John spilled his cider. “That cannot be! My mother is in Normandy.”
“No, my lord, she’s in the great hall.”
“You both are wrong,” a cool voice said from the doorway. “I’m out in the stairwell.”
Will jumped to his feet. He was very much in awe of John’s mother, for Eleanor of Aquitaine was more than the widow of one King, mother to another. She was a creature rarer even than the unicorn, a woman who, all her life, had been a law unto herself, as Duchess of Aquitaine, then as Queen of France, and finally as Queen of England. She had in her past two failed royal marriages, a crusade, scandal and lovers, even a rebellion, for when Henry betrayed her, she’d incited their sons to civil war, had spent sixteen years in confinement as a result. But she’d won in the end, had outlived the husband who’d shut her away from the world, from her beloved Aquitaine. Moreover, she had somehow survived those bitter years with her soul unscarred, her spirit unbroken.
Upon regaining her freedom, she had, at age sixty-nine, journeyed to Navarre to fetch a bride for her favorite son, brought the girl across the Alps to Richard in Sicily. She was now in her seventy-first year, and in the high, elegantly hollowed cheekbones, the posture that conceded nothing to age, and the slanting green-gold eyes, Will could still see traces of the great beauty she’d once been. He was both fascinated and repelled by this woman who’d dared to outrage every tenet of the code governing proper female behavior, but he was glad, nonetheless, to see her now, for she was the one person John might not dare to defy.
Will watched as John greeted her with guarded formality, did not mind in the least when she made it pleasantly yet perfectly plain that his presence was not required. In a contest of wills between John and his mother, he did not think John would prevail, indeed hoped he would not. But he did not care to be a witness to their confrontation; he suspected Eleanor’s methods would be neither maternal nor merciful.
Eleanor snapped her fingers and the last of the servants disappeared. As John handed her a goblet of mulled wine, she sipped in silence for some moments, then confirmed his worst fears. “I do hope you have not entangled poor Will in your intriguing, John. That would be rather unsporting, like spearing fish in a barrel.”
“Should I know what that means, Madame?”
She leaned back against the settle cushions, eyed him reflectively. “Do you have any memories of Gwendolen, John? No, I see not. She was a young Welsh girl, nurse first to your sister Joanna and then to you. I liked her, found the Welsh to be much like my own Poitevins, a people passionate yet practical. There was one Welsh proverb in particular that Gwendolen was fond of quoting: ‘Better a friend at court than gold on the finger.’” She smiled faintly, glanced down at her hands, at the jeweled fingers entwined loosely in her lap. “As you can see, I have gold rings in profusion. But I also have friends at court, John…at the French court.”
She waited, but John continued to look at her blankly, with the suggestion of a quizzical smile. “Why is it,” he asked, “that I suddenly feel as if I’ve stumbled into the wrong conversation?”
“You do that very well, John. Honest bewilderment, with just the right touch of humor. I do not doubt your indignation will be equally impressive. And if you insist, we can play the game out to the end. I’ll tell you exactly what my informants at the French court revealed, and you can deny any and all knowledge of Philip’s intrigues. I’ll confront you with the fact that I know you’ve coerced the constables of Wallingford, Berkshire, and Windsor to turn over the royal castles to you, and you can then concoct some perfectly innocent explanation for that.
“But eventually, John, we’ll get to the truth. It may well take all night, but we will, that I promise you. So why do you not make it easy on both of us? It has been a very long day. I’m tired, John, am asking you to keep this charade mercifully brief…for my sake if not your own.”
John could not say with which precise word she hit a nerve; it may have been the tone as much as the content. But by the time she stopped speaking, he was rigid with rage. “For your sake? There was a time when I’d have done anything on God’s earth for you, just to get you to acknowledge I was even alive! But now? You’re too late, Mother, years too late!”
There was a sudden silence. John rose, retreated into the sheltering shadows beyond the hearth, but he could not escape her eyes, could feel them following him all the while. What had ever possessed him? Fool! In lashing out like that, he’d only shown her where his defenses were weakest, most vulnerable to attack.
“What would you have me say, John?” she said at last. “That you are my flesh and blood, my last-born, that I care, care more than you know? It would be easy enough to say, and I admit I might be tempted…if I thought you’d believe me.”
“I would not,” he said hastily, and she gave him an unexpected smile, a look of sardonic and surprising approval.
“Why should you? You were not yet six when Henry confined me in Salisbury Tower, sixteen when next I saw you, twenty-one when Richard ordered my release. How could I love you? I do not even know you. You were ever Henry’s, never mine.”
“That’s a lie,” John said bitterly. “You never cared for me, never! Not from the day I was born. You think I do not remember how it was?”
“You exaggerate,” she said, but there was that in her voice which he’d never heard before, a faintly defensive note. “Mayhap I did not have you with me as often as I should in those early years; I’ll concede that. I’ll concede, too, that I could take no joy in a pregnancy at forty-five. Why should I? I had just found out about Henry and that Clifford slut. He’d even dared to install her at Woodstock—Woodstock, my favorite manor!” She stopped abruptly, and John saw that she, too, had been goaded into saying that which she’d not meant to share.
“It is a pretty fiction that mothers must love each child in equal measure…a fiction, no more than that. There is always a favorite. With me, it was Richard. With Henry, it was you.”
“No,” John said, too quickly. “I was not his favorite. It was rather that I was the only son he had left. Have you forgotten? My brothers sided with you.”
Again, John had the disquieting sense that he’d have done better to hold his tongue. Eleanor’s eyes were too probing, too knowing. Cat’s eyes, ever on the alert for movement in the grass, he thought uneasily, not reassured when she shrugged, said, “If that’s how you’d rather remember it. But I did not mean that as a reproach. I do not, in truth, think less of you for having the common sense to abandon a ship once waves began to break over the bow. Nor, after sixteen years shut away from the sun, am I likely to find tears to spare for Henry Plantagenet.”
Without warning, she came abruptly to her feet, crossed swiftly to John. “But Richard—that is another matter altogether, John. Did you truly think I’d stand idly by whilst you plotted with Philip to usurp Richard’s throne?”
When he sought to move away, she caught his arm. “Of my children, I have ever loved Richard best, have never made a secret of it. My first loyalties are to him, will always be to him. But what you do not seem to realize is that they are then given to you. You want to be Richard’s heir. Well, I, too, want that for you, am willing to do what I can to make it so.”
She sounded sincere, but John knew how little that meant; neither of his parents had ever held veracity to be a virtue. “Why?” he said warily. “The soul of sentiment you’re not…Mother.”
She laughed. “To your credit, neither are you. I’ve always thought sentimentality to be one of the cardinal sins, second only to stupidity.”
That afforded John a certain ironic amusement, for it was his private conviction that his brother Richard was decidedly stupid, in all but killing, at which he excelled. But he said nothing, let Eleanor lead him back to the settle.
“Richard’s marriage is not working out. Unfortunately, the girl is as insipid as she is innocent, and so absurdly sweet-tempered that I suspect if you cut her, she’d bleed pure sugar. She and Richard…well, it�
��s been like pairing a butterfly with a gerfalcon. I do not think it likely she’ll give him a son.”
“And if she does not, that leaves only me…or Geoffrey’s son. Richard prefers the boy; why do you not, Madame?”
“Arthur is not yet five; you’re twenty and four. That in itself would be reason enough to favor you. And you are my son; that’s another. Lastly, I think you have it in you to be a better King than your past record would indicate. At least you’re no fool, and most men are.”
“Even if you do favor me over Arthur, what of it? Richard has already made his choice.”
“No choice this side of the grave is irrevocable. Richard named Arthur as a means of keeping you in check whilst he was on crusade. Once he does return from the Holy Land, he may well reconsider, especially if I urge him to do so. I’m sure you’ll agree that if there be one voice he heeds, it is mine. If I speak for you, he’s like to listen. But it does cut both ways, John. If I speak against you, he’s apt to listen then, too. So it is up to you.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“It is rather what I want you to refrain from doing. No intrigues with Philip. No pleasure jaunts to Paris. No conniving with the Welsh or the Scots.” She paused, hazel eyes holding his own. Satisfied with what she saw in them, she rose, stifling a yawn. “I expect a bedchamber has been made ready for me by now, so I’ll bid you good night. I’m glad we did reach an understanding. But I rather thought we would, Johnny.”
“Do not call me that!” John said sharply, startling himself even more than Eleanor. She stared at him, eyebrows arching, and he flushed.
“I’d almost forgotten,” she said softly. “That was what Henry always called you, was it not?”
John said nothing, and she moved toward the door, where she paused, turned to face him. “If you should happen to suffer a change of heart in the night, John, decide that Philip’s offer is a better gamble than mine…I think it only fair to tell you that, on the same day you sailed for France, I would personally give the command to seize all your lands, castles, and manors in England, confiscate them on behalf of the crown.” And closing the door quietly behind her, she left him alone.
5
Gwynedd, Wales
January 1193
They left Hawarden Castle in the early hours of a cloud-darkened dawn. A week of unrelenting rains had reduced the road to a mere memory, and as they headed west into Wales, they found themselves trudging through mud as thick and clinging as molasses. It spattered their legs and tunics, squished into their boots, made them fight for every footprint of ground gained. Exhaustion soon claimed Edwin; so, too, did disillusionment. Stumbling after his companions, blinded by gusts of wind-driven rain, chilled and utterly wretched, he could only wonder where the glory had gone.
All of his eighteen years had been passed in the Cheshire village of Aldford. He had never even seen Chester, a mere five miles to the north. But three months ago his cousin Godfrey had come back to Aldford. Godfrey was a legend in their family, the youth who’d willingly abandoned home and hearth for the alien world waiting without. Godfrey was a solidarius, a man who fought for pay, and he told his awestruck kin that he was now being paid by no less a lord than Ralph de Montalt, Lord of Hawarden and Mold, Seneschal of Chester. And then he told them why he’d come back: for Edwin.
There was no question of refusal; any village lad would have pledged his soul for such a chance. Much envied, Edwin had accompanied Godfrey back to Hawarden, eager to learn about war and women and the world beckoning beyond Aldford. But at Hawarden he’d found only long hours, loneliness, scant pleasure. Garrison guard duty was monotonous and dreary. But this was far worse, this was unmitigated misery, and as he tripped and sprawled into the mud, blistered and sore and soaked to the skin, Edwin wished fervently that he’d never even heard of Godfrey, that he’d never laid eyes upon Hawarden Castle.
Of their mission, he knew only that the young knight they were escorting had an urgent message for Davydd ab Owain, a Welsh Prince who had allied himself with the Normans. Godfrey had told him the Welsh Prince was encamped at Rhuddlan Castle, some twenty-five miles from Hawarden, and he wondered how long the journey would take. He wondered, too, why they were no longer following the coast, why they’d swung inland at Basingwerk Abbey.
“Godfrey?” He quickened his pace, caught his cousin’s arm. “Godfrey, why did we change our route? Are we not more vulnerable to attack in the hills?”
“You’d bloody well better believe it!” Godfrey tripped, cursed as the mud sucked at one of his boots. “But our guide told de Hodnet that this is a quicker way, a road made long past by the Romans. And that Norman whoreson is set upon getting us to Rhuddlan as fast he can, no matter the risk.”
Edwin had been about to ask who were these Romans, but with his cousin’s last words, he forgot all else, stared at Godfrey in amazement. De Hodnet was a Norman, a knight; to Edwin, that made him a being beyond criticism. He glanced ahead at the knight, his eyes lingering admiringly upon the man’s roan stallion, the silvery chain-mail armor. He felt no resentment that de Hodnet should ride while they walked. That was just the way of it, and now he ventured a timid protest.
“But Godfrey, surely he knows what he’s doing. After all, he’s a knight.”
“So? Does that make him the Lord Jesus Christ come down to earth again?” Godfrey sneezed. “Think you that no man Norman-born can be a fool? As for his Norman knighthood, that’ll count for naught against a Welsh longbow.”
“Should you speak so?” Edwin asked uneasily, provoking a snort of derisive laughter from his cousin.
“You think he’ll hear? Nay, he knows just enough English to order us about.” Godfrey reached out, grasped Edwin’s arm. “If a man is like to lead you over a cliff, Little Cousin, you’d best see him for what he is. De Hodnet wears a long sword and sits a horse well, but he’s no more fit to wage war against the Welsh than our Aunt Edith. He’s as green as grass, lad, and as arrogant as Lucifer, and there are no more dangerous traits known to man or God.”
Edwin stared at him, dismayed. “But…but he’s been taught the ways of war. All knights…”
“Aye, and I daresay he’d fare well enough on a battlefield in France or Flanders. But what does he know of the Welsh? He was in service with Lord Fitz Warin for a time, did garrison duty at Fitz Warin’s manor of Lambourne in Berkshire. After that, he found a place with a Wiltshire lord. Then his lord took the cross like King Richard, and de Hodnet had no urge to see the Holy Land.” Godfrey sneezed again, spat into the road. “Shropshire, Berkshire, Wiltshire. But not Wales, Edwin, not Wales.”
He shook his head, said bitterly, “Giles tried to tell him, warned him that the risk be too great, what with Llewelyn known to be in the area. But what Norman ever heeded Saxon advice? He does not know his arse from his elbow when it comes to fighting the Welsh, but he gives the orders, we obey, and if we reach Rhuddlan Castle, it’ll be only by the grace of the Almighty.”
Edwin glanced over his shoulder at the shadowed, wet woods that rose up around them, dark spruce and pine blotting out the sky, giving shelter behind every bush to a Welsh bowman. The Welsh scorned the crossbow, preferred a weapon called a longbow, and they used it with deadly skill. According to Godfrey, a Welsh bowman could fire twelve arrows in the time it took to aim and fire one crossbow; he swore he once saw a Welsh bowman send an arrow through an oaken door fully four inches thick. Remembering that, Edwin hunched his shoulders forward, suddenly sure that even at that moment a Welsh arrow was being launched at his back.
“Who is Llewelyn?” he asked at last, and at once regretted it, for Godfrey gave him an incredulous look.
“God keep me if you are not as ignorant as de Hodnet!” But Edwin’s discomfort was so painfully obvious that he relented somewhat. “You do know that Davydd ab Owain claims to rule most of North Wales? Well, Llewelyn ab Iorweth is his nephew and sworn enemy. They’ve been warring for nigh on six years, and were I to wager on the outcome, I’d want my money
on Llewelyn. He’s not much older than you, I hear, yet he’s been able to get the people on his side, has forced Davydd on the defensive. Davydd still holds a few strongholds like Rhuddlan Castle, but Llewelyn now controls the countryside, owns the night.”
Edwin decided he did not want to hear any more, lapsed into a subdued silence. The rain had ceased, but the small patches of sky visible through the trees were an ominous leaden grey. Although it was unusually mild for January, Edwin shivered each time the wind caught his gambeson. Stuffed with rags, quilted like eiderdown, it suddenly seemed a poor substitute for de Hodnet’s chain-mail hauberk. He ran his hand over the padding, trying to convince himself that it could deflect a lance.
As the men moved deeper into the woods, so, too, deepened their sense of unease. They were bunching up, all but treading upon each other’s heels, moving at an unusually brisk pace for men who’d been on the march all day. Edwin paused to fish a pebble from his boot, sprinted to catch up. Panting, he slowed, came to a bewildered halt. The men had stopped, were gathered around Giles. Edwin squeezed into the circle, straining to hear.
Edwin was very much in awe of Giles. A dark, saturnine man in his forties, laconic and phlegmatic, he was renowned for his icy composure, and Edwin was stunned now to hear the raw emotion that crackled and surged in his voice.
“We’ve taken too great a risk as it is, should have followed the coast road. But if we take this path, we are begging to be ambushed!”
“I do not agree. We’re losing the light, are wasting time even now that we can ill afford to squander. I have an urgent dispatch for Davydd ab Owain, a message that comes from His Grace, the Earl of Chester. I swore to my lord Montalt that I’d get it to Rhuddlan without delay, and that is what I mean to do.”
Giles stepped forward, stopped before the roan stallion. “Sir Walter, I urge you to heed what I say. You do not know the Welsh, you do not know how they fight. This is not war as you learned it. It is bloody, brutal work, with no quarter given. Let me tell you about the battle of Crogen. The old King, Henry of blessed memory, led an army into Wales, went up against Owain Fawr. The Welsh won the day, and King Henry was forced to retreat back into England. But ere he did, he had a number of Welsh hostages brought before him, wellborn men all, including two of Owain’s own sons. He ordered them blinded, Sir Walter.”
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