The Prince of Poison

by Pamela Kaufman

  Though the battle had been fierce in York, he had been the only baron who’d been seriously wounded.

  I shuddered so hard I shook the bed.

  “Did the king mistake York for Wanthwaite?”

  “O’ course nocht! Quhy do ye ask?”

  Because John must know where I lived and the document . . . I sighed with relief.

  “It war aboot forest rights. The king shoulda ta’en his complaints to the assize court.”

  “Perhaps he prefers to fight. He’s a killer.”

  “Aye, twa assaults this same month. Both fer forest rights.”

  “Forest rights?” What had this to do with my pregnancy? Or Theo’s document?

  “He’s attacking the barons becas he wants their lands forsooth. The barons air talkin’ of civil war. Nu, do ye understand?” His face suddenly twisted. “Lond be nocht the anely reason. Thar be things mar important.”

  What was more important than land in Enoch’s eyes?

  “Sae they’re meetin’ here—the Brotherhood—ond I want ye shuld speak aboot yer babe!”

  I reached for my document.

  Enoch held it aloft.

  “I ha’e promised to gi’e the barons a different way to rid themselves o’ this monster. They’ll lose a civil war. They be comin’ here in September, as soon as the crops be in.”

  “To hear me speak about my baby with the gestation of an elephant?”

  He flushed deeply. “Ye’ll do it, Alix.”

  I stared blankly, not knowing what to say. Had he gone woodly with his wound?

  “Ye’ll hald up this document ond tal them ye’re expecting Richard’s bairn!”

  Expecting—Theo? I laughed at the absurdity, not at the actual suggestion, which was almost tragic. “And what reason will I give for my late delivery? Richard’s been dead for two years, Enoch!”

  “Aye, that be yer problem.”

  Englishmen were not naive. I said so.

  “The word be nocht naive, it be desperate.”

  We stared at each other.

  “I could resolve their desperation by killing the king.”

  “Ond I could kill ye.” He wasn’t japing. “After my babe be born—Fiona would mother it.”

  I trembled violently. “Never!” I opened the door.

  “Ye’ll do it, Alix!” he shouted at my back. “Ye con invent yer ane reason fer takin’ sae lang!”

  Back in my own quarters, I chilled. Without his saying so specifically, I understod that Enoch was still enraged about Richard.

  Enoch and England.

  I sank to the mat where he’d lain beside me. I looked at my long tapering fingers—not swollen, Deo gratias—and rolled to my side.

  I couldn’t sleep. Enoch was a Scot, a murderous and ambitious Scot. Could he become king of England? Was I to be forever the means for men’s ambitions? I must be careful.

  Of course, I might die in childbirth—many women did—or the baby might die. Yet I wanted this baby, wanted it to survive, which meant also that I should kill John.

  9

  As soon as Enoch was able to mount his destrier again, he armed himself heavily and left Wanthwaite, whether to fight about forest rights he didn’t say. It was the fighting season, in any case. He looked formidable on his huge warhorse, not a comical Scot at all, but a savage cutthroat.

  He put Thorketil and Edwina in charge of our fields and forests and women’s work. Much as I resented being put in an inferior position on my own estate, I knew little of the actual business of Wanthwaite, and this was really my first summer at home. Though I’d been the ostensible head when still a child and Enoch had been in Scotland, I shortly realized how much had changed since that time.

  The principal change, of course, was that I was expecting a child myself. I should have been happy, even though it was Enoch’s seed, and indeed my condition took my mind somewhat off Theo. And I wanted this bairn, aye, really wanted it, and there was the rub. The more I considered Enoch’s goal for the throne, the more I felt that this bairn was doomed. Most of all, I was absolutely blank when it came to explaining my two-year pregnancy. Even the Scots here in our household knew how babes were made and how long it took.

  Therefore, I was distracted when Edwina explained a new plow to me. Activities in the bed were sometimes referred to as “plowing”; when Edwina waxed enthusiastic over the steel blade from Germany that cut the soil more efficiently than wood, my mind drifted back to last winter, when I’d confused Wolfbane with Enoch in my bed, as if I wouldn’t know my own husband! The German blade was important, for it permitted horses to pull our plows instead of oxen, which meant that horses lived in the stables and oxen were released into our woods. The blade also meant that we could finally grow oats for our own table as well as for animals. The oats created destriers in place of small horses, and the oatcakes made us fat.

  “When do you expect your bairn?” I asked Edwina.

  “Late autumn or early winter, same as you. This is the best time of life for a woman.”

  Best for her, perhaps; I feared King John’s knife.

  She went on: Oats fertilized our soil in some way, so that we had fallen into the newfangled way of rotating our crops. All because of a German blade!

  We also began rotating beans with other vegetables (Gruoth had discovered that beans replenished the soil, and it had naught to do with a German blade), and I dreamed of how my little boy would learn such new techniques.

  Then reality hit. Instead of pondering German blades, I should be preparing a new grave for my fetus next to Theo’s. I should also dig my own grave. If the barons didn’t slay me on the spot, Enoch would.

  In short, I could think of nothing to explain my delayed condition.

  Despite these dour thoughts, my appetite grew with everyone else’s. Our winter diet of beans and turnips plus whatever we could kill in the forest was also our diet in July, a fallow month while we waited for autumn harvests. I remembered vividly that the Jews wouldn’t eat beans because they caused blurred vision, and while my vision seemed normal forsooth, I suffered flatulence.

  Summer was the fecund season, and we women compared our bulging bellies, for we seemed to have conceived all at the same time. I wondered briefly if Enoch had prowled from one mat to another, but, of course, these women flushed and boasted of their husbands’ prowess, especially Margaret with Havelock. Edwina suggested we oil ourselves to prevent stretch marks. I rubbed myself, even though no one could find marks—Edwina warned that sometimes they came late. While others chatted about names and possible sex, however, I stayed awake at nights trying to scheme some way to save this babe. I imagined all sorts of methods that John might use his routiers against us. I was now convinced that the king had murdered Theo quite intentionally.

  Thorketil made coarse, loving jokes about Edwina’s cabbage shape; Donald complained that he could no longer find Gruoth’s slit in all that flesh; even Havelock stroked Margaret’s lump lovingly. Enoch was seldom on the estate during this fighting season, but, when he was, he asked me only if I’d devised a credible argument about how I could still be carrying Richard’s babe.

  I dug a proper grave for Theo next to my parents and planted it with wild rose hips from the forest. When I spoke to him every evening, I told him he would soon have a little brother in the grave next to his to keep him company.

  The barons of Enoch’s Brotherhood agreed to meet at Wanthwaite. My spirits plummeted. I vascillated between defiance and sullen fear. Enoch told me again that his friends were desperate, but I couldn’t imagine anyone desperate enough to accept such a woodly tale. I concluded that Enoch must want me dead—and so did Lady Fiona—but wasn’t there some more direct way to do it? Then I thought belatedly that Fiona was indeed barren, and they wanted this babe for their own purposes.

  Aye, they might want the babe, but not me. I resigned myself to death.

  The autumn rains began early and threatened our grain. Everyone went to the fields to fight the mold at the same time t
hat we must arrange for accommodations inside. Our horses joined the oxen in the fields as we transformed the stable into a hostel. We removed as much manure as we could, covered with clean straw what we couldn’t. My former schoolroom and the chapel were already prepared.

  The first two lords arrived together: Richard, Earl of Clare and William de Fors, Earl of Aumle, each with five knights. They were followed quickly by the Earl of Norfolk with ten knights. Twenty-three more giants arrived, fourteen with bandages, all on huge fighting destriers, which they immediately put in the stable. The lords were courteous and condescending, making it clear that Wanthwaite was a paltry estate compared to their great palatinates. And Enoch was right, they were desperate men. The pall of melancholy soon hung heavy in our Great Hall.

  These were Enoch’s “Brothers”; they would have been my associates if I controlled Wanthwaite. And they were England. I might rant about blue skies and flowers, but a country is its people. Well, England should be proud. Most were fair (showing their Viking ancestors), most were tall, most had deep voices, all were courteous. Though garbed in fighting gear, many wore rich chains with crucifixes, and silver or gold rings. The Scots stood out in such company. Equally brawny and fierce, they wore capes over their shoulders, short plaid kilts, bristly socks with straw in the woof to their knees. One lone piper droned in the corner, and for the first time I realized how sad the bagpipe was. Sad their pipes might be, but the Scots were prancing with glee compared to the English.

  At noon, Lord Robert fitzWalter of Baynard Castle and Dunmow arrived, thus giving the signal that the meeting could begin. Lord Robert, an impressive man of medium height whose bright black eyes took in every nuance of behavior, not only controlled London (though he wasn’t mayor), he owned vast estates all over England and Normandy; only King John had more wealth. To me, he was simply one of the last people to see Theo alive—I watched him hungrily, but dared not approach him directly, though his black eyes sought me out, then held. He wore a blue tunic pinned with a gold dragon on a heavy chain and trimmed with miniver, despite the hot humid air.

  I watched for Lord Eustace de Vesci from Alnwick, the only baron I knew, though a most unpleasant wight in my opinion; in everyone else’s view, he was one of our important guests because of his connection to the Scottish throne. I prayed he wouldn’t come, for he knew quite well I hadn’t been gravid when he’d met me in London. And I recalled as well that Lord Eustace was a friend of the de Braose family because he was a friend of King John’s.

  I need not have worried—if he came, I didn’t see him. Mayhap Enoch had had the same thoughts that I had.

  To my astonishment, however, Bishop Giles of Hereford was among the lords. Certainly, he couldn’t be a member of the Brotherhood, nor did he have the vigor of our lords. Yet he’d changed, for he’d once appeared brawny as a knight. What had happened? Was it because of Lady Matilda? He’d lost a third of his previous weight; his bishop’s robes fell in thick folds around his frail body. His eyes were no longer tearful, however, nor did he share the melancholy of our other guests; this was an angry man.

  “That be the plaid o’ the king,” Gruoth whispered.

  “Where? King John?”

  “King William o’ Scotland. Lord Eustace be wed to the Scottish princess. He be wearin’ her plaid.”

  That was Lord Eustace? I gasped—I couldn’t believe the man she indicated was Lord Eustace! But aye, the same narrow nose, the same thin lips, eyes the color of wet sand, even the same smiling manservant. I’d heard of people turning white overnight from grief but never seen it before—and he was even thinner than Bishop Giles.

  Lord Eustace approached me. My heart squeezed—was there no place I could go? I fully expected some crude comment about my condition, but, to my amazement, his supercilious voice was respectful. “Lady Alix, thank you for your hospitality.” He knelt before me. “And thank you for so bravely giving us hope in this desperate time.”

  Desperate time. For whom? Not for him, for me.

  Or maybe Lord Eustace’s crops had failed or a child had sickened; if the man had to suffer some disaster to make him human, then I was grateful for his tragedy.

  I exchanged no other words with anyone that day. Men kept arriving; Gruoth kept whispering their names. All seemed weary, and all seemed low in spirits.

  Early on the second day, Enoch announced that the official meeting would begin. Though he thanked his Brothers for traveling great distances at this busy time of year, his voice, too, was grave. He knew well their sacrifice, but he also knew their universal shame; he promised the journey would be worth their trouble. For their convenience, he hoped to complete our business in a single day.

  Universal shame? What shame? That a few had been wounded in battle?

  Father William arrived from Dunsmere dripping water on our floor—for the rain had increased—to open our meeting with a prayer. I hadn’t invited him—had Enoch? He smiled approvingly at my inflated middle.

  Enoch replaced the priest at the podium; he wanted to state the limits of the law of feudalism so we all shared exactly the same understanding. I sighed; Enoch would introduce his beloved law into our meeting. Was rape against feudal law? He intoned: The king owned all of England, and the distribution of estates had an ancient history and was never disputed; we all thereforet paid a feu, which might be considered a rental fee for our lands, though such rents were limited to the land itself. He looked up significantly: The feu did not give the king rights over our wives or children.

  My heart raced. Had this meeting been called simply to expose me as King Richard’s concubine? Was Enoch still that angry? Was I to become an exhibit with my distended belly?

  Through my lashes, I studied the barons. They were paying attention, aye, to a fault. Yet hadn’t Enoch himself told me that their biggest complaint concerned the forest laws? Wasn’t that part of feudal law?

  Yet I grew more and more uneasy. Every exit, I noted, was guarded by a Scot.

  “Hear! Hear!” murmured the barons.

  “We didna sign away our wives and dochters!” Enoch thundered. “They be nocht diseissed to the king! Niver!”

  Enoch then called Bishop Giles of Hereford to begin. Now I was completely confused: Bishop Giles had no wife or children that I knew of, nor was he connected in any way to the tragedy of my abduction. Of course, there was the de Braose case, but that had naught to do with these barons.

  “My brother, Lord William, died last week in Normandy,” the bishop began. “He was murdered, not by the sword, but by a broken heart.”

  My tears gushed. As with Theo’s death, I wanted to die—after I gave birth.

  Then the bishop’s theme turned to Lady Matilda and her children, a tragedy well known throughout England by now. A tragedy and a scandal—even here in Wanthwaite we’d heard rumors of the king’s villainy.

  “William died of a broken heart,” Bishop Giles continued through tears. “The king had made gifts of lands and money that he later claimed were only loans; he demanded exorbitant repayment—or death.”

  “Stay to the pint!” a Scot shouted. “Women and childern!”

  “Isn’t the death of my sister-in-law and her sons point enough?”

  “Aye!” cried the barons.

  Bishop Giles sat down. A heavy silence fell over the company.

  Enoch now introduced Lord William Marshal of Pembroke Junior, son of the famous Earl William Marshal, who rivaled Lord William de Braose and Lord Robert fitzWalter as the richest man in England. Though the son walked boldly, towering over most of the other knights, he was the youngest man in the Hall by far, hardly more than a boy.

  He stood in front with his eyes lowered, as if not certain why he was here. His cheeks were fuzzy. Then he raised his lids to reveal fiery orbs.

  “King John,” he said in a boy’s broken voice, “demanded two of my brothers as hostages, one of two years, one of four. In deference to my father, he placed the younger one—two years old—in his own court under the care of Q
ueen Isabella. The older, however, Roger by name and only four, was sent to Corfe, where he perished in a leaden cuff. My father, though deeply hurt, remained steadfast in his vows to the king. But I am my own man. I mean no disrespect to my father, but I loved my brother, and I don’t think any man born of woman, be he king or no, has the right to murder another man’s child. I have wept my last tears, however, and now I am angry. I cannot serve such a tyrant.”

  This case, less known than the de Braose tragedy, shocked the company. His situation also seemed parallel to mine. What did his mother feel? I had company.

  An even taller man came forward, a blond giant like the men in Ostend, and as richly attired as Lord Robert.

  “Saer de Quenci,” announced Enoch.

  Edwina whispered, “He and Lord Robert lost Vaudreuil to the French; King John claims they betrayed him!”

  Not mentioning Vaudreuil, Lord Saer spoke instead of King John’s prurient and destructive curiosity about the private lives of his subjects. He claimed that the king rode the countryside in disguise and picked up gossip from taverns, which he then used as blackmail.

  “For example, Lord William de Bellevoir was estranged from his wife. The king put his human hounds on the scent of this scandal. They learned that Lord William had another lady—also married—and the king threatened to expose him if he didn’t give a huge sum of money, what we call blackmail. Lord William sold land and paid the king, whereupon the king trumpeted his indiscretion anyway. Now Lord William, his wife, and his friend are dead. I call that murder.”

  Edwina whispered again, “’Tis true.”

  Now I had no doubt that Enoch would expose me as a victim of King Richard, thus claiming that the evil is in the Plantagenet blood. How I hated King Richard at this moment! Though not so much as I hated King John.

  Lord William de Lanvalle took the podium. When one of the older de Braose boys, Gilbert by name, had been murdered at Windsor, he had left Lord de Lanvalle’s daughter distraught, for she and Gilbert had been betrothed. Though he could do nothing to stem her grief, Lord William did try to recover the large dowry for the wedding, which the king had seized. When Lord William had requested that the dowry be returned, the king had not only refused, he’d threatened the life of his daughter.