The knights then pointed out where they’d hacked a narrow path running parallel to Dere Stret to the spot where Lord Robert and Lord Eustace would be waiting for Enoch. The three men would cross Dere Street in the presence of John’s entire army, who presumably would not yet understand the significance of their stopping because they were in the rear.
“How lang will we be exiles in Normandy?” Enoch asked. “Since John be dead, con we return soon? Will we still be in exile?”
A good question: Who would be king? Would he forgive the assassins? Would the pope?
“Lord Robert and Lord Eustace both have grand estates in Normandy.” Sir Jrome avoided a direct answer. “I would give much to hunt in those forests again.”
Which meant yes, he would be an exile.
“What happens if Enoch misses?” I asked. “Won’t the king’s men search the bushes?”
“He won’t miss.”
“Then he hits. Won’t they still hunt?”
“He’ll be gone!” Sir Jrome reminded me haughtily.
“May we see the exact spot where Lord Robert and Lord Eustace will wait?” I asked.
Both knights consented to lead us to the rendezvous.
We rode silently for several miles along Dere Street until we came within sight of the path leading up to the ridge.
The knights stopped.
Sir Jrome explained again that soldiers in John’s army would be too far from the event to be suspicious when Enoch appeared.
“How many heartbeats did you count from the blind?” I asked Enoch when the knights rode on.
“Twenty-three thousand five hundred twenty-seven.”
About sixty more than I’d counted. We stared at each other: Why would Lord Eustace and Lord Robert wait that amount of time for Enoch?
Yes, Enoch was their enfant perdu.
He increased his marksmanship practice.
The Scots watched him silently. Occasionally, Edward or Thorketil would advise him in low tones.
Then Sir Gilbert rode in to report that the king might be going to the Low Countries before fighting King Llywelyn of Wales after all.
He dashed away before we could even question him. Enoch rose from his kneeling position and spoke to Thorketil, whereupon his friend instantly rode south. He returned two weeks later: King Llywelyn of Wales still planned to attack, probably close to Durham. King John still planned to march north; the assassination plan was in place.
Yet we remained confused. What had Sir Gilbert meant by his visit? I prayed he wasn’t a spy.
King John wasn’t idle during this period. Geoffrey de Mandeville, Earl of Essex and cousin to Lord Robert, was murdered by one of King John’s routiers; the castle of Henry Bohun, Lord of Hereford, was burned in the last week of July; Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford, and Geoffrey de Say, Earl of Clare, sent runners all over England to warn of impending civil war. Would John’s death prevent such a disaster?
One late eve when Enoch and I huddled in a corner over our ale, I spoke out. “Does the baron’s choice to make you the assassin have something to do with me, Enoch?”
He pretended astonishment. “You? Quhy?”
“Simple. The king knows that I live close to Dere Street. Perhaps your Brotherhood wants to get rid of me for your sake.”
He put down his ale. “I doona knaw.”
But he didn’t deny the Brotherhood’s opinion of me. We both fell into melancholy disposition.
I spoke first. “Or mayhap the barons are angry about Leith’s sex. This may be vengeance.”
He shook his head. “As ye sayed, most be fathers. They knew that half o’ babes be females.” He stood. “I war chosen in part becas I’m guid and in part becas I live at Wanthwaite, quhich be conwenient.”
Yet I lived here, too. I shuddered, remembering France. If Enoch missed, I had no doubt of my own fate. I couldn’t hold back tears. “I’m sorry if I’ve gotten you into this horror.”
For the first time since he’d raped me, he put a hand to my shoulder. “Ye’re wrang, Alix. ’Tis nocht you or Wanthwaite, ’tis all o’ England. Ond I be chose becas I’m the best mon with the bow. Ond John be riding clase.” He paused again. “Those be guid reasons, but in truth, the anely way to cure England be to change the law.”
Yes, he was good at bowmanship. I was also good, for I’d been practicing for hours every day. If Enoch missed—if John rode up our berm . . . well, I would be waiting.
Enoch leaned over his baby.
On August 17, King John and his army left London for Durham, north of Wanthwaite. Sir Jrome and Sir Gilbert kept us informed of his progress.
By coincidence, the ecclesiastical court from Durham was visiting Dunsmere soon after John passed—if he did.
“The king wants to visit the new Scottish king Alexander before he fights Wales,” Sir Gilbert informed us.
Enoch was outraged. “Be ye sayin’ that Scotland be with King John?”
No answer.
Sir Gilbert was back in four days: King John had assembled another army at Dover to try to take Normandy. Perhaps he would give up Wales altogether. Then Lord Eustace sent “good” news: King Llywelyn was finally poised to attack England, and King John was finally marching north on Dere Street.
Our day to assassinate him arrived.
“Leith and I will go with you,” I announced.
“To the labyrinth!”
“I want her to be with you to the last heartbeat!”
His eyes filled, his voice broke. “Tak keer of her yif . . . !”
I mounted my saddled horse. “You can’t stop me, Enoch!”
We glared at each other. Blue woad dripped down his face. “Yif she screams?”
And I knew I’d won.
“Ich doona want ye shuld see me killed eider, Alix.”
“We’re speaking of Leith! She may see you kill King John! Imagine the glory!”
“Ye wull hald yer hand o’er her mouth so she doesna cry out,” he conceded, “boot nocht her eyes! I want her to see!”
My heart broke. I saw myself as a small girl gazing into the moat where my father’s life blood drained into the water. I knew firsthand what it is to lose a father! And my mother—if Enoch failed, I hoped Leith and I went with him. I wiped my eyes.
“I willna die.” He patted me awkwardly. “Ye forgit I’m a Scot.”
That was one thing I never forgot!
I’d persuaded him to wear the hunter’s green, and now he ordered that I again wear my nun’s habit because it was black; Leith likewise was to be wrapped in a black shawl. He smeared our faces and hands with blue woad to make us “inwisible,” and instructed that I keep my eyes slitted so the whites wouldn’t show. In short, we became a typical Scottish family going to war: I should be grateful he didn’t insist we ride naked.
Tears ran over his woad. “I want her to remember me at my best!” He hesitated. “Ond ye, too, Alix.”
Silently, I put Leith on my saddle in front of me. Once Enoch was intent on his mission, I slipped a honey teat into her mouth, on which I had placed a small dose of mandrake disguised with ciciley. Her bright blue eyes soon closed.
“Hu be my babby?” Enoch whispered over his shoulder.
“The rhythm of the horse has put her to sleep!”
The quiver moved up and down on his great square shoulders.
By the time we arrived at the rendezvous, Leith slept soundly. Lord Robert and Lord Eustace were nevertheless frantic at her presence, and equally outraged at mine. I calmly hid in a second blind I had fashioned some days ago for Leith and me, a labyrinth of greenery where we could stay, concealed, then escape through a back opening. I pulled her deep inside. The arrows I carried punctured my habit.
The barons, also with black-smeared faces, dismounted without glancing in my direction—did they see me? They knelt in Enoch’s blind overlooking Dere Street, whispered in French, mounted their steeds, and rode south on the tiny path.
A robin’s shrill song warned us of the approaching me
n.
Enoch took an arrow.
Hooves clopped softly on Dere Street. Human voices rumbled. Someone laughed.
“Quhy be he cumin’ fram the north?” Enoch whispered over his shoulder.
I nodded as if I understood, which I certainly did not.
Aye, from the north: the familiar skirl of a bagpipe, the shrill of a fife, and the drummer’s beat, the Scottish royal tap. Enoch lowered his bow. I put my hand over Leith’s nose to quiet her snores. Around the bend came the flash of royal plaid, sun on silver, an army of ten Scots flying the Scottish flag, a harmless royal dress band. Harmless except—we remained as quiet as cats. Now they were opposite us, big burly men with hairy knees.
They stopped directly in front of us. They must know we were here. My heart thumped.
The leader signaled silence. Within moments we heard what they heard, an army approaching from the south—John’s army. What a disaster! We couldn’t let the Scots witness Enoch’s act. In fact, I doubted very much if he would shoot in their presence. Leith didn’t cry; I did.
King John’s army became noisier. Glints of gold, then the king himself, exuberant though sober, straight in his saddle, his profile handsome and lethal; he looked finally like the dangerous killer he was. Sun blinded off his golden helmet and his jeweled raiment. His lips were tight under his short curly beard, and his jaw had chilling purpose. No longer “baby John,” he was a thick-torsoed, menacing man. And vain. His middle was obviously girdled under his tunic to make him appear more slender. Only his eyes were the same, black-fringed and jewel-blue.
He was as surprised to see the Scots as we were.
When a Scottish officer dismounted to talk to the king, royal guards thrust themselves close around the monarch. Then, before they could parley, another musical army marched from the north singing a madrigal. Both the Scots and the English looked dumbfounded; then the Scots hid in the foliage on the other side of Dere Street.
John and his routiers climbed up the berm directly to Enoch’s blind.
For a moment, John’s eyes looked straight at Enoch, who seemed to melt into the foliage. No, he was inside my blind. John’s gaze followed him—did he see him? Aye, he did, and me—he saw me. I slitted my eyes and covered Leith completely—but he saw her as well. Then he turned his back. Why hadn’t he spoken? Killed us?
Enoch squeezed my hand and drew us back farther. John’s guards were examining his blind, and by their agitated movements showed they knew exactly what it was. Would the Scots be blamed for stopping him?
They waited—the madrigal was fast approaching—all of us watched Dere Street.
Light male voices rose like a cloud of birds in close harmony. The Welsh—it had to be! And yet, would King Llywelyn be so careless as to sing his approach?
I watched John’s back.
The music grew louder, the voices more jubilant.
Enoch pushed his steed silently as any serpent to my horse and pulled us deeper into the brush. King John gazed only at the approaching Welsh.
By the time the singing army rounded the curve, we could make out a haughty child-woman dressed all in white sitting sidesaddle, her filmy train trailing over her creamy mount’s rump. For a giddy moment, I thought she was the young Eleanor of Aquitaine, for the profile was the same. Yet this woman wore the white and green of Wales and a shining band on her head.
“Joanna!”
She slipped off her steed as John leaped onto Dere Street and embraced her. Another of his whores? No, whispered Enoch: This was Queen Joanna, John’s bastard daughter and wife to King Llywelyn of Wales. As she spoke in low earnest tones to her father, the small Scottish contingent revealed themselves as well. The Scottish chieftain and Queen Joanna spoke to John with high excitement—Joanna even shook her father. King John remounted his stallion and pounded south on Dere Street. Joanna and the Scots turned back toward the north.
“Quick! We ha’e been betrayed!”
Enoch pulled my horse behind his in a fast canter.
No one followed us. After we’d passed Dunsmere, Enoch slowed. Blue woad ran down his neck.
“They be after the barons!”
“Who? Scotland? Wales? Are they allies?”
“The sam traitor mun ha’e tald both!” He seemed distracted. “Quhy wuld the Scots warn John?”
How could he ask? Hadn’t they betrayed Theo?
“Nay, it war the Welsh dochter,” he concluded. “She tald the Scots, and they wouldna . . . There be a new Scottish king; mayhap . . .” He didn’t finish.
Had Lord Robert and Lord Eustace escaped to Normandy?
“John knows about Wanthwaite! Hurry, Enoch! The labyrinth!”
When we reached the park, we slowed. Wanthwaite, Wanthwaite, sanctuary, home, the heart of the world.
The baby flailed fretfully, but I gave her no more mandrake.
By the time we entered our courtyard, Leith, sucking her thumb, lay her head on Enoch’s chest. He sang a Scottish lullaby.
Upon the midsumer evin, murriest of nichtis,
Imuvit furth allane neir neir as midnicht was past . . .
I joined him:
Besyd ane gudie grein garith, full of gay flouris
Hegeit of ane huge hicht with hawthorne trees.
A horse’s head appeared through a bush.
“Someone’s here.” I reined my horse.
Enoch instantly turned to the labyrinth.
Very quietly, he shifted the sleeping baby to my horse and reached to his quiver for an arrow. Something rustled from the direction of our schoolroom. Enoch slid to the grass.
Lady Fiona ran to his arms. “Enoch, oh, Enoch! Ich cum as soon as I received your message! Be ye all richt?”
11
Enoch had survived the aborted assassination—would I survive this?
“Greeting, Lady Alix,” Lady Fiona said in her soft burr. “I trust I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all. Any wife of Enoch’s is always welcome.” I pointed to Leith. “Part wolf, but of course you know all about that.”
At that moment, Wolfbane leaped joyfully to lick my face.
Followed by the beast, I pushed past the loving couple to the kitchen, where I washed the blue woad off Leith and me.
Enoch followed me up the stairs to my closet. “Ich didna knaw she ware cumin’, Alix, I swear.”
“But you did alert her about your assignment?”
“Aye.”
“Then she probably told the Scots. Did that occur to you?”
“Niver!” But I saw I’d hit a sore spot.
“At least your runner wasn’t intercepted by John’s men, which must be considered a victory of sorts. And the lady obviously cares about Wanthwaite—or is it you?”
“Ye’re a cynic, Alix.”
I turned slowly. “No, milord, a realist. I have to be, don’t I?”
“Ich didna inwite her here. Ich war just as surprised as ye.”
“I doubt that, milord.”
After he left, I instructed Gruoth that henceforth Leith and I would take our repast in my chamber.
I hid my arrows under my bed with my jewels and money.
Yet I was too agitated to remain without news. What had happened to Lord Robert and Lord Eustace? Had they gotten away? I sank to a corner with long shivering sobs: Had John seen me? Leith?
Aye, he had.
At my insistence, Gruoth rode into Dunsmere. There she learned that the barons had escaped, though no one knew their whereabouts; nor did they know where the king had gone. No, there was no war with Wales that Gruoth knew of, at least not here in the north.
She did have one piece of news, however: Father William said that the ecclesiastical court from Durham would be in Dunsmere within two days; he’d made an appointment for me to meet with the head, Bishop Peter, first thing in the morning. Could I come?
I sent back word that I would be there.
With Leith in front of me, we left Wanthwaite while it was still dark. A heavy rainfall gave us furth
er protection from view. Though we had to wait an hour in Dunsmere, it was still dark when I was ushered into the small office to meet with the bishop. Bishop Peter spoke only in the vulgar Latin that I remembered from my Crusading days, and for a while we chatted about the Holy Land and the need for another Crusade; he hoped the present king would lead it as he’d promised.
Finally, however, we came to my situation, and his responses became perfunctory. Only when I mentioned King Richard did he began to listen. He dandled Leith, asked many questions, offered us ale and cheese, asked more questions. Despite the interesting diversions on King Richard, my case was clear: Enoch owned both Leith and Wanthwaite; I had behaved like a houri and must leave my family. I argued desperately to no avail. By the end of the day, the problem remaining was that only a husband could get an annulment. Therefore, our interview was a waste of time.
But not quite: Enoch would never pay the exorbitant fee for the dissolution. I gave the bishop two of Bonel’s gold pieces and told him that Enoch would be in touch.
I then returned to Wanthwaite in rain and fog, where I carried Leith to my room.
Three weeks later, Enoch rapped on my door: Could he see Leith?
No.
Please? He missed her.
Leith, recognizing his voice, screamed.
And received the mandrake.
He finally left.
Then he sent his emissary. Again I heard the soft burr followed by timid knocks. She meant me no harm—couldn’t we be friends? She knew my history—did I know that she was a widow? I shrugged silently; I daresay most Scottish women are widows from the clan wars.
Yet I opened the door.
She gazed in astonishment, unprepared to see me.
“Come inside.”
I peered down at the Great Hall, but there was no Enoch.
The Prince of Poison Page 16
