWalter girl? No. Absolutely not. He’d have remembered if— Oh, that daughter. FitzWalter had spawned so many, it was hard to tell.
The king shared a dinner-table with de Vesci and approached the problem in his own inimitable fashion. Grinning mischievously, he told the baron, ‘I’ve heard talk that you’re displeased with me, Eustace. Why would that be?’
‘It depends,’ de Vesci said, ‘on what you’ve heard.’
‘Something to do with your wife. That she shared my bed on an occasion.’
The baron moved in his chair and, for an instant, John’s grin faltered. But de Vesci was simply shifting his hips. ‘You must tell me, if you care to, king. Did she share your bed?’
‘It’s hard to tell,’ John puzzled. ‘In the darkness of the chamber, the heat of passion. You know how it is.’
‘I know who shares my bed, if that’s what you mean.’
‘But difficult to say for sure. Perhaps it was the Lady—’
‘Joanna,’
‘Yes, and perhaps not.’
‘I think not,’ de Vesci said evenly. ‘I think it was more likely to be a harlot. Someone you had only just met, and would not meet again. A common whore, that’s who I think it was.’
It took John a while to digest the insult. Then, blinking with anger, he said, ‘It’s possible, for I only met your wife a few days ago.’
When Eustace de Vesci stormed from the court he was accompanied by Robert FitzWalter and a dozen of their friends. Within months they had formed a core of opposition to the king, and raised the first visible banner of rebellion in England.
Until then, all John would admit was that he might have misjudged his audience. It did not pay to joke with men who had no sense of humour.
The second thing that kept him from Skenfrith was his dispute with Rome. The country had now lain under an interdict for more than a year, and both Pope and monarch had hardened their hearts. John still refused to admit the much-travelled Stephen Langton, and subjected the papal emissaries to insult and ridicule. They came and went, bearing a fresh ultimatum, another final warning, a last plea for sanity. And then, when their efforts were exhausted and the young Pope sufficiently enraged, the king was threatened with the most terrible sanction of all – excommunication from his Church and his God.
The threat was first issued in January 1209, but the bishops entrusted with the task lost their nerve and withdrew, and it was not until November that sentence was published, and even then at a safe distance, in the churches of France.
If Pope Innocent imagined that John would fear for his soul, he was disappointed, and the king fought back as though against an invader. He was now an outcast, denied all religious comfort and protection, a sworn enemy of Christians, a target for any man who believed in God. He was, by definition, an intimate of the devil, and all those who went against him would be blessed with the title of Crusader.
England had been made to suffer – and was still suffering – under the interdict. And now its king was excommunicated. A good time, John decided, to take his wife and a group of his uncommitted barons and show them the loyalty of his old friend, William Briouze. At least at Skenfrith he could keep an eye on the much-too-innocent Sparrowhawk.
* * *
For a man who had set as many traps as a poacher, King John might have sniffed more cautiously at Maud’s invitation. But it was cleverly concealed by flattery and, the following April, the chatelaine welcomed him to Skenfrith as though she too was eager to share his bed.
She asked to speak privately with him, and they walked around the base of the grassy mound before entering the keep. Hesitant at first, she seemed suddenly to find her courage and said, ‘I am deeply ashamed at having rejected your offer, lord king.’
‘What? Oh, that. It’s gone and forgotten,’ he dismissed. ‘We both wish it could have been more, but it was not possible. Spare yourself any further torment, Lady Maud.’
‘I have,’ she murmured, ‘in a way. You see, lord king, I dared not tell my husband of my impetuousness, so I invented a happier tale. For his sake I said you had forwarded half the ransom, three thousand marks; not all at once, of course, but over a period of time. And that you had also written, “Nothing less will do for Briouze.” As soon as I had sent back the money I realized that you would have raised the sum—’
‘Had it been in my power to do so, yes, assuredly.’
&
nbsp; ‘And that although you did not commit those words to paper—’
‘They were in my heart. “Nothing less will do for Briouze.” That’s well put, Lady Maud, for it is how I feel. But what of the letter I did write?’
A nice squirm of contrition as Maud told him she had destroyed it. They continued around the base of the motte, and then John asked, ‘Do you wish me to echo your story, is that it?’
‘For my husband’s sake.’
The king nodded thoughtfully, almost convinced that he was poorer by three thousand marks. ‘It’s time I met him,’ he said. ‘Our responsibilities have kept us apart too long.’
* * *
Briouze’s condition caused some embarrassment, and John hurried over to clasp his trembling hands. ‘England is complete again, William, now that you’re home. You must eat well, eat and rest, and then next year we’ll lead a fleet across the Channel and deal the French a blow they’ll long remember. By the way, where were you imprisoned?’
‘Near Melun.’ He had not yet smiled at the king, though John was happy to do the work for him.
‘Melun? I’ll remember that. And once we’ve cut our way into their yard I shall claim back every penny of the ransom. They’ll be selling their children as slaves by the time we’ve finished with them.’ He stared earnestly at the warlord. ‘Do you remember the words I used to your lady? “Nothing less for Briouze; nothing less will do.” Something like that. Well, I’d rephrase it. Less than nothing will do for Melun!’
Behind him the pot had simmered and came to the boil… Maud de St Valérie studied her guests… The beautiful, dark-skinned Isabelle… The table of barons who had come to witness the king’s popularity… The king himself, who had just claimed and quoted a lie… Then, by moving her lips, the chatelaine of Skenfrith threw the scalding contents of her bitterness at John…
The Wolf at the Door Page 20