Here Be Dragons - 1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  155 nspicuously to the shadows, watching as her grandmother and ^ urey sought a viable plan of defense. It was very late when Aubrey rose, sent a man to the kitchens for first food of the day. Joanna slipped from the bench, crossed to Eleanor. "Madame . . . what will happen on the morrow?" "They shall assault the castle." "Can we hold?" "No, child, we cannot, not for long." Joanna swallowed, sought to emulate her grandmother's composure. "But. . . might not Papa come in time?" "No, Joanna. I'd not give you false hope. We cannot be sure my courier made it to John's camp. And even if he did, Le Mans is well over eighty miles away. John could not reach us before Friday, Thursday night at the earliest. . . and by then it shall be too late." Joanna knelt on the floor by Eleanor's chair. "Aubrey is a brave knight. Surely God will not favor Arthur over Aubrey, Madame?" Eleanor did not reply. Wednesday dawned hot and overcast. The sky was leaden, and for a time it did seem as if God meant to favor Aubrey. A rainstorm swept in from the east, denying the attacking army the potent weapon of fire. Aubrey's outmanned force struggled to keep the enemy off the walls, casting down boiling water and stones from the curtain battlements. The de Lusignans responded with mangonel bombardments, set about filling in the overgrown moat so they could make use of a battering ram. In the top floor of the keep, Eleanor stood at an arrow loop, watching as Aubrey waged a gallant, futile battle below. His courage was contagious, and his men offered up their lives with desperate abandon, until overwhelmed at the last by the sheer numbers of their attackers. Forced off the walls, they fell back toward the keep. Eleanor, hastening down into the great hall, signaled the guards to stand ready. As Aubrey and the surviving defenders plunged into the hall, they torched the stairs, bolted the door. THE great hall was overflowing with exhausted men. They lay sprawled in the rushes, some seeking sleep while they could, others clutching w'ne flagons close. There was little eating, less talking. In the corner, one youth sat alone, softly strumming a gittern. Aubrey, grey-faced with fatigue, was slumped in the window seat. He raised his head only a'ter Joanna plucked repeatedly at his sleeve, regarding her with bloodshot blue eyes. "Sir Aubrey, when they take the keep, what will they do to us?"

  156 "They want the Queen . . . only the Queen. They might let my me go ... or they might put them to the sword." Aubrey was slurring K' words like one drunk, yet he still thought to add, "But not you, not little lass like you ..." He leaned forward, cradled his head in his arms and Joanna backed away. Taking a candle, she groped her way up the stairwell. The solat door was ajar, but as she reached for the latch, she heard her grandmother's voice. "The de Lusignans must not know that Joanna is John's daughter I've already discussed this with Aubrey, mean to claim her as a niece of the Abbess Matilda." "But Madame, might it not be a greater protection for her . . . that she is the King's daughter?" "Are you truly as naive as that, Cecily? I should not think I'd need to remind you that Hugh de Lusignan is not a man of honor. They do need me; I shall not be harmed. But they might well see John's bastardborn child as ... fair game, shall we say? And that is a risk I am not prepared to take." Joanna sank down upon the stairs. She sat there for a long time, alone in the dark, not wanting them to know she wept. JOANNA awoke in her grandmother's bed, with only a vague memory of how she got there. Had she fallen asleep upon the stairs? She still wore her chemise, but someone had removed her gown and bliaut, folded them over the foot of the bed. She reached for the gown, pulled it over her head. As she did, she saw the light filtering through the unshuttered solar window. For a moment, her breath stopped. They'd lost the night, their last shield. Even now, men might be gathering below, preparing for the final assault upon the keep. All around her, her grandmother's ladies slept on makeshift pallets. Threading her way between their bodies, she reached the window, climbed up onto the seat. Although to the west a few stars still glimmered, the sky was slowly and inexorably paling, taking on the dull pearl color of coming dawn. The bailey was enveloped in an eerie quiet, men just beginning to stir, to crawl, groaning, from their bedrolls. A few castle dogs prowled about. A sleepy soldier relieved himself against the chapel wall, provoking curses from some of the blanket-clad forms downwind. Up on the curtain wall, guards dozed by empty wine flasks. The aroma of roasting pigeon wafted across the bailey from the gate" house, where Arthur and the de Lusignans had set up their command post. The scene below her resembled not so much a siege as the morning after a drunken carouse, and that, Joanna knew, was what the night had

  257 go sure of victory were these men that they'd already begun to 1 brate their triumph, for they, no less than those trapped within, Ce vi there could be but one outcome. The only question as yet un- wered was how many men would die in the capture of the aging Oueen. Footsteps sounded behind Joanna, and she turned as her grandother and Aubrey de Mara entered the solar, joined her at the window The soldier who'd just urinated glanced up, saw them standing there, and raised his voice in a mocking shout. "We've been wagering pon the hour when the keep falls. Think you that you can try to hold out till noon? If so, you'll win me a right fair sum!" The window was faced with an iron grille, but Joanna shrank back, grateful when Aubrey reached out, jerked the shutters into place. "I've set men to bringing up water buckets from the cellar well, Madame. I expect they shall seek to fire the outer door, so I had it well soaked. I had additional bolts attached, too, but the wood is so warped and rotted that I do not doubt even the little lass here could force it." As Joanna watched, marveling at the lack of emotion in his voice, he walked over to the solar door, tested the bolt's strength. "You'd best barricade yourself here within the solar, Madame. We'll hold them as long as we can below." Eleanor nodded. "I expect we've a few hours' wait. They do not seem in much of a hurry, do they?" "Why should they be? Does a cat rush in for the kill when it has its prey secure within its paws?" Aubrey's mouth twisted. "I would to God that" He broke off abruptly, as a shout echoed down from the battlements. Joanna flinched, started to tremble. Was it to begin as soon as this? They heard now a clatter upon the stairs. Aubrey reached the door just as a man lurched into the solar, all but fell into his arms. "Under attack . . ." he gasped. "Hurry . . ." Aubrey whirled toward the window, and the soldier caught his arm. "No," he panted, "not the keep . . . the town!" The stairs were in a dangerous state of disrepair, and Eleanor had to lean heavily upon Joanna for support, compelled to caution when they both yearned to run. Emerging at last out onto the battlements, Joanna froze for a moment, grappling with her fear of heights, and then edged along the walkway. The men were leaning recklessly over an embrasure, suddenly heedless of enemy bowmen, gesturing toward the town. Ihe wind was gusting; Joanna found herself blinded by her own hair. Clutching Eleanor's hand, she nerved herself to look over the battlements, down into the bailey. Men were stumbling to their feet, shouting groggy questions none could yet answer, groping hastily for weapons. Dogs were barking fran-

  158 tically as soldiers staggered, bewildered and bleary-eyed, from t^ buildings ranged along the curtain walls; a riderless horse galloped j panicked circles, adding immeasurably to the confusion. The more vvi

  159 only when she saw the dark wet stain across his surcoat that she foiled, with a cry of fright. "Papa, you are bleeding!" "No, sweetheart, it is not mine," he said soothingly. "There's nothg wrong with me that a bath and a week in bed will not cure!" There was a sudden stir among the men; a path was opening. John et Joanna back on her feet, moved toward his mother. For a long moment, they looked at one another, and then Eleanor said incredulously, "You're truly here; I know my eyes do not lie. But eighty miles! How in God's name did you do it, John?" John laughed. "I daresay that's what Arthur and the de Lusignans are asking themselves, too, about now! Your man caught up with me late Tuesday, outside Le Mans. We set out at once for Mirebeau, rode day and night, spurred our horses till they foundered, till men reeled in the saddle like drunkards, stopping only at Chinon for William des Roches and fresh mounts." Someone handed him a flask; he drank deeply, all but choked. "They'd barred all the city gates but one, which they left open for sup
plies . . . and for us. By the time their besotted guards awoke, we were in the town. Upwards of two hundred knights captured, none escaping." Eleanor had never seen him so elated; there was about him an intense, surging excitement, an intoxication of the senses bordering upon euphoria. "And Arthur? What of Arthur, John?" John's eyes showed suddenly gold. "Arthur and Hugh and Geoffrey de Lusignan, all taken. They were breakfasting on pigeon pie, had not even time to draw their swords. And their faces . . ." He laughed again. "Ah, Madame, to see their faces!" "You have indeed won a great victory," she said, then put her hand upon his arm. "Come now, sit and I'll send for food. Do you even remember when you've last eaten?" "No," he admitted. "Why? Think you that I'm in need of sobering up?" He grinned, let her lead him toward the table, and then stopped without warning, swung about to face her. "Arthur and the de Lusignans were not alone in their disbelief . . . were they?" he challenged. "You never expected me to come to your defense, never expected me to reach you in time, never expected much of me at all, did you . . . Mother?" Eleanor saw now how exhausted he truly was; his voice was slurred, husky with fatigue, his eyes hollowed and feverishly bright, at once triumphant and accusing. "It was not a question of faith, John," she said carefully. "Do you not realize the extent of your victory? You have done what most men would swear to be impossible, covered some eighty "fiiles as if you'd put wings to your horse, arrived in time to save me

  160 from capture, to take the town, all your enemies. That is a feat nor than remarkable, it is well nigh miraculous." She paused, and then said that which she knew he'd waited all his life to hear, what she could at last say in utter sincerity: "Not even Richard could have hoped to equai what you did this day." John looked at her, saying nothing for a time. "I should have known that the highest praise you could offer would be a comparison with my sainted brother. Well, that is an honor I think I'll decline Madame. I've no longer any inclination to compete with a ghost." "Ah, Johnny ..." Eleanor was suddenly and overwhelmingly aware of her own exhaustion, of the toll these last days had taken. "I am proud of you, I swear it," she said softly. But she'd waited too long; John had already turned away. JOHN'S triumph was even more conclusive than he had at first thought, for his nephew Arthur was not the only prize to be taken in Mirebeau. Arthur's sister had been with him when he joined forces with the de Lusignans, and rather than risk leaving her behind in Tours, he'd chosen to have her accompany him, for safety's sake. As ill-fated as was his decision to besiege Mirebeau, this was to be an even greater blunder, for he thus delivered into John's hands both remaining heirs of the Angevin House, the two people with a rival claim to the English crown. Joanna watched with sympathetic interest as the girl was escorted into the great hall. Ironically named Eleanor after the grandmother Arthur had been seeking to capture, she was slender and blue-eyed, looked to Joanna to be about seventeen or so. She also looked terrified. Approaching the dais, she sank down before John in a deep, submissive curtsy, but he at once raised her up, drew her toward him. He spoke softly and earnestly for several moments, and then smiled at her, pulling from his own finger a topaz ring. Topaz, he murmured, was a known talisman against grief. It would please him greatly if she would accept it, as his niece and kinswoman. None knew better than Joanna how reassuring her father could be when he so chose, and she was not surprised now to see color coming back into Eleanor's face, to see that Eleanor's hands were no longer shaking as she let John slip the ring onto her finger. Pouring a cupful of Madeira from the sideboard, Joanna carried it across the hall, presented it to her father. He already had a cup, but he set it aside, accepting Joanna's, instead. "Thank you, lass," he said, and then smiled at her. "What say youJoanna? Should you like to meet your cousin Arthur?"

  161 NA was shocked by her first sight of Hugh de Lusignan A huge, '°Amt,lmg bear of a man, stout and greying, he seemed the least likely ' (?_-. I-Vita c»v/"Ji ti ci f a Tc^rtdla a-»-»/-l T/-

  162 John exhaled a breath too long held, slowly unclenched his fingeft from the stem of his wine cup. "As you say, Madame, a foolish boy." Hugh and Geoffrey de Lusignan still knelt stiffly before the dais and John's eyes now came to rest upon Hugh. Hugh's face was streaked with sweat and grime, an unhealthy ashen grey; under John's mocking gaze, color began to stain his cheekbones, the dull, blotched red of in,, potent rage. But he was forty-five, not fifteen, knew enough to hold his tongue. Geoffrey de Lusignan cleared his throat. "Your Grace, what mean you to do with us?" "What would you do if you were in my place?" John asked, saw the other man flinch. "So ... as bad as that? I can see we're going to have a great deal to talk about, and I'll make time for it, you may be sure. But you're luckier than you deserve, for you happen to be worth more to me alive than dead. If not, I'd have hanged you both higher than Haman, and might yet." He signaled, did not bother to watch as his guards pushed the de Lusignans toward the door. Glancing about the hall, he beckoned to William de Braose. "Since you had the honor of taking my nephew prisoner, Will, you shall have the honor of looking after him. I hereby remand him into your custody." De Braose did not appear surprised. "As it pleases Your Grace." William des Roches, however, appeared distinctly taken aback. "But. . . but my liege!" He stepped forward, toward the dais. "You did assure me that the Duke of Brittany would be put into my keeping. Your Grace . . . you gave me your word!" "Did I?" John sounded quizzical. "I recall no such promise. Do you, Will?" "No, Your Grace," William de Braose said blandly, and des Roches opened his mouth, shut it again. But he seized his first opportunity to speak to the Queen, drawing Eleanor aside as servants began to set up trestle tables, to prepare the hall for John's victory dinner. "Madame, I did not lie; upon my oath, I did not." "No one has accused you of lying, my lord." "Your Grace . . . may I speak plainly? I did support your son against Arthur, have been his loyal subject. But I do understand the loyalties your grandson commands amongst many in Anjou, in Touraine, in Brittany. I sought to explain this to the King, to make him understand the risk, and he promised me I should have the care of his nephew. I do not think it wise to give the lad over to de Braose, Madame, in truth I d° not." Eleanor agreed with him, but she responded with so glacial a stare

  163 , s goches's warning froze in his throat; he swallowed, not daring t'ia jnore, realizing he'd already said too much. '" loanna, hovering within earshot, wondered why Lord des Roches Id be so concerned about Arthur. Each time she remembered the B trageous way he'd dared talk to her father, she felt anger stir anew. Arthur was arrogant and hateful, deserved to be punished for his mal- She hoped her father kept him close, for a long, long time. She did f 1 sorry, though, for Arthur's sister, and pushing through to John's He she waited patiently till she caught his eye. He leaned down, listened as she whispered in his ear, then nodded. "If that be your wish, sweetheart, by all means." Joanna did not wait, made her way across the hall, toward the girl sitting forlorn and forgotten in the window seat. Eleanor was staring down at her lap, twisting the ring John had given her. She did not look up, not until Joanna said, "Lady Eleanor? I am your cousin Joanna, the King's daughter. My father wants you to dine with us, says you shall have a place of honor, as his kinswoman." "That's most kind of him," Eleanor said tonelessly. Joanna had hoped to cheer Eleanor, was disappointed by the girl's tepid response. "I know you are afraid. I was afraid, too, when I thought we'd be taken by your brother. But there's no need to fear, in truth there's not. My father does not blame you for what Arthur did, would not ever maltreat you. Please believe me, he would not." Eleanor studied the child. "I do believe you, Cousin Joanna," she said, and managed a wan smile, even as her eyes filled with tears. "But what of my brother? What of Arthur?" lj SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND April 1204 his I/OLLOWING a servant into the solar, Will found sister-in-law conferring with her almoner. Isabelle was always ""iendly, but now she greeted Will with such unfeigned delight that he

  164 flushed with startled pleasure. He was not at ease with lovely wome and Isabelle's beauty was particularly intimidating and ethereal to},, Try as he might, he could not imagine her afflicted with suc
h ordinat mundane ailments as chilblains, blisters, or cramps, could not envisj0 her nose red with cold, her eyes swollen with sleep, her hair in ^ combed, early-morning disarrayas he'd so often seen Ela, who w> not glamorous or exotic, but reassuringly real. "John and I did break our Lenten fast by eating meat yesterday, 3n. so today I've instructed our almoner to feed one hundred of the city's poor," Isabelle explained, linking her arm in Will's and drawing hi^ toward the privacy of a window recess. "How glad I am that you've come, Will. Have you seen John yet?" "No, I was told he'll be hearing appeals from the shire courts for the rest of the day." "You'll sup with us, of course, and you must stay awhile with the court, Will. John has need of you, and so have 1.1 am relying upon you to cheer his spirits. He's in a right foul temper, has been brooding for more than a fortnight about the fall of that wretched castle." "Well, Castle Gaillard is of great defensive importance, guards the approach to Rouen ..." Will began, quite willing to educate Isabelle in the finer points of military strategy. His efforts were wasted. Isabelle heard him out, but murmured only a tepidly polite, "How very interesting." She glanced about to make sure all others were out of earshot. "Will. . . tell me in honesty. Is Normandy well and truly lost to John?" "We still hold Rouen and Falaise, Chinon Castle ..." Will hedged. "But even if the tide continues to run against us, and Normandy, too, falls to Philip, you must not fear, lass. Angouleme, Gascony, and Poitou still hold fast for John." He waited glumly for her to remind him, though, that Maine, Anjou, Brittany, and Touraine had all been lost to Philip within the past twelvemonth. He could recite the reasons why it had happened, a litany of ill luck, blunders, and betrayal. John's chronic and crippling lack of funds. The disloyalty of his Norman barons, who thought it safer to defy a distant English King than a neighboring French one. John's errors of judgment and his indecision, his unfortunate penchant for turning allies into enemies; William des Roches had ridden away from Mirebeau as a rebel. But to understand why Philip had prevailed was not to accept it, and Will did not want to discuss their disastrous Normandy campaign with anyone, least of all with his brother's wife. Isabelle fidgeted with her rings; John might be short of money to pay his troops, but he still found the means to indulge his young