The Prince of Poison

by Pamela Kaufman

  On another occasion, Queen Isabella had her four children by John with her. Now I was truly shocked at her disdain. Surely no one was responsible for one’s parents—I thought of Theo and King Richard. The oldest, a blond boy called Henry after his grandfather, struck me as a sullen lethargic child, whereas the youngest, a girl, named Joanna (after her father or her bastard half sister?), was as beautiful as her mother. All the children were subdued in manner; all feared Isabella.

  Once, while alone on a bench, Isabella told me the tale of Hugh de Lusignan, her fianc before John had seen her. If she’d married Hugh, she asserted, they would have ruled Lusignan, Poitou, Angoulme, even Aquitaine, and by her tone, she considered these counties to be infinitely better than England. Though I bristled at the insult to my beloved country, I could agree that that part of Europe certainly excelled in charm and sophistication. Despite her own proclivities, Queen Isabella had married John because her mother had seen him as a better match than Hugh; as for Isabella herself, she admitted that she’d been intrigued by the prospect of being Queen Eleanor’s daughter-in-law. Also, she’d believed then that John shared her enchantment with Aquitaine, that they would live there as Richard had done. He was an Aquitanian in his bones, she claimed. She didn’t mention the vaunted physical attraction between them.

  I would have avoided the queen after that except for my project. I next viewed her from the shadow of a bush where I was once again repairing my face. Padding the body under layers of clothing is a simple matter compared to maintaining more exposed parts. I kept wads of tree gum in my mouth to extend my cheeks; I’d pasted the usual dead snails on my gums and bits of bark on my skin to serve as raised moles, and even added two dried grapes for special repulsiveness. Yet I had no mirror, nor did I entirely trust Enoch’s approval. Therefore, I sought the shade.

  Queen Isabella, walking alone, passed quite close to where I was hiding. Her breasts were decorously bound in some white stuff again, her kerchief was high on her neck, and she wore a sleeveless tunic embroidered with parrots and turtle doves. Even her wild black hair was braided and looped. As she passed, I realized how young she was, still hardly more than a child.

  “Lady Marie-Franoise, why are you hiding? Are you spying on me?”

  Startled, I stepped into the path. “Why no, Your Highness, of course not. I dare not expose my skin to the sun, that’s all. I break out in sores of the most hideous nature.”

  She stared at my face, which was no doubt blotchy. “I apologize; I’m accustomed to spies, you see.” She peered closer. “Your skin, indeed, looks flushed. What a burden for someone born under southern skies!”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  She sank to the grass. “May we talk?”

  “I should like nothing better.” Now that I had her sympathy, however, I retired back into the shadow.

  “You called me Your Majesty—do you think of me as a queen?”

  This was the last thing I’d expected. “Of course; you’re married to the king, and you’re . . .”

  “When I married my Lord John, Queen Eleanor still received the queen’s gold as the queen of England; after she died, King Richard’s widow, Berengaria, was called queen of England and received all incomes from Gascony plus an allowance she forced from the king; John’s first wife, Isabella of Gloucester, still resided in the royal palace at Winchester after our marriage and received incomes from her estate as well as gifts from the king. I receive nothing, have nothing from England, am soothly impoverished, so how am I a queen?”

  I was aghast. I certainly wouldn’t compare my lot with Queen Isabella’s, for they were at different social levels and had different causes, and yet there were similarities; Enoch had stolen my lands and title and, except for Bonel’s generosity, I would have nothing.

  “Do you not have incomes of your own?”

  She laughed. “Oh yes, in Angoulme, where I’m the sole heiress. I let moneys accrue there so the king can’t seize them.” She fell silent for a long period. “It’s strange: John’s father and his male line were kings and his mother was a famous duchess, yet I am better connected than any of these other queens: My mother was cousin to King Philip of France and to the king of Hungary in the Carpathian Mountains.”

  “Carpathian?” I breathed.

  She didn’t reply. “By her second marriage, she became connected to the king of Jerusalem. Wouldn’t you say that that’s better than the Plantagenets?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’m a poor little queen. Without a pence.”

  Abruptly, she rose and wandered out of sight. Though much depressed to learn that the Carpathian Mountains actually existed, I continued to wad my wax until she returned.

  She bent to my bush. “My mother, Alice, was a famous beauty.”

  “Was? Is she dead?”

  “Just recently, yes. She wed three times, the last time to my father, the Count of Angoulme.”

  “Usually men outlive women.”

  She laughed. “And you’re from the south? Most men die in battle before their wives.”

  I didn’t argue, though childbirth took women, not men.

  “Yet my first fianc, Hugh of Lusignan, is still alive.” She then recounted how she and Hugh had been betrothed while she was still a child; her father had wanted them to wed, but Hugh had refused until she reached puberty. Unfortunately for Hugh, John had had no such scruples; he’d married her within a week of first seeing her.

  Queen Isabella was so luscious, so developed, that it was difficult to think of her as a child.

  “What year were you born?” I asked.

  “In 1191, the year my mother married my father.”

  She’d been eight when she’d married John. Even political advantages couldn’t excuse such debauchery.

  “He taught me everything I know.” She laughed again. “About the body, about power. Or are they the same thing?”

  She wandered off before I could reply.

  I decided to be more aggressive. The next time I accosted her was inside the tower. “Your Majesty, you spoke to me quite openly about your lack of riches.”

  “Or control as queen,” she added. “Yes?”

  “Then you’ll surely understand my desperate need to see the king, for I, too, am impoverished, and I support my grandchildren in Aquitaine. For that reason, I came here to sell some of my jewels to the king. Won’t you help me?”

  “You want me to set up an appointment with him.”

  “Would you?” My voice became breathless, as if this were the first time I’d asked.

  She touched my cheek. “How are your sunspots?”

  “Not too bad since it’s been raining. And thank you for asking, Your Majesty.”

  She withdrew her hand. “I’ll see what I can do, though I make no promises. The king is occupied—he expects an invasion from France momentarily.”

  Which I already knew. Prince Louis of France had accepted the invitation to take over England; the barons had promised their cooperation when he landed.

  The queen turned to leave, then paused. “What sort of jewels do you have? Brooches? Pendants?”

  “I have a single ruby with me as an example, though I have more. No, it’s not set.” Why mention my small diamond?

  She lost interest. “I’ll try.”

  Days became weeks, but while I saw the queen daily, we had no more private conversations. Though the month was now August, our proximity to the Channel kept the weather cool and moist. I became accustomed to maintaining my disguise. I now spent every afternoon in the garden—still under my shrub, so I could avoid contacts—and often enjoyed watching small children at play. These were John’s hostages under the queen’s care, though she was never present. Then one day the queen’s children joined the six little hostages—babies really, for two could hardly walk.

  I thought of Leith.

  I thought of Theo.

  As the summer waned, so did my disguise. Though I never lost vigilence, twice I picked up black spots
that had fallen from my face onto the floor. No one remarked on the accidents, which doesn’t mean that no one noticed. I continued to wait on the queen in the early evening when she invited her ladies for a merry conversation, but I rarely saw her to speak to privately. Isabella was undoubtedly a seductive woman (though she never displayed her breasts again), beautiful in her face and figure, most excellently gowned, clean to a fault. It did strike me as odd, however, that I never saw her with the king. Were they estranged? Was he involved with some other lady?

  Had I chosen the wrong messenger? When could I see him? Who else could get me an audience? I became alarmed that weeks passed and still Isabella made no mention of my desired audience with the king. Had she simply forgotten? If I hadn’t had that brief glimpse of John, I would suspect that the king was not in residence because I never saw him with Isabella. In the dining salle, I ate with the other ladies two tiers below the royal platform and was careful never to look back, fearing that turning my head might release another wart, but I could hear. The king was not present.

  Then one afternoon I ran into the queen and a stranger in the garden. Her friend was a man a few years older than she was, obviously a man of the south, possibly from Angoulme or Aquitaine, for, like her, he had thick black hair, startlingly white teeth, and clear green eyes with flecks of brown. Like her that day, he was dressed most elaborately in a scarlet tunic topped with a gold cape, and he wore gold boots on his feet. They could have been twins.

  “Oh, Lady Marie-Franoise, I’m delighted that we happened on you!” the queen cried with obvious dismay. “This is my brother—Lord Peter de Joiny—who comes from your part of the world! Gascony, was it not? He knew Lady Mamile!”

  He kissed my hand lightly. “Have we ever met, Lady Marie-Franoise? You look familiar.”

  My heart stopped. “I think not, my lord, though I could be mistaken. Did you ever visit Mercadier in Beynac?” We then tested each other’s veracity by tracing the movements of Lady Mamile, which was the same as tracing the movements of Queen Eleanor and therefore easy.

  “I did meet her handmaid once,” he said, “Lady Alix of Wanthwaite. The concubine of the late king.”

  My heart stopped, then raced, as Queen Isabella took up the theme. “John used to say I was the most beautiful creature alive, until he recalled this same Lady Alix. She must have been devastating—did you ever see her?”

  “I heard of her,” I said as if without interest, “but I never saw her.”

  Both the queen and her brother stared at me—did they suspect? Then, satisfied, they changed the subject.

  “Aren’t I fortunate to have such an attentive brother?” the queen simpered. “I get so lonely in this dank fortress!”

  I assured her that she was indeed fortunate, though her life seemed easy to me and certainly she had all the company she wanted. Still, as an only child myself, I would have given much for such a sympathetic brother.

  I saw Lord Peter with her every day for at least a week, though we didn’t speak again until he said goodbye to me the day before he left to attend his estates close to Winchester. The queen’s eyes looked as if she had been weeping.

  His estates must have been in fine shape, for he was back in four days, hardly time to ride to Winchester and return. He and the queen spent every afternoon in the garden thereafter. I knew I should avoid them—the mention of “Lady Alix” had been no accident, I feared—and succeeded. Then, one late afternoon, I barely missed stumbling over the brother’s golden boots. I grabbed the lilac bush whence the boots were extended and waited. No one marked my presence. Heart still racing, I looked again: beside the golden boots were two bare feet, the queen’s.

  The situation was obvious. Even more obvious was my own danger! Had they seen me? Did they know I’d seen them? I must escape—I wanted no part in their deception, not when it was against King John! Deus juva me!

  If the king ever believed I was in collusion with his queen—well, I need not ask my fate. I cursed her silently for threatening my real plan, which was dangerous enough.

  I sought a bench just off the path at the far end of the garden. I wouldn’t move farther until it was safe.

  Queen Isabella approached so silently that I didn’t hear her.

  “Lady Marie-Franoise!”

  I jumped.

  “You’re the very person I wanted to see. May I join you?”

  Smelling strongly of love, she slid onto the bench beside me. She spoke with artificial gaity. I was amazed at her steely poise.

  “You’re a dear, Lady Marie-Franoise, not to nag me about your appointment with the king. Did you think I’d forgotten? Not at all, I assure you! No, on the contrary, I’ve been a busy bee on your behalf! I told him about your ruby and he’s most interested!”

  “Yes?” I stared into her beautiful, corrupt face.

  “But, like all men, he needed nudging. I have an appointment with the king this very evening—soon, in fact—and I thought to nag him a bit then.” She turned a hard face. “Of course, one favor begets another, does it not? You will assure me of your discretion.”

  “I assure you.”

  Our eyes held.

  That same afternoon, she sent Lady Damiana with a message for me: I was to meet with the king in his office at the far end of the castle at sundown.

  John Williams came to escort me to my appointment. By now I had my disguise completely in control and therefore trotted behind him with much more assurance than I’d had just a few weeks ago when I’d first come to Dover Castle. If he noticed, he made no sign. My only problem was that it was my time of the month; I hoped my cassis fragrance would confound Raoul.

  John Williams walked briskly through the small rooms, through the Great Hall, and into the garden and a light rainfall. A sea storm was brewing; the sky was dark, the wind strong (though not cold), and I worried that the rain might wash away my moles. Though John Williams had no such concern, he ran to the doorway at the far end of the garden.

  Both of us panted briefly in the dark before we began our climb. The narrow twist of stairs had footpads only on the wall side; though John Williams lacked the gallantry to offer me his hand, his heavy breathing showed me the way. At the top, four floors up, we entered a small anteroom where three knights lounged around a clerk turning pages in a large open book on his desk. John Williams muttered something to the secretary, then left without a glance at me.

  As there was no place to sit, I leaned in a corner. A tall man in religious robes walked through the room without checking with the secretary and entered directly into the king’s chamber. He spoke angrily in Latin; someone—the king? —replied. Then, for no reason that I could see, the secretary rose: “Is Lady Marie-Franoise here?”

  I came forward.

  “Follow me.”

  Together we entered the king’s large office, where he was conducting business. He stood in the center, unmistakable in his scarlet robes (I realized with a start that this was the same robe Lord Peter de Joiny had worn): his short slender body, boyish face, shoulder-length blond waves, dark, arched brows over jewel-blue eyes with their thick, black fringe. He held a silver cup of wine in his hands. Yet there were differences from previous impressions: Despite the wine, he was not intoxicated; he listened intently and spoke little, and thus gained authority.

  The prelate was still talking angrily. At last the king lost patience: “We thank you, Legate Pandulph, and we thoroughly understand the position of Pope Innocent. Please assure the pontiff that the barons’ Magna Carta has not and will not be put into effect at any time during my reign; I am ever subservient to Holy Church. As for Stephen Langton, he is not in Canterbury. When he returns, we shall be ready.”

  The legate bowed, chattering effusively in Latin, and brushed past me as he left.

  The king shifted his gaze from Pandulph to me. For a long moment, he looked directly into my eyes. Then he waved his hand toward a tier at the back of the room.

  “Please wait until we finish, Lady Alix.”
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  18

  HAD THE KING SAID LADY ALIX? OH, DEUS JUVA ME, how had he guessed? He certainly hadn’t seen me himself—who was his spy?

  The queen, I thought; no, Lady Damiana; oh God, who? But then, what did it matter who? I was discovered—that was the point!

  I crawled as high as I could on the tiers until I reached a shadowy area, though what did it matter now if the king saw me? It would make it more difficult to place a dagger, that’s why! Despite hot tears, I chilled to my marrow, shook like a poplar leaf. I plucked nervously at an irritating mole, then another. My heart beat as painfully as it had in Fontevrault Wood, as if the years had just melted away. I fought against swooning—I had to stay alert. Though the tier faced a wall of windows open to the rising storm, the wind off the sea blew over our heads without entering the room. The storm was no more than a dramatic picture. No matter. Lady Alix, the king had said. Lady Alix.

  Yet John didn’t seem aware of my presence. He turned the pages of some bureaucratic reports of grain sales on the Continent. Since Wanthwaite was indirectly involved, I should have found it interesting and might have except for my terror. The sky darkened. King John bent close over the tome to see.

  How long did I have to live? That darkening sky might be my last vision of earth.

  Two pages carried pine torches on iron stands to tables piled with vellum. King John turned saffron in the light.

  He spoke in Norman French to a tall man on the far side of the torches, “My lord duke, since you know the imports and exports from King’s Lynn, suppose you tell us what you can about our sale of English corn to Scandinavia.”

  King’s Lynn; the tall man must be the Duke of Norfolk, said by some to be richer than Lord Robert, second only to John himself.

  Before the duke could reply, another man elbowed his way forward to answer; obviously displeased, John contradicted him sharply on every point he made. John prevailed, and not just because of his station; he knew his facts. His authority chilled me to the bone—this was the same authority with which he’d led his army to Wanthwaite. The king then asked the duke to confirm his contradiction, which the duke readily did. Because the duke also had authority? Was it his wealth? Listening, I didn’t think so; both were masters of commerce. Who could have guessed that the killer King John was also a gifted bureaucrat? Probing, ruthless, and absolutely daunting in his knowledge of the smallest detail, he displayed unexpected skill in this chamber. Was this what Richard had meant when he’d warned never to underestimate his intelligence? No, I didn’t think so. Intelligence meant penetration, such as knowing that I was Lady Alix. Intelligence meant cunning.