Instead she sat up, wrapped herself in the sheet. “I’ve missed you so. We’ve never been apart like this, not in all the years of our marriage. Pour me some wine, love, and talk to me. I just do not understand why this is happening, John. It makes no sense. Louis has no right to the English crown. His claim is a…a bad joke. What is he, after all? The husband of a daughter of one of your sisters!”
John paused in the act of pouring her wine, slammed the cup down on the table. “Did I tell you what lame arguments they offered Guala at Melun? Whilst it’s true Richard did charge me with treason, that was five full years ere he died! All of Christendom knows that we reconciled, that Richard named me as his heir. As for that out-and-out lie about Arthur, no French court ever sat in judgment upon me. Since when am I accountable to the French King?”
“You’re not, love,” Isabelle said hastily. “Of course you’re not.”
“Do you know what the Pope said when he was informed of Philip’s claim? He said that Arthur was a traitor who’d invited whatever end he might have met. And he did, in truth. Whatever regrets I might have, Arthur is not amongst them.”
That was, she knew, as close as he’d ever come to a confession, to an admission that Arthur had died at his command. But she did not care; Arthur’s fate had never preyed upon her peace. “John…is it true that Rochester Castle has been lost?”
He nodded. “It held out against me for nigh on two months, but yielded to Louis without offering any resistance at all. Which makes me wonder what will happen when Louis lays siege to Windsor Castle, to Dover. Will they try to hold out? Or will their castellans betray me, too?”
He swung about, back toward the bed. “Have I been such a bad King, Isabelle?”
“John, no!”
“Then why,” he asked, very low, “have my subjects forsaken me? Why are they so willing to support a foreign Prince?”
“John, that’s not so. Many of your subjects are still loyal. For certes, the townspeople are. What king ever did as much to promote trade? Or granted as many borough charters? Let craven lords like Arundel and Surrey barter their honor to Louis. The towns will still hold fast for you.”
“As London did?” he asked bitterly, and she had no answer for him, could only entreat him to come back to bed. After a time, he did. But he did not sleep.
John was seated before a table cluttered with parchment sheets, ink, maps, books. He was surrounded by people—several scribes, a mud-spattered courier, Peter des Roches, Robert de Vieuxpont—all competing for his attention. He scrawled a hasty signature for one of the scribes, reached for the courier’s message as he said to de Vieuxpont, “I want you to go north again, Rob, am counting upon you to hold Cumbria and Westmorland for me.”
Seeing him so preoccupied, the boys hesitated, but Isabelle prodded them forward into the chamber. “John, can you spare some moments for your sons?”
John had not seen his children for months. As he pushed back his chair, beckoned them to approach, he could not help noticing their shyness, their lack of ease. His baby daughters did not know him at all. Even to his sons, he was a stranger. Henry was eight, Richard seven, but he’d never been able to find much time for them, to make them part of his life as he had with the children now grown, born out of wedlock and before his kingship.
Isabelle took her youngest from the nurse, held the baby out toward John. Nell was entering her seventh month, and John had seen her for the first time yesterday, upon his arrival at Corfe. All of Isabelle’s three daughters had inherited some of their mother’s beauty; Nell had dark blue eyes and hair like cornsilk. John smiled at the child, but she ducked her head, hid her face against Isabelle’s shoulder.
John was still holding the courier’s letter. Breaking the seal, he rapidly scanned the contents, and at Peter des Roches’s questioning look, he said, “It’s from the Earl of Chester. Gwenwynwyn has died.”
Henry edged closer. “Who’s that, Papa?”
“A Welsh Prince, Henry, an ally of mine. But he’s been living in exile in Cheshire since the spring, when Llewelyn—your sister Joanna’s husband—drove him out of Powys.”
“But…but I thought Joanna was living in France, Papa.”
“Not France, Aquitaine. I expect you’re too young to remember your older sister. I lost two Joannas, lad, one to the de Lusignans, the other to Llewelyn.”
A servant had followed Isabelle into the chamber. “My liege, your son, Lord Richard of Chilham, has just ridden in. Will you see him?”
“At once.” John glanced toward de Vieuxpont and des Roches. “I sent Savaric de Mauléon to Winchester with an offer for Louis, that I’d order the castle garrison to surrender if Louis would agree to spare their lives. Richard was with him, will be bringing word.”
Richard had not waited for a servant’s summons; he was already standing in the doorway. One glance at his face, and John stiffened.
“What is it?” he said sharply. “You might as well tell me straight out; I’m getting used to bad news.”
“It is bad, Papa, as bad as it could be. I do not know how to tell you…” Richard was not easily discountenanced. John had never seen him so shaken. It was with relief, then, that he heard Richard say haltingly, “At Winchester…amongst those who’ve gone over to Louis…”
“I know already, Richard, know that your Uncle Warenne has broken faith, has done homage to Louis. But I do not want to talk about it, not now.”
“No…no, you do not understand. I’m not talking about my Uncle Warenne. It’s…oh, God, Papa, it’s…”
John’s mouth went dry. “Not Chester?”
“No, not Chester.” Richard swallowed. “It’s your brother. Papa, it’s Will.”
“No,” John said. “No, you’re lying. Not Will.”
“Papa…Papa, I saw him at Winchester with Louis. I saw him!”
Isabelle gave a choked cry, thrust her baby at the nurse. John was on his feet. He turned as Isabelle moved toward him. His eyes were blind, focused upon her without recognition. But she was too panicked to be able to respond to his pain, to be aware of anything except the ground giving way under her feet. “Will would never betray you unless it was truly hopeless, unless he knew you could not win! What shall we do now? What will happen to me? John, I’m so frightened! What if they besiege Corfe? If you lose…”
She’d caught his arm, was clinging as if he were her only anchor. But her words struck John like stones. He jerked free, shoved her away with such force that she stumbled backward, careened into the table.
“Mama!” But Henry did not move. He stayed where he was, petrified. The other children had begun to cry. None of the men moved, either.
“If you’re so fearful for your future, why wait? Why not go to Louis now, strike your deal with him? That’s what you want to do, is it not? Get out, all of you! I do not need Will, do not need any of you! Go to Louis and be damned!”
The servants had already fled, and the nurses now gathered up the weeping children, hastened them from the chamber. Peter des Roches put his arm around Isabelle’s shoulders; she had begun to sob, and offered no resistance as he led her toward the door. Richard had gone very white, but he stood his ground. “Papa, I’d not betray you. Nor would Isabelle. She loves—”
“Get out—now!” John’s voice cracked. He spun around, fighting for control. When he turned back, Richard, too, had gone.
There were two large clay flagons on the table. He reached for the closer one, pulled it toward him. It was filled with a strongly spiced red wine; he drank directly from the spout, until he choked and tears burned his eyes. Picking up the second flagon, he hurled it toward the door. It shattered against the wood, sprayed dark wine all over the wall, the floor. He drank again, cleared the table with a wild sweep of his arm.
The rain had ended before dawn, and sunlight was pouring in from every window. He moved from one to the other, pausing to drink from the flagon as he jerked the shutters into place, as the room darkened.
The floor wa
s littered with debris, with books and documents and broken clay fragments. He stumbled over a brass candelabra, sank to his knees midst the wreckage of his morning’s work. The flagon was half empty by now; his head was spinning.
“Why, Will?” he whispered. “Name of God, why?”
Johnny.
He froze, the flagon halfway to his mouth.
Thank God you’ve come, Johnny. Thank God.
He could not see into the shadows. “Papa?” he said softly. “Papa?”
Stay with me, Johnny. The pain is always worse at night. Stay with me.
He grabbed for the flagon, drank deeply, spilling as much as he swallowed. “I did not understand, Papa.” His voice echoed strangely in his own ears, sounded muffled, indistinct. “I was but one and twenty. At that age, we think we’ll live forever…” He set the flagon down, waited. But no one answered him. His voices were silent, his ghosts in retreat.
He was never to know how long he knelt there on the floor of his bedchamber, alone in the dark. When at last he lurched to his feet, he moved unsteadily toward the windows, fumbled with the shutters until the room was once more awash in sunlight.
A book lay open, almost at his feet. He reached down, picked it up. He took an uncommon enjoyment in reading, always carried books with him, even on campaigns. This was one of his favorites, a French translation of the Welsh legend of King Arthur; but several pages were torn, the cover smeared with ink. He blotted the ink as best he could with his sleeve, replaced the book upon the table.
“Damn you, Will! I trusted you. More fool I, but I truly trusted you. You think I’m beaten. You think Louis has won. Well, not yet. As Christ is my witness, not yet.”
41
Cirencester, England
September 1216
“I Understand you will not be staying with us after all, Madame?”
Isabelle did not enjoy the company of clerics. Too often she found them dour and disapproving, for if women were all daughters of Eve, born to lead men astray, a woman as worldly as Isabelle must be the very incarnation of Jezebel. But Alexander Neckam was no unlettered village priest. He was Abbot of the prosperous Augustinian abbey of St Mary, a man erudite and cultured, a man entitled to royal courtesy, and she found a smile for him.
“No, I regret not. My lord husband the King has decided it is too dangerous for me to accompany him any farther, and my son and I will be returning to Corfe whilst he goes to raise the siege of Windsor Castle.”
“We heard the King spent part of the summer along the Marches. Was he able to win over the Welsh?”
“He did hire some Welsh men-at-arms, but he had no luck with the Welsh Princes, with Llewelyn or Maelgwn. Nor with Reginald de Braose.”
Neckam seemed to sense her preoccupation, for he made no attempt to prolong their conversation, but murmured, instead, of duties elsewhere. She was not long alone, however; Richard was coming up the pathway. Falling into step beside her, he followed her into the abbey gardens.
Some yards to their right, John was walking with his son. When Richard started toward them, Isabelle laid a restraining hand on his arm. “No,” she said. “Give them time to say their farewells. And whilst we’re still alone, tell me the truth. Can John win?”
“Had you asked me that in June, I’d have said no. Now…now I’m not so sure. There are straws in the wind, a growing discontent with the French. Some of the rebel barons are belatedly beginning to recognize reality—that should Louis prevail, they’ll have a French King, a French court. Already they’re seeing what that would mean; each time Louis has taken a castle, he’s given it to one of his French followers. Lastly, I know no man more dangerous to underestimate than my father.”
Isabelle nodded. “When I’m with John, I cannot but believe that he will prevail against his enemies, that all will be well for us. But when we’re apart, I…I lose faith. I think of what could happen to us should evil befall John, and I become so frightened, Richard, so—”
“Mama!” Henry was running toward them. “Papa says he’s going to give me one of his falcons! Papa, you’ll not forget?”
John, following at a more sedate pace, smiled and shook his head. “I’ll give the order tonight, Henry. Richard…I’ve decided I do not want you to come with me. I’d rather you escort Isabelle and Henry back to Corfe, then return to Wallingford Castle, hold it for me till further notice.”
“If that is truly your wish, Papa.”
Turning, then, toward the child, John smiled again at his son. “Henry, stay here and talk to your brother. I want a few words alone with your lady mother ere you depart.”
Taking Isabelle aside, John led her toward a trellised arbor. As soon as they were within, Isabelle moved into his arms. The air was sun-warmed, fragrant with honeysuckle; she could almost convince herself that summer was not dying. “I’m so glad I had these ten days with you. But…but when will we see each other again?”
“I do not know,” John admitted. “Louis has been besieging Dover Castle for some six weeks now, but to no avail. Windsor, Lincoln, and Barnard castles are also under siege. If they can hold out for me…”
Isabelle shivered. “You must promise me, promise you’ll take care. John, I…I’d be lost without you!”
Her fear was more than disheartening, it was contagious. John tightened his arms around her, kissed her on the mouth, the throat. She clung to him, but without passion, and when he kissed her again, he tasted her tears.
“Papa!” The voice was Henry’s, high-pitched, excited. John and Isabelle moved apart, moved back into the sun. Henry was sprinting toward the arbor, gesturing. “A courier, Papa, with urgent news from the North!”
One of the black-garbed Augustinian canons was standing a few feet away. “There’s a man seeking to talk with you, my liege. He says he’s from Barnard Castle, from Hugh de Balliol. May we bring him to you?”
“At once.” John had paled. As Isabelle clutched his arm, he said tautly, “If Barnard Castle has fallen…”
A messenger was being ushered into the abbey gardens. He was disheveled and travel-stained, but John saw only his smile, the triumphant smile of a man bearing tidings sure to please. “The Scots King and his army assaulted the castle, my lord, but we drove them off.”
“Thank God!”
“In truth, my liege. Shooting down from the battlements, one of our bowmen loosed an arrow at Eustace de Vesci. The Almighty guided his aim, lord. It struck de Vesci in the head; he was dead ere he tumbled from the saddle.”
John caught his breath. And then he began to laugh. “I want the name of the bowman. That arrow of his is worth its weight in gold to me!” As he swung around, back toward Isabelle and Richard, they saw that his eyes were ablaze with light. “What better omen than this? I think my luck is about to change for the better—at long last!”
The Wash was a wide bay of the turbulent North Sea, fed by four rivers, extending more than twenty miles inland into the counties of Lincoln and Norfolk. The seaport of Lynn had grown up where the River Great Ouse emptied into The Wash. In early October its citizens were alarmed when they got word of an advancing rebel force. But by then John had reached Lincolnshire. He swung south again, detoured toward Lynn, and the rebels fled at his approach. On Sunday, October 9, the grateful townspeople of Lynn welcomed their King, and on the following day a feast was given in John’s honor at the Benedictine priory of St Mary Magdalene, St Margaret, and All Virgin Saints.
However boundless their goodwill, their resources were limited; they could not hope to equal the exotic fare that had been set before John in happier days. But they did what they could with what they had, and John, whose expectations were minimal, was pleasantly surprised. Ample helpings of stewed pomegranates and pears were served, to much jesting, for all knew such fruits were aphrodisiacs. Tarts filled with marrow, sugar, and ground pork were offered next, followed by a roasted peacock; the cooks had labored hours to strut the bones and refit the skin and feathers so as to give the illusion of life everlasting.
A pig had been slaughtered and cut in half, the hindquarters stuffed with suet and egg-yolked bread crumbs, then carefully sewn together with the head and forepart of a capon, thus creating a wondrous beast to delight both the appetite and the eye. But what amused John the most was the subtlety, a sensual mermaid sculptured of marzipan, tail dyed green with parsley juice, her flowing hair a spill of saffron.
As entertainment, there was an acrobatic act and an alarmingly inept juggler who seemed continually in danger of stabbing himself with his own knives. But for the townspeople, the true attraction of the evening was the presence of their King, and they listened, spellbound, to a rare firsthand account of the momentous happenings in the world beyond the marshy Fens, beyond Lynn.
“Upon reaching Windsor, I found I did not have enough men for a direct attack, but I was able to end the siege by acting as bait. As I moved north out of the Thames Valley, the French abandoned the siege and set out in pursuit. Rather halfheartedly, since they soon gave up and returned to London. Which surprised me not in the least; Louis seems willing to fight to the last Englishman.”
As John had expected, that drew laughter. “I continued north, for we knew that the Scots King had come to Dover to do homage to Louis. It was my hope that I could intercept him on his way back into Scotland. Unfortunately he managed to elude our scouts, but we were able to wreak havoc upon the lands of our enemies in the shires of Cambridge and Lincoln.”
Swallowing the last of his wine, John pushed aside the stale trencher that had served as his plate. “Does your almoner save these for the poor?”
“Yes, sire.”
Glancing about at his men dining at the lower tables, John said loudly, “Let no one throw his trencher to the dogs,” and signaled for more wine before resuming. “On the Thursday ere Michaelmas, we entered the city of Lincoln. I know there were those who thought Nicholaa de la Haye no fit castellan for Lincoln Castle, but she has shown herself to be as steadfast, as stalwart as any man in holding the castle for the crown. The townspeople had not her courage, however, and yielded the city to the rebels. They had no stomach for fighting, though, fled even as we approached. We pursued them north, and then headed back when we heard you were in need.”
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