The Prince of Poison

by Pamela Kaufman

  Except, again . . . Where was Hamo? Was it possible that Hamo himself had done the deed?

  My horse? Was Sea Mew the reason for this?

  Averting my eyes from the grinning head, I searched Bok’s body, then the equipment on his horse. A dagger, a slab of wormy bacon in his saddlebag, three deniers in his right boot, his helmet, which could serve as a water bucket. I thrust one sore foot into his boot and—the biggest surprise—his boots fitted me perfectly. I’d just managed to pull both of them on when something moved in the wood ahead.

  Sea Mew, my beloved horse! He dripped water on me—he’d found a fesh spring! He was an omen! He and I would survive! A pox on all outlaws, on Hamo if he was one! I filled my helmet from Sea Mew’s spring, then again lay back on the rock. No point exposing myself on the road. The darkness with its own hazards was better than light.

  The sun shone small as a sparrow’s egg when I rose again.

  I threw a few red flowers across Bok, whispered a prayer, and led Sea Mew onto the road. Once I could leave this cursed land, once I was in England, I would be safe. I’d escaped King John, hadn’t I? I’d avoided the butcher in the wood, I was heading home to have my baby at Wanthwaite, and Enoch was alive! Enoch and England. I laughed silently.

  Sardines. Sardines? Aye, frying in clear olive oil, hundreds of them. Succulent, fresh, no worms to pick out as I did with my bacon slab. Was I going totty? No, I caught a real whiff—sardines! Aye, sardines! I must be close to La Rochelle! The port Queen Eleanor had created from a tiny fishing village to export salt and wine to England.

  I must cross misty salt flats, then climb a high dune before I could see La Rochelle’s city wall. The chapel bell had just rung basse prime by the time I reached the dune; a crenellated wall made of sandstone encircled the small city; above the wall, tall masts of the sardine fleet swayed slowly as they docked with the night’s catch. They were in a channel between La Rochelle and the islands of R and Olron, a channel too shallow to accommodate seagoing vessels; the queen had constructed a long seawall south of the city where her fleet anchored. A tall seagoing ship lay there at this moment. My heart raced. Bok’s three deniers would surely purchase the fish, and one of Bonel’s diamonds might secure passage on the tall ship!

  I scrambled down the cityside of the dune, then hesitated. Be cautious.

  After I’d placed Sea Mew on the shady side of the dune where he munched on purple blooms, I climbed a spindly tree for a better view. Two young boys, yawning and pounding their hands together, took their places as guards at a double door in the wall. They wore short red tunics and high black boots, and carried swords, though they didn’t appear to be knights—I doubted if they yet had beards. They marched till and fro aimlessly, stopping to chat each time they passed one another.

  As the sun rose, the odor of sardines grew stronger. The silly guards slumped against the wall. One yawned and stretched. I began to descend. At the last moment, I paused; a young woman approached the city from the hills in a donkey cart loaded with grapes. I would wait for her to go first. Her cart wobbled dangerously on wheels of different sizes; a few grapes rolled off the top. What a charming lass with her wide straw hat and flaxen braids, what a bucolic sight! She made me smile—did the guards smile as well?

  They apparently asked for a pass. Deus juva me, I had no pass. She did, though. The young guards handed it back and forth to each other at least three times—couldn’t they read? They apparently asked her to step down—what was wrong with her pass? On the cobbles and upright, her scarlet tunic billowed around a bulge in her middle—she was pregnant, mayhap four months along. Like me.

  The guard on the right punched her abdomen. She doubled forward, clutching herself. At the second strike, she screamed. I waddled down the dune to help her, then stopped, horrified. I was too late—she lay supine on the cobbles. Now both the guards kicked her again and again. One knelt beside her and said something to the other, who promptly pulled a stone from the wall and cracked her head open.

  The guards each took a foot and dragged her inside the wall.

  They were back almost at once. One picked something off the other’s shoulder. Together, they examined the cart, then threw grapes into each other’s mouths.

  I burrowed into the sand close to Sea Mew. Could anyone see me? What a stupid ass I’d been to imagine that I’d escaped King John! Deus juva me, he was killing every gravid young woman in the kingdom! Or was it those close to ports? Or in red? A buffoon? The ineffective baby brother Richard had so indulged? John was a ruthless criminal! King of England—poor England! And he wanted to kill me, aye, kill me and my babe. How had I ever thought he was just a buffoon? The common illusion! Oh God, that poor peasant girl! I stuffed my mouth with sand and almost choked! Then I trembled so the sand cracked above me even as I let my water soak it below me. I didn’t care.

  Oh God! Jesus! Deus juva me!

  The sun was high in its run when my mind turned from panic to purpose. My parents had been murdered, aye, brutally slain, by Lord Roland de Roncechaux. I’d flown for help then, but in the end I’d killed Lord Roland myself, hadn’t I? I wouldn’t be gravid forever, and after this babe was born . . .

  Enoch and England, more than a sunburst, a necessity! Oh God, I must get to England!

  But the ports—that dead peasant girl—think! Think!

  Bonel.

  True, the Jew was the king’s man, but he also protected people the king assaulted. And he felt for me—what? He’d kissed me once, told me . . . Aye, Bonel must protect me until my prince was born, and then . . .

  Yet I cringed with shame. Hadn’t Bonel warned me that King Richard had exploited me? Aye, Richard had used me, and his brother wanted to kill me. Very well, I’d been used and attacked. So be it. No point reviewing the past. Think of the future. John had knights, wealth, position, even his sex in his favor, but I would win. I didn’t need to rehearse my own advantages—I knew them. King John thought he was King Herod of old, but it takes only one person, one babe, to upset such savagery.

  And, admit it, I’d been stupid before. Even in Fontevrault Wood I’d thought I could escape the “silly boy” brother. No more. Confident, aye, but wary. Vengeance. For the peasant girl in red, for others I might never know, for myself. I would prefer not to kill. Enoch had studied the law in Paris, and he could guide me legally to a solution. It had to be done craftily and permanently.

  But first, I must go to Bonel.

  At sundown, reborn in my shallow grave, I cast a farewell glance at La Rochelle. Though the aroma of sardines still hung heavy, the peasant girl was gone.

  Or was she? A pillar of fire burned where she’d stood; I waved, she waved back.

  I stopped at a small swift river by the forest. Sea Mew refused to drink; then I, too, caught the stench of a tanning factory upstream. Nevertheless, I dipped my nun’s habit in the river to remove the sea salt, then spread it on a bush to dry. At dawn, I slipped it over my scarlet Plantagenet tunic, fastened my white wimple firmly over my flaxen braids, and, with Bok’s boots, was prepared to move again. The king had seen the habit, of course, but could he kill every nun in France?

  No, but he could kill every pregnant nun in France. I studied my middle: a slight bulge, easily covered. My breasts, however, were also bulging more every day. Nevertheless, the habit was still voluminous.

  When it became dark, I followed the path northward. There were no other travelers that night; at dawn, I turned into the forest to sleep. I continued this pattern until dense forests gave way to occasional fields surrounded by stone walls that enclosed dwellings. Twice I was forced to sleep behind a wall, but most times I could still find natural cover.

  Even away from the sea, I caught glimpses of Plantagent red; John was still active in Aquataine.

  Though I sliced Bok’s bacon thinner and thinner, I finally ran out. Summer was waning—there were no birds’ eggs or even birds. Weasels and badgers and squirrels followed me with interest, but evaded my hands. Berry bushes had been c
leaned by the departed birds; once I made myself sick by eating all the wormy fruit on a summer apple tree. From the apples, I learned that worms gave sustenance. Earthworms squirmed in my mouth, however, and when I tried to suck them down whole, inside my stomach.

  One rainy night, my way was blocked by city walls. I smelled the tanning factory; the next day, I was able to drink from the stream and even catch a few fish.

  It became more difficult to disguise my pregnancy, certainly to myself. I urinated frequently (which slowed my progress considerably); I slept even while riding at night, felt a ravenous hunger. These symptoms, while bothersome, were invisible; not so my body: my breasts seeped, and I carried a mangonel ball in my middle.

  A hot mistral dried the vegetation and gave me a headache, then dizziness. The mistral foreshadowed a change of seasons; summer gave way to bitter cold and rain. The soft blue sky descended to an iron lid. Winds howled from the ocean. Sea Mew’s hooves sank deep in black mud, and when I dismounted, so did my boots. I huddled under bushes for warmth.

  I found a dead bird in the thorns; its flesh was filled with maggots—no matter.

  That was disgusting! Give me a golden capon!

  Capons are light brown, my lord, not gold! The color comes from egg yolk mixed with ginger!

  Then get it for me! I’m a prince!

  Aye, my lord, but I’m not a princess. You chose your mother badly.

  There was a short silence. No I did not! I will do such deeds that we can both be proud!

  I stroked my stomach. He continued:

  Meantime, must we always be alone? Shouldn’t we have company?

  My eyes filled. We’ll never be alone—not so long as we have each other! I love you, baby!

  I love you, Mother, came the answer.

  God knows, I yearned for love, so perhaps I’d imagined the exchange, but no matter. I would coat his maggots with gold if that’s what he wanted, for he was my son—not Richard’s or John’s or Eleanor’s or anyone’s in the whole world but mine!

  Cross the field—we must find shelter.

  Hailstones tormented every surface! A sharp fireflash illuminated a hedged area to my right; a second revealed a house and outbuildings. It took a while to find an opening in the hedge, after which Sea Mew had to fend off two fierce dogs.

  The first building was a granary, the second a cow byre. Black-and-white cows mooed a gentle welcome and continued munching. I’d just settled into a pile of straw when a brace of feathers attacked my head—a rooster! I wrung his neck, plucked his feathers, and ate him down.

  My prince and I stayed in the cow byre for only a week. The mistress milked her cows at sunrise; she always left a little milk in the udders, for which I was grateful. Three hens laid two eggs a day that I ate at once. A small snake came looking for eggs and I ate him, too. I felt worse about the snake than I had the rooster; the snake was only a baby, and it hadn’t attacked me. Nevertheless, its meat was sweeter than worms’.

  One eve the dame’s man came with her to gather eggs.

  “If them biddies can’t lay, they can go to the table,” he growled.

  “It’s the time of year!” His dame shielded me with her skirt. “You remember last August, how sparse they were.”

  “I remember that there’s a reward out for some criminal in these parts. The king’s men were here not a week ago!”

  I left the following night, taking only one hen with me. I had gained considerable weight during my sojourn.

  I want milk!

  I sucked the bones of my hen, which I’d cooked when lightning struck a bush.

  Enjoy the marrow!

  I need liquid! If you give me any more of that foul swamp water, I’ll abort!

  The demand of a prince—I knew that imperious cadence.

  Holding my three deniers, I gazed down on a small country village on market day. When I descended, a woman with only one eye and a huge wen on her neck stared at my bulge. Three barefoot children clung to her skirts—she must recognize my condition despite my tying a rope as close as possible to my waist and stuffing dry leaves to create huge dangling breasts. Few nuns are pregnant, but many are fat. I waddled past the dame with my nose high.

  Flies crawled on the skins of a brace of chickens hanging on a stick, meaning winter must still be far away despite the inclement weather.

  “Greeting, Sister.” A monk of the Benedictine order spread a gap-toothed smile.

  “Greeting,” I whispered, and smiled back. He gasped aloud. I’d fastened a dead snail to my upper gum like a boil.

  With dirty hands curved like claws, I made the sign of the cross.

  “Domine Jesu Cristi, pace, pace, pace!

  Non sum dignus est intre sub tectum meum . . .”

  He was gone.

  I sidled to the next booth with cheese rounds aplenty. I showed my three deniers to the wizened dame behind the counter; she quickly selected two of her largest rounds and insisted on giving them to me free, if I would say a prayer for her son, who had the falling sickness. We argued a bit; I would pray forsooth, but I wanted to pay. By the time I left the market, I had my cheeses, a wooden bowl of curds, a sheepskin for the cold nights, and my three deniers.

  From behind a bush where my prince and I enjoyed our acquisitions, I heard horses on the road. Drawing back, I watched one of the king’s men in his short scarlet tunic emblazoned with the three lions en passant of the Plantagenet house; he was talking to my Benedictine monk, who now quickly threw off his habit.

  “Pas ici,” said the monk/knight.

  After they’d ridden away, I quickly drank my curds.

  That’s better, my prince approved.

  I became more and more lethargic. Distances stretched forever; I slept on my horse. My undergarment—my Plantagenet tunic essential for warmth—had become tight in the middle. Trying to stay awake in daylight so I could see, I undid the stitches at the sides.

  From a hillock, I surveyed where the road split below me, one branch leading along the sea in Brittany, one inland toward Angers; two soldiers manned a booth where all travelers had to show passes. The guards, large strapping young men, asked penetrating questions in rough Norman French. All the travelers became totty under their rough scrutiny; I was not the only person in France who feared John’s punishment. An elderly merchant tried to protect a gravid young woman, possibly his daughter. Another pregnant woman with four children followed him behind the shed; I hoped they survived.

  Would the booth close at sundown? Could I slip by in the dark? Difficult. There was a pile of pine torches behind the booth.

  Brittany was out of the question. Anjou was also a Plantagenet stronghold, but I knew how to slip through Angers.

  If I only had a pass!

  Suddenly, a covey of nuns rode into sight. Talking and laughing and twittering like so many blackbirds, they all pulled passes from their sacks. I spurred Sea Mew to join them. A guard looked at the pass of the head sister only and waved us through. We took the road to Angers.

  I soon wearied in the daylight hours. The nun on my right put her hand to steady me.

  “Gracias,” I whispered.

  The nun on my left then asked my name in rough country argot.

  “Sister Hilaria,” I replied.

  She seemed satisfied.

  Occasional dense forests interspersed with fields. The trees, I noted, were brightly hued.

  Colored leaves dropped in our laps at Haute Tierce. A nun helped me dismount, then helped me ease myself to the ground.

  “Soeur Jeanne,” she said. She knew I was a stranger.

  She patted my stomach sympathetically.

  “A bollus,” I explained.

  We both smiled.

  Three other nuns offered a crust of bread, a piece of cheese, a boiled egg. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  When we continued, moreover, the first nun sat pillion behind me so I could rest against her.

  We entered Angers near dusk on the second day. Again we followed the head nun th
rough the gate without incident. The nun who had ridden with me slipped to her own horse. King Richard had brought me to Angers to show me the great castle where his father had lived as a boy. We passed it now; the park had a herd of grazing deer; flying flags indicated that someone of the royal family was in residence. I could only pray that it wasn’t King John.

  We rode up a steep hill to the town center. Sister Jeanne indicated that we had reached our destination, but I didn’t follow them through the gate to their abbey, a small shabby building in the distance. I spurred Sea Mew to a brisk canter past the hostel, past a large church, past another royal building, until I reached the gate on the opposite side of the city, hoping to beat its closing. A church bell tolled curfew. Behind the royal edifice, I dismounted.

  Six guards passed near, talking and japing, on their way to bolt the gate. I flung a loose stone over the wall to alarm them. In an instant, they rushed through the gate to see who had passed without examination. Quickly, I led my horse behind them. Once on the other side, I sank into a cesspool. An arrow whizzed close—they shouted for help—a small army thundered past me. Within a few heartbeats, noisome but safe, I rode along an old Roman road.

  The twists of the Seine doubled my distance. Though there was more cover of bush and copses, the countryside was also more populated. Royal soldiers and knights everywhere. I huddled on my sheepskin under dripping bushes by daylight, rode only at night.

  When will we get to Bonel’s?

  The Seine was so high that it swept over Le Pont des Arches in places and completely inundated the old wooden bridge. Breathing deeply, I raised my eyes to Rouen’s familiar fortifications, the wall high as six horses with huge rounded towers every few feet. The gate’s iron spikes, now closed, rose when the cathedral bell rang basse prime. Immediately, a rush of people crowded the swaying arched bridge. Now I whiffed a charred odor emanating from the city.