The Wolf at the Door

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

  ‘Why should you wish to lay claim to the ransom, lord king? What has it to do with you?’

  He turned in his chair, the smile meant for Briouze still in place. ‘Not all of it, no. Just my contribution, the three thousand—’

  ‘There was no three thousand.’

  ‘But we— You told Briouze—’

  ‘I told my husband nothing. It’s true, I must tell him now, but the subject has never been mentioned until today.’ Gazing past him at the ruined warlord, she said, ‘I am not blameless in this, William. I may have kept you in prison a while longer than was necessary, and I have waited until this moment to admit it.. But judge me on the truth. I’m sorry to say it, but it will be more hurtful to you than my own petty deceit.

  ‘I sent the king six appeals for help, and only the last brought a reply. It also brought his contribution to your ransom—’

  ‘Every penny I could afford! More than I could afford!’

  ‘But it was not the sum he told you. It was not three thousand marks, William, but a miserable four hundred. And he never wrote “Nothing less for Briouze.” At least,’ she added, taking his letter from her purse, ‘he did not include it in this.’

  As she unfolded the brittle parchment and tossed it within reach of the barons, John raged, ‘Out there, on the grass! You asked me to walk with you and—'

  “And see how Skenfrith has fallen into disrepair. What else would you and I have to discuss, unless it’s that incident at Rouen, when you used a stone jar as an instrument of murder?’

  The barons leaned forward, drawn by an invisible halter rope. Queen Isabelle stared desperately at John, but he was fixed in his chair, his eyes on the merciless Maud de St Valérie. She in turn ignored him and gazed at Briouze. Smiling gently, she murmured, ‘Time it was out. You have carried this burden beyond all the limits, and you see how you’re repaid.’

  Briouze said nothing, and no one but his wife could recognize any change in his expression. But for her the change was startling and complete. His pitted skin seemed less fragile, and the haunted look slipped away, like ice from a window. He clasped his hands together to stop them shaking, then nodded once. She had his permission to tell the story that the world waited to hear; a mystery story, a murder story.

  The chatelaine recounted it with absolute fidelity, word for word as she had heard it from Briouze. John and Isabelle exchanged an agonized glance, but the queen’s only interruption, a nervous snort of contempt for the menteuse, brought bleak stares from the guests. It all rang true. John’s attempts to sweet-talk Arthur, and the young duke’s arrogant rejoinders; the king’s insistence on the English victories in Brittany and then, truest of all, his outburst of uncontrollable fury, the dreaded Angevin sickness.

  Five years of recurrent nightmares had polished Briouze’s memory until, as he had told it over and over to his wife, she had seen the pool of candlelight, the splinters of glass from the smashed goblet, the king’s nephew with his wrists manacled and his thin lips moving as he mocked his captors. ‘What a silly trick, my lords. What an unworkable pretence…’

  And the visitors to Skenfrith could see it, knowing beyond doubt that they were witnessing the truth.

  The King of England had bludgeoned Arthur of Brittany to death with a wine jar, then concealed the crime by passing the body through the window and dumping it in the river. No prayers for this member of the royal family. No burial in hallowed ground. And no gesture of remorse by the monarch-turned-murderer. Nothing so human from the wolf.

  The king’s party withdrew from the castle and rode south to Monmouth. From there John sent messengers to two of his loyal seneschals, Gerard d’Athies at Bristol and Engelard de Cigogné at Gloucester. Each was to assemble as large a force as possible and join him within the week. He had unearthed a nest of traitors who were hissing and crawling about the ramshackle castle of Skenfrith.

  * * *

  On the night the royal messenger left Monmouth, William of Briouze sent his wife and family to an estate he owned in Ireland. He would join them as soon as possible, he said, but first there was someone he had to see, someone to whom he should have told the story long ago.

  * * *

  The Sparrowhawk remembered, too late, that she had not brought the buckle. Indeed, she could not say where it was, since her possessions were scattered all the way across England. It was the price of her husband’s jealousy, for he seemed loth to let her out of his sight for anything but life’s natural functions. So, hustled from London to Windsor, Oxford to Skenfrith, and now from Monmouth to the gale-lashed fortress of Pembroke, she had abandoned half her clothes-chests and most of her jewellery.

  The buckle was the one John had presented to Marshal, to hold in trust for his seventh child. The young queen had immediately stolen it back, vowing to deliver it herself and hurl it in the dust at Pembroke. That, she had promised, for my husband’s gifts to another woman’s brat!

  But times had changed. The king had rained trinkets on Suzanne and Clementina, Avise and Joanna and God knew how many others. If Queen Isabelle was to reclaim them, she knew she would have to prise open every jewel-box at court.

  The ride to Pembroke left the travellers wet and miserable. Spring rains hung thin as mist in the valleys and swept from ambush around the curve of the bald grey hills. Ahead of John and Isabelle rode Gerard d’Athies and seventy ill-humoured soldiers, while the ninety horsemen who comprised the rearguard were commanded by the equally uncomfortable Engelard de Cigogné. Between these two contingents were a further hundred and thirty royal troops. In all, excellent protection for the king and queen, and a formidable hunting- party.

  From what they had heard en route, their quarry was ten days or so ahead of them, and was probably now lurking in one of the towers at Pembroke…

  King John had been there before, but he was once again awed by the sheer size of the place. The gate-house contained not one but three portcullises, behind the first of which were massive double doors that could be bolted on both sides from holes in the roof. A few feet beyond was the second portcullis, and behind that another door. Then a board-covered ditch and a third metal lattice and a final, single door, plated with iron.

  Among its other features, Marshal’s home boasted a keep that rose more than a hundred feet above the inner bailey and, with walls that were nineteen feet thick at the base, was strong enough to support a dome of limestone blocks. It was said that Pembroke was one of the few castles where the roof did not leak. The dome was encircled by ramparts; again not one, but three.

  It had its own mill, the wheels turned by the waters of the Pembroke river. It had its own boat-house in the form of a natural cavern, opening on the estuary. It had four separate assembly chambers, the Great Hall, the Northern Hall, the Norman Hall, the Oriel. And it had a dungeon, a circular pit sunk thirty feet below ground, into which prisoners could be lowered through a hole in the stone-slab floor. Marshal had never had occasion to use it, though he could think of several men who’d fit nicely down there.

  The bedraggled column was admitted to the yard. The warlord greeted his visitors, then conducted the king and queen and their immediate entourage into the keep. The three- hundred-strong escort – the hunting-party – were accommodated in the adjacent Northern and Norman halls, and offered ale and bread, to hold them until a meal could be prepared.

  When she had shed her rain-blackened cloak, Isabelle beamed at Isabel. The chatelaine knelt to her namesake, and the queen said, ‘Are we too late in the day to meet your children, Lady de Clare? You’ve such a tribe of them, I can’t keep pace. How many are there now? Seven, or is it eight?’

  ‘Eight, my lady, though no more are stirring at present. And your own son, Henry? I trust he grows well and strong.’

  ‘And noisy,’ the Sparrowhawk tutted. ‘Another like him, and I swear I’d go deaf.’

  ‘I doubt it. I have five sons and can still hear when anyone speaks.’

  ‘When Earl Marshal courts you anew,’ the queen smile
d.

  ‘When anything sensible is said.’

  They laughed together, their suspicions confirmed. They did not like each other at all.

  Marshal was akin to an Arab in more than the pigmentation of his skin. He believed in the Islamic rules of hospitality and treated his visitors to fresh-caught fish and a treasured stock of Bordeaux wine. Then, when the rulers of England and of Pembroke had exchanged enough insincerities to make their teeth ache, John asked the warlord to surrender William of Briouze.

  ‘We know he came to you. He deserted his castle at Skenfrith, and we have evidence that he sent his vindictive wife to find sanctuary in Ireland.’

  ‘She and her brood,’ Isabelle appended. ‘They have also taken on the colouring of traitors.’

  The king looked enquiringly at Marshal, then tilted his head to hear the warlord’s response.

  Marshal lifted his goblet and drained it. And why not, by God? It’s my wine. Then he returned John’s quizzical gaze.

  ‘William of Briouze,’ the king prompted. ‘We know he’s here.’

  Again silence from his host, and the slow realization that he would not reply. John nodded at the loyalty of it, added wine to his glass, then reached across to fill Marshal’s. ‘Listen to me, Pembroke. I understand your feelings. Briouze is your friend, as he was once mine. But whatever he may have told you, he has shown himself to be an enemy of England, and when did you ever cosset the foe?

  ‘Did he say anything about Duke Arthur? The Lady Maud did. A wild and vicious tale that has set new rumours spinning throughout the country. What did he tell you? That I had a hand in it?’

  Since John had refilled his goblet, Marshal had let it stand. Now he glanced at his wife, who passed her own glass along the boards. It told John what he wanted to know, and he abandoned all pretence.

  ‘Briouze left Skenfrith and came here, we know that much. Now, give him up before you lose my affection, Marshal. I have three hundred men in this place and, if I tell them to search it—’

  ‘They will do so.’

  ‘—they will. Yes, they will do so. But I’d rather you told. Is Briouze here, under your care?’

  Marshal reached under the table to massage his knee. Then he grinned, hauled himself to his feet and nodded in the direction of the door. ‘We have not been as popular as this for years,’ he observed. ‘My friend and neighbour, Gerard de Barri, Lord of Manorbier. Gerard, stop shedding the wet. You’re in the presence of our king and queen.’

  John also came to his feet and, because he had done so, his entire entourage rose from their chairs and benches. Gerard de Barri stamped his way into the chamber, bowed casually to the king, then strode around the table to embrace Isabel de Clare. ‘You’ll save me, even it Marshal won’t. A drink and a chance to warm my bones? You’d allow that, wouldn’t you, young lady?’

  Completely ignored, the queen snatched at John’s sleeve. But his attention had already been taken, for in Gerard’s wake came a dozen hefty knights, then a dozen more, then archers and crossbow-men, then more of each, edging politely around the walls, yet threatening to send the oak floor crashing into the cellars. At least a hundred sidled into the room, completely surrounding the table. When the last had pushed his way clear of the door, the Lord of Manorbier said, ‘It’s not my way to come uninvited, you know that, Marshal. But we’ve been out in the rain all day, and I could not have ridden another step, not even to my own fireside. The others have joined – well, I suppose it must be King John’s soldiery – anyway, they’ve joined them in the halls. It’ll be a tight fit for a while, the royal contingent and my own few hundred ruffians, but it won’t be for long. Now, sweet Isabel, for mercy’s sake give me a drink.’

  ‘Be honoured,’ she told him. ‘The king himself prepared this one.’

  Ah, yes, John thought, I see this little scheme. Briouze was here, is here, or is cringing at Manorbier. Their game’s as clear as a joust. Marshal keeps his garrison out of sight, inveigles my three hundred into the halls and then, wonder of wonders, his friend cannot travel another step, but must arrive at the opportune moment with an overwhelming force. They’ve crowded us out. Marshal and his bull-faced neighbour. They knew we would come in pursuit of Briouze, and now they’ve squeezed us so tight we can hardly draw breath, let alone a sword. Oh, this is a well-managed insult. I’m bound to remember this.

  The companionable Gerard recognized Engelard de Cigogné, winked at him, then grumbled on about the weather. The queen was looking from face to face, as was Gerard d’Athies, as was the out-manoeuvred king. Other voices chimed, discussing local gossip, and the royal couple found themselves ignored. Where Maud de St Valérie had sought to hound them from Skenfrith, Marshal and Isabel were content to let them be, inflicting a far deeper wound.

  They would not say if Briouze had been there, nor if he was – still in the district. And they would not even say if they had heard the popular story, which told of how King John had slain his nephew with a bottle.

  But their attitude said it all. The Wolf and the Sparrowhawk were not wanted at Pembroke. The man who had guided John as prince and king was tired of the job. Lackland, Softsword, Shrewdhead – whatever they called him now – he could do as he pleased, but he would have to do it without the support of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and Striguil, the man who carried a limp and bore a scar, both of them earned whilst the King of England was floating away downstream.

  * * *

  Once again the royal party withdrew. The king snarled and cursed his way back to Monmouth, then suddenly brightened and held a midnight meeting with Gerard d’Athies and Engelard de Cigogné. He had thought of a way to smoke out William of Briouze.

  Leaving the barons to implement his scheme, John returned to the centres of government. D’Athies and de Cigogné sent him regular progress reports, but it was not until the turn of the year that they rejoined him at Windsor. They had travelled a thousand miles and spent a small fortune on bribes and information. They had not found Briouze, though the king was happy to reimburse them, for they had fulfilled their task and seized Maud de St Valérie and her eldest son.

  The interrogation was short and brutal. The king offered Maud the chance to recant her lies about Duke Arthur and admit that the story was the product of her husband’s diseased imagination. She refused.

  He then demanded to know if Briouze had fled from Skenfrith to Pembroke.

  ‘So you can brand Marshal a traitor? I don’t know where my husband went when he left Skenfrith, though I wish I did, for I could then deny you the knowledge.’

  Her son was questioned under torture, but even his agonized screams revealed nothing. It seemed likely that Briouze had stayed away from his wife and family in the hopes of sparing them this.

  John did nothing to suppress his loathing for the woman who had tricked him and told the world about Arthur, and he committed Maud and her son to prison. But it was imprisonment with a difference, for he left them to share a cell, a single wedge of bread and a mug of water.

  They were pronounced dead eleven days later, the son’s arms disfigured where his mother had gnawed them.

  * * *

  The king took more hostages, not only from within the English ranks but from the malcontents beyond his borders. The fall of the Briouze family had brought a number of barons to heel, though others stiffened their resistance to a monarch who could kill his own nephew, outlaw his accomplice and inflict a lingering death on the chatelaine and her son. Some saw John as a man to be obeyed, but many regarded him as a monster, and drew pictures of a cage.

  Queen Isabelle herself was little better than a hostage, for her jealous husband had assigned a dozen knights to guard her, claiming that his efforts would come to nothing if she herself was abducted.

  ‘That’s the least of your worries,’ she retorted bitterly. ‘But how do you know I won’t be seduced by the guards? They look capable of it to me.’

  Abroad, Pope Innocent wrote to the man he had chosen as Archbishop of Canter
bury, Stephen Langton, pleading with him to gain entry into England. ‘You have a brilliant mind,’ he encouraged, ‘and I am sure you will find a way to establish yourself in that godless country. However, if John will not be reconciled with us, I must declare him impenitent and take the necessary measures.’

  By which, Langton thought, he means an alliance with France and an invasion of England. No more than John deserves, though I do not intend my appointment to be celebrated in blood. There must be a way to make even that hard heart flutter.

  Ironically, the answer was supplied by the man John had raised and ruined, the tragic William of Briouze.

  The death of his wife and son had torn apart the last shreds of resolve and he had fled to Normandy, then made his listless way to the Cistercian monastery at Pontigny, not far from his former prison at Melun. Pontigny had once housed the exiled Thomas Becket, and now served as a refuge for Stephen Langton, so the monks were not at all surprised when Briouze knocked at the gate. The place was getting quite a reputation as a sanctuary for those who had offended the Angevin kings.

  Age and events had taken their toll of the warlord, and it did not need a practised eye to see that he was dying. Langton behaved magnificently, cheering him when he could, comforting him when the nightmares reappeared. In return, the wizened Briouze told him about England and its monarch.

  ‘He becomes more frantic by the hour. He trusts no one, spies on his friends, chains watchdogs to the queen. God willing, I shall not live to see it, but England will soon erupt. My wife… She met a hideous death, but she was not the only one. He hanged twenty-eight of the Welsh nobility in a single day. He’s mad, or passing for mad, and he cannot last.’

  ‘How would you stop him?’ Langton asked, nodding in sympathy as Briouze said, ‘With a knife in the belly.’