Henry went very white. "The King never leaves the city,” he said hoarsely. He shifted from foot to foot. He obviously did not like the message he was to carry. John must be a difficult master to serve.
Arthur considered this. "In the middle of the bridge, then. Tell him if he is not there, I will not stop until every stone in London is broken.” His face was calm and serious, and there was a light in his eyes that left no doubt of his intent. Despite his worn clothing, he looked like a man of purpose, a hero, in fact, and every inch the king he claimed to be.
Henry seemed to shiver all over. "I beg you to reconsider.” All the arrogance had leaked out of him, leaving a very frightened, very human man behind.
Arthur did not answer but turned his back and began to speak to William. Camber hesitated a second, then whipped out his knife and hurled it at the young king. It hit and bounced harmlessly against the mail underneath, leaving a jagged tear in the cloak. One of Arthur’s bodyguards brought a clenched, mailed fist down on the hapless herald’s skull, and the man fell to his knees, dazed.
The young king turned and looked at him. "Coward. I should make you crawl back to John on your hands and knees, but I shall be merciful. Get him on his horse and away.” He raked the helms of the mounted men who had made no move to aid the fallen herald. "I see John commands great loyalty and devotion in his followers. What is it they say? Like master, like servant?” A man-at-arms hauled Henry up, slung him across the saddle like a sack of meal, and slapped the horse smartly on the rump. One of the mounted men grabbed the reins and led the pack away. Eleanor watched them go and saw more than one turn and look back. She felt a little sorry for them, caught between John and Arthur. Men who changed masters with the wind were never trusted.
Then she caught Arthur’s words. "I want all the buildings on the bridge burned or otherwise destroyed. My cousin is overfound of ambush, and I wish to give him no opportunities.”
The smoke was still rising from the ruins of several buildings as they approached the center of London Bridge. Eleanor had given much thought to the coming confrontation, aware that Arthur and William were still apt to think in simple terms of winning and losing. Neither was subtle, and their cunning was that of the hunter, not the statesman. John, whoever or whatever he was, was more like herself, seeing devious paths on every side of the highway. She had not forgotten the way her heart nearly stopped the night before, and she judged him to be an experienced and deadly opponent.
Under the pretext of smoothing his tunic, she had bound Arthur in a small mirror spell, for now that she had devised the trick, she knew how to use it on anybody, large or little. She did not tell him what she did, knowing he would feel it unmanly. Nor did she tell William when she did the same to him. She managed, with some difficulty, to brush against or touch everyone in the immediate party. Yorick gave her a grave nod of approval, and she was fairly certain he knew what she was up to.
They waited in the middle of the bridge, on the north side, so the cracked and broken center was on their left. It gaped from six inches to a foot, and the swirling gray waters churned under them. They were twenty in number, barons, knights, Arthur’s bodyguards, William, Yorick, and herself. Farther down the span, both sides of the bridge were crowded with about a hundred carefully chosen fighters. The Marshall was not taking any chances.
Eleanor had also made some subtle changes in her appearance, because she did not want to draw attention to herself. Arthur commented that she looked tired but in a voice that seemed almost surprised at her presence. She thought of it as looking nondescript, herself, and was moderately pleased with her first attempt at social invisibility. It was not very different, she decided, from being her father’s daughter. She was glad for the pale daylight, which masked her aura. She patted the pouch on her belt, assuring herself that the collar was within. She also felt along her right sleeve where, in the confines of the tight underrobe, her staff had been transformed into a wand and hidden. It was a bit awkward, but she felt it a good trade. Bridget’s starry cloak hung under her wool cloak.
She found as she stood waiting that she was not terribly happy or impressed with her little devices. Eleanor kept thinking of the times with Doyle and with Arthur before William came to him, when her actions did not have political implications and when she had not felt driven to various shifts to salvage anyone’s pride or dignity. She resolved that at the first opportunity she would remove herself from Arthur and the court. She would go back to St. Bridget’s Priory, or better still, to Avebury where she could be near to Sal. Then Arthur could settle down to being king without the embarrassment of her presence, marry whatever noblewoman seemed a good alliance, and get on with his interrupted life.
The smoke curled down the river to the sea as two fairly nervous-looking pages walked up the bridge from the London side. They were ten or eleven, one fair, one darker, and they stood with their shoulders close together, clutching the poles of the banners with tense hands. Two older boys, sixteen or so, followed them. Men-at-arms filed up to flank the pages and squires, so they stood four abreast. A chair litter came into view, borne by four yeomen sweating in spite of the chill.
The wind plucked at the embroidered coverings of the conveyance. A body of knights followed it, some, Eleanor suspected, the same that had accompanied Henry de Camber, notable by his absence, earlier in the day, though with the anonymity of their helms, she could not be certain. The yeomen set their burden down, and one of the supporting poles snapped with a loud crack. The man stared at the length of wood in his hands, then cast it to the flagstones with a noisy clatter.
One of the young squires nipped back and held the curtains aside. A long, lean leg came out, then another, and finally the king unfolded himself and stood up. He was tall, very well formed, and dressed in a fur-lined cloak of bright blue brocaded with golden flowers. Under it he wore a full-cut, flowing robe that fell almost to the pavement, scarlet and worked with lion heads, held around his small waist by a metal belt with another lion snarling from the center. He wore no crown, but a slender circlet rested on the high brow.
Eleanor studied him carefully, noting the wide-set blue eyes and the sweep of a long nose above the mouth of a sensualist. She also noticed that there were stains at the hem of his robe and that the fur lining of his cloak was.a bit motheaten. Still, he was impressive and no doubt formidable.
John curved his soft mouth into a smile, displaying large, yellow teeth. He twitched at his wide sleeves with long fingers, and she caught a glimpse of metal on his right wrist. The hands were not completely steady, and she suspected he was tired. There were slight circles under his eyes, as if he had not slept in some time.
John searched the faces of Arthur’s party, looking for something and frowning slightly. Eleanor found that she had been holding her breath, and she released it. He knew she was there, but he couldn’t quite focus on her. He took two paces forward, so he was in arm’s reach of Arthur’s guard.
"I am glad, Marshall, that you have realized your folly and brought this troublemaker to me.” He turned slightly and motioned to his men. "You may take him to the Tower now.”
For a moment, it all seemed perfectly normal. Arthur was William’s prisoner, about to be delivered into the rightful king’s hands, a subtle illusion made of arrogance and persuasion. Two of John’s knights started to move, but the men in front of the young king slapped their long halberds together in an X and shifted their hips to bring their sword hilts more forward. They were perfectly coordinated in their movements, and the illusion vanished in their motion. Eleanor whispered a tiny "thank the goddess” under her breath.
Arthur shook his head. "No, cousin. I have come to claim what is mine. Your reign is over.”
John seemed to consider the possibility. "You, on Albion’s throne. A sniveling, weak-minded coward who shelters in a woman’s skirts. A jest, surely.” He seemed to be taller, handsomer, and wiser, the most gracious of men. "Tell me, how did you escape the prison I made you?” Eleanor watc
hed his eyes and knew he was baffled and anxious.
"That is too long a story for a windy bridge. I am released, and I will take what you have stolen from me.”
"You will not take anything, you misbegotten whelp. I am king, and I will be, forever. I am that promised once and future ruler.”
"Who cannot leave the confines of London,” Arthur replied. "Who permits the Shadow to troop across the land, laying waste the fields and fouling the rivers. What bargain did your mother make with the devil she slept with, I wonder.”
"It is not true. I am the rightful king and—”
"You are a bag of pus, whore-son.”
Eleanor suppressed a grin. Arthur was coming on with a vengeance, and she was pleased. True, it was only words, but John had a forceful personality that might have cowed another. And the words were having an effect on John’s entourage, for they shifted restlessly in their places.
"No. You are in my power. You have walked into my trap, for I cannot be defeated in this place.”
John lifted his right hand, and the sleeve slid back, revealing the bracelet. The halberds in front of him cracked and splintered onto the stones, and the two guards clutched their chests. He caught Arthur’s throat in his long hands and began choking.
Eleanor felt like she was swimming in glue as she forced herself to move toward John, yanking the collar from her pouch. She was barely aware that no one else could move at all as she reached him. She stepped behind the king, put the collar around his neck, and tried to close the clasp.
John struggled as Arthur pulled himself away gasping. He coughed and drew ragged breaths as John clawed at his throat while Eleanor hung on. He was strong, and she felt as if she were wrestling an octopus. He humped his shoulders and lifted her feet off the bridge, and she almost lost her grasp. The collar was slippery under her fingers.
Suddenly, he fell backward, pinning her beneath his weight. Eleanor had the breath knocked out of her, but she forced her fingers to hang on. John jerked his torso up, so all his weight rested on one of her legs, and she screamed.
Arthur yanked the sword out of its bright scabbard and brought its flaring blade down on John’s left arm and chest. It shivered and bounced.
"The bracelet, my lord! Cut off his wrist!” The Marshall’s shout rang out as Eleanor snapped the clasp shut.
John made a high-pitched keening noise and flailed, catching her breast with a sharp elbow as he clawed at his bond. She shoved at his shoulder blades. The fire sword descended, severing John’s hand from his wrist. Blood spurted into his face and spattered onto Eleanor. His right arm drooped, and the bracelet slid off the amputated limb into a widening red pool.
Yorick’s strong hands gripped her under the arms, and Eleanor found herself hauled upright from under the body of the dying man. John’s handsome face faded. The skin cracked and wrinkled, and the brown hair turned gray. With something of a shock, she realized he was several years past forty in real time, though he had not looked much beyond his mid-twenties. She turned her blood-smeared face into the rough cloth of her servant’s cloak and cried like a child.
XXXV
"No, Arthur, I will not marry you, and that is final. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Please, Countess Constance, can’t you talk some sense into him?”
The raddled face of Arthur’s mother regarded Eleanor with the benevolence of a hungry spider. The Countess of Brittany had arrived a week before, descending on London like a plucked crow, and Eleanor had taken the woman’s measure in an hour. She was ambitious, domineering, and rapacious, and Eleanor had spent many trying hours avoiding answering her questions while deferring politely to her monumental ego. It had been effective in as far as she no longer regarded Eleanor as a threat to her plans to be the actual power in Albion, but neither Constance’s council nor Eleanor’s insistence had dissuaded Arthur from his absolute determination to make her his wife.
"He is his father all over again,” the countess grunted. She had crossed the Channel from Brittany in a winter storm and still looked a little seasick, but she carried her sixty-five years with dignity, and Eleanor could see glimpses of a former beauty that must have been wondrous. Her periwinkle blue eyes were almost violet, and they were very sharp.
Eleanor, remembering her vision months before of this woman handing her a fatal goblet, ate no food Yorick did not prepare and took no drink from the countess’s hand.
London was abustle with restoration and preparations for Arthur’s coronation, planned for Christmas Day. It was the twenty-first, and it had been three weeks since John had died on the broken bridge. The terrible winter, after a short pause, had come back with renewed vigor, but the happy inhabitants of the city were not about to let a few feet of snow dampen their enthusiasm.
As much as possible, Eleanor stayed in the chambers assigned to her in Westminster Palace. Reluctantly, she had accepted the services of a tiring-woman, Berthe, a plump, cheerful dame in her forties who flirted mercilessly with the imperturbable Yorick, and a page in the person of one of the Marshall’s nephews. She had folded away into a trunk the starry cloak and the now worn gown Bera had given her, leaned her staff into a corner, and waited for the birtb of her child.
Arthur had thrown himself into the ordering of his kingdom with energy and the kind of intelligence his grandfather, Henry II, was remembered for. He listened thoughtfully to the Marshall, the frail and saintly Thomas of Salisbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, released from a long imprisonment in the Tower, and other advisers on matters of state, restoring domains seized by John’s men, and generally behaving with wisdom. Eleanor refused to even discuss these matters with him, insisting she didn’t know the first thing about kingship, and besides, she had a backache, until he finally let her be. Except in the matter of marriage.
"Isn’t my kingdom good enough for you? Come spring, I’ll cross the Channel and conquer France.”
"How can I get it through your thick skull that I don’t want to be queen of anything?” A sudden pain shivered her limbs and abdomen. Eleanor blinked, outraged. Nothing could hurt that much. It passed, and she breathed again.
Arthur sulked. "Stop treating me like a spoilt child.” "Stop behaving like one.”
"Why don’t you love me, Eleanor?”
It was an echo of Baird, and it hurt. He knew it, too, and Eleanor realized she had to end this argument before it got any worse. "I do. But I still won’t marry you.” She felt another pain. "And I think my labor is beginning. Yorick, help me to my room. If you will excuse me, Countess.”
Constance nodded grandly, and Arthur was instantly contrite, fussing over her until Eleanor could have screamed, except it took every effort just to walk. Settled into her bed, Eleanor sought to ease the now
more frequent pains. Berthe clucked around the huge bed, a remnant of one of John’s mistresses, as were the gaudy tapestries that adorned the walls. She had come to a sorry end, Berthe had informed her, as had all of John’s companions, wasting away. That and the fact that there wasn’t a mirror to be found anywhere in the palace made her wonder if he had not been some sort of vampire, a speculation she kept to herself.
Hours passed, and her shift was damp with sweat. Berthe brought a toothless beldam to be midwife, and Eleanor shrank from the wizened visage. Then she saw that the wrinkled old hands were pink with scrubbing, their touch gentle, and she was reassured. She groaned and grunted, shifting her hips to find a comfortable position, dozing fitfully.
She heard the cathedral bells toll the midnight hour and found herself wide-awake. The room was dark but for the cheery light of the fire and a few tapers. Berthe and the midwife were gossiping before the flames, and Yorick stood benevolently at the foot of the bed.
A pain sharper that before made her cry out and bite her lip. She felt a cool hand on her brow and another on her clenched fist. The Lady of the Willows shimmered before her eyes, dark hair framing the white face. A smile graced the berry red lips. "Sal,” she whispered.
I am here, daughte
r.
Eleanor could smell the damp, clean scent of willow in the air, over her sweat and the ever-present wood smoke. A pain rippled through her, and she screamed, bringing Berthe and the midwife scurrying. She pushed her knees up and tried to force the pain away. Vaguely, she heard voices commanding her to do something, but all she did was scream and press. Then she felt a single, tearing agony that seemed to last forever.
It stopped, finally, and the room was silent except for the murmurs of the two women bent over her knees. Then there was a coughing sound, and a healthy yell broke the quiet. A damp, dark-headed bundle was thrust into the crook of her aching arm. It bellowed in outrage.
"I never saw such an easy birthing,” the midwife told her.
Eleanor looked at the wrinkled face in wonder. If that was easy, she never wanted to find out what hard was. Then she looked down at the red-faced infant making his presence known in the cosmos and said, "Hello, Dylan. Welcome to the outside world, my little fish.”
The cries stopped. Blue eyes regarded her intently. Eleanor kissed the brow and felt a surge of joy. Dylan closed his bright eyes and slept in an instant. She patted the little form as Berthe tucked the blankets around them, and Yorick grinned until his face nearly split.
There was a rumble, and the room shook. Berthe and the midwife clutched each other, shrieking shrilly as a large stone popped out of its place in the floor. Eleanor sat up as a mound of dirt fountained into the room, clods pelting down on the bed. A dark head came out of the hole, then broad shoulders and a huge chest.
Doyle climbed out of the soil, mother-naked and grimed with dirt. He brushed his beard clean, grinning, and Berthe and the midwife fled, yowling. Yorick clutched a bedpost, unable to decide if running or defending his mistress was the better course.
Eleanor blinked twice, then reached out a hand. She found Doyle’s strong fingers closing around her wrist. "I told Arthur I could not marry him,” she said stupidly. "Oh, Doyle, is it really you? Or am I having a very dirty dream?”
Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01] Page 38
