The Prince of Poison

by Pamela Kaufman

  The king had moved to another table, another stack, this one about the wool trade. The king asked which breed of sheep produced the best wool (he himself provided the answer, the Oxford), the comparative number of lambs produced by different breeds, the maggots found at shearing time, the washing, the carding, and finally the distribution to markets overseas. Then how many finished woolen goods did we purchase from the Low Countries? How did the sale and purchase compare? Were these goods we bought made from English wool? If so, weren’t we heading for a disaster? Our grazing lands were finite—and sheep cropped too close, thus ruining the fields—while making finished woolen goods right here would take little room, only skill, and give us a new item of export defined as English and of highest quality. Should we not consider even reversing the process—buying wool abroad and manufacturing the finished product here? He had great faith in English skill.

  “Ye’ll ruin mony a guid herder!” a Scottish voice called. “Mayhap the londs below the oat line culd change, nocht us!”

  He sounded like Enoch.

  “Of course, those barren lands such as Scotland or much of northern England should continue to raise grazing animals; I speak of the west country and the south,” the king replied.

  “We be muckle prosperous wi’out fancy new markets!” the Scot rejoined.

  Suddenly the king became angry. “Ignorant oaf! You think that your silly grazing lands produce your wealth? You are prosperous because England is enjoying an inflation! Are you even aware that every ingot of silver in England has been stamped into livres angevins?”

  I had no idea whether inflation was connected to prosperity, yet I was impressed.

  He finally moved on to the important subject of the day, the approaching war with France. Pages unrolled a huge map across two tables; knights and navy officers clustered close. The map billowed in the rising wind, at last entering the windows, and pages weighted it down at the corners. The king took a short pointer to indicate where ships approached our shores from Boulogne and Calais, along the usual lines of underwater plates, though the prevailing winds had changed since his spies had informed him. Though I bent forward, I couldn’t see, so I listened instead.

  “Look at this curved line: We have twenty-five warships in a semicircle around Dover port. The ships are camouflaged with brown paint, and each carries a catapult and Greek fire. No one can get past them, I assure you.”

  “The storm?” the Duke of Norfolk asked.

  “Ah yes, the storm.” The king walked to the windows. “So far, it’s nothing serious. If it grows, we’ll adjust.” He picked up the pointer again. “Even with a storm, we have superior strength. Cogs from Portsmouth should be in port even now. I repeat that our strength, gentlemen, will stand against any invading fleet.”

  “Suppose they attack on land instead of by sea.”

  “Do you take me for a fool?” the king barked, then regained his equanimity—because it was again the Duke of Norfolk? Outside, the clouds had settled into a solid iron lid; fireflashes forked low to the ground; thunder rumbled and the whole room cooled. The king continued: “I would welcome a land war; three hundred seasoned Brabantian routiers have probably already landed. I have contracts with them, paid in advance.”

  “When did they leave Europe?” an officer asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  “Who will lead them?”

  The king exploded. “God’s feet, who do you think? I’ll lead, of course! This is an invasion of my country!”

  The officer stepped back.

  King John tried to recover. “No matter which approach the French use, I’m ready.”

  After a long silent moment, a priest raised his hands in dimissal, but didn’t pray.

  The officers walked to the stairs without further comment. The chamber was empty of all officials.

  The king, now alone by the windows, stared at the sky. “Dover is noted for such weather, especially at sundown. But dangerous?”

  The danger was not from the weather; the barons were riding toward Dover to welcome the French.

  Pages removed the vellum and tables. As the sky darkened, the torches threw eerie circles of light in the room. Had the king forgotten my presence? I remained very still, deciding that I would withdraw quietly if I possibly could. Such retirement would end my plan for King John, but staying here might well end my life.

  The king sighed deeply.

  “A dramatic show,” he said.

  Was he speaking to me? To himself?

  “Lady Alix, if you’re still there, please answer.” He shaded his eyes.

  When had he turned toward me?

  “Oc, Your Majesty, most diverting,” I choked, cleared my throat.

  “You need this.” He walked toward me with a silver goblet of wine outstretched.

  It was the best Bordeaux I’d tasted since I’d been with King Richard.

  The king leaned forward and picked a mole off my face.

  I sputtered wine all over my chemise.

  “Sorry if I hurt you; it was better pasted than I expected, Lady Alix.” He smiled.

  “I’m—I’m—Marie-Franoise—”

  “Oh, come now. Do you think I don’t know who served Lady Mamile in my mother’s court? Do you suppose that John Williams didn’t recognize you the very first day you arrived? Or Baldwin of Bthune? Or that they didn’t tell me?”

  So why had he waited? What did he plan to do?

  He stood a few feet in front of me. “If you’ve come to kill me, be warned that there are two guards just outside the door. You’ll not leave alive.”

  I didn’t speak.

  “If you’re worried that I’ll kill you, you’re probably right. I would like some information first, however.”

  “I came only to sell you a jewel! Didn’t the queen tell you?”

  “Are you working for the queen? Are you conspiring together?”

  “Of course not!”

  But it was a good question—had she betrayed me?

  He kneaded my stuffed bosom until he could pull out the linen! “Where’s your dagger?”

  I pushed him away. “I have no dagger!”

  His hand trembled and sweat formed on his brow. “Don’t play games, if it please you! Of course you have a weapon!”

  Then, abruptly, he went to refill his goblet.

  “I’ve never killed anyone!” I shouted. Which was true—my dagger was in my braies.

  He was back. “Please, let’s not prevaricate. What else were you doing on Dere Street when that Scottish oaf pointed an arrow at my heart? Wasn’t that not an attempt?”

  “I had no weapon! And Enoch didn’t shoot, did he? And besides, that was someone else’s scheme, which you well know.”

  “The usual lie. Were you holding Richard’s brat?”

  “No.” My heart squeezed. “That was Enoch’s child, a girl.”

  “Enoch’s?”

  “By another woman. He married while I was in France.”

  “And you care for the child?”

  “For the time being, yes.”

  “Why?”

  My head throbbed. “Enoch and I live as brother and sister until we can get our differences resolved. He wants Wanthwaite—I claim it’s mine. Neither of us will leave it.”

  “But Wanthwaite’s burned.” He sat beside me. “And you’re dead. Heard it from Sancho, who did the deed—you and the Scot, both, skewered like roast pigs, he said.”

  I shook violently. “Thorketil and Edwina. But why?”

  “Who?”

  I explained.

  “Too bad for all of us. You both deserved to die—you tried to assassinate me! And what about that dastardly Magna Carta? Weren’t you skulking behind a bush?”

  “Why did you betray it?”

  “I obeyed for fifteen days. Never again.”

  On that we were agreed.

  “So you and your husband are sister and brother. Sounds familiar.”

  I was afraid to speak—I saw his drift, saw the dan
ger.

  “Of course, you and your brother, Enoch, are both wrong: Wanthwaite is mine; it’s my fief, and you rent it for a fee—which, incidentally, you haven’t paid.”

  Then he put a finger under my chin. “Once again, Alix, and be careful, are you and the queen conspirators?”

  “I told you we’re not. She hasn’t even seen my jewel, I assure you, and . . .”

  “Did you blackmail the queen?”

  “What? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “God’s feet, Alix, let’s be honest at least. You came to kill me—the queen made the appointment. Am I a fool?”

  No, but I was. I opened my palm. “I really do have a ruby to sell you.”

  He plucked three more moles off my face, including the one I was most proud of, which had hair “growing” in the center. He had to dig it out with his nail. “You look awful. I can’t reach inside your mouth—you’ll have to remove the padding.”

  Turning my head away, I did so.

  “The wig?”

  I removed that as well.

  “The brown teeth?”

  With the kerchief of my tunic, I rubbed away the tree bark.

  “The most beautiful lady in Christendom. Even including my perfidious wife.”

  “The queen is indeed beautiful.”

  “Yes, corruption has its charms. How do you like her brother?”

  For the first time, I heard his hurt.

  “Her brother who is more than a brother, like you and your Scot.”

  “Enoch doesn’t . . . !” I stopped myself.

  “Fuck you?”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Except to conceive Leith.

  “Peter de Joiny fucks Isabella. Has for years. Interesting case. So do I fuck her, or I used to. Which of us do you think has fathered her four children?”

  He didn’t seem to want an answer, Deo gratias.

  “I’ve heard that the offspring of incest were idiots. Do you think my son Henry an idiot?”

  I’d seen Henry only from a distance, so I had no opinion.

  “More?” He poured another cup for each of us. “Of course, as she reminds me daily, Peter and Isabella are only half brother and half sister. What a family! Have you met her mother?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t.” He shuddered. “Of course, you’re not a king—she fancies kings.”

  “So do many people.” I was thinking of his own reputation among women.

  He was sharp. “Are you referring to my fucking the whey-faced wives of my barons? I plead both guilt and martyrdom. That’s one of the burdens of being king, my dear, to reassure my lords that their political choices are viable as women; I also make a number of wives happy.”

  “That’s not how the barons see it.”

  “Of course not. They play the game of outrage—I assure you that’s not what they say privately. Back to the queen—have you seen her in action?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I thought so—she’s become careless.” He settled beside me. “I have several choices: I could kill her; I could kill him. Then the children? What happened to Richard’s brat, by the way?”

  “He died.”

  “Pity—I might have made him my heir.”

  This so startled me that I spilled my wine again.

  “You know, when my father put Eleanor in prison, it broke my heart. I was only a little fellow, but I swore to myself that I would never treat a wife of mine so. Isabella hasn’t given me the political reasons that Henry claimed my mother did—but incest!” He shuddered violently.

  “If you took my jewel to the light . . .”

  “Still harping on rubies? You must think that Scottish oaf will succeed in his claim to Wanthwaite.”

  “Aye, I do.” Now I shuddered.

  “I could have him killed for you.”

  I tried to rise—he held me down.

  “Perhaps he was taking orders, as you claim, but he did accept his assignment. I have every reason to have him dead. Helping you is just one more.” He suddenly laughed. “After all, we’re practically brother and sister!” He giggled helplessly, now more like the John at Fontevrault.

  I tried to change his mood. “No, don’t! I mean, I appreciate that you’re trying to help me, but . . .”

  “Afraid his bastard will claim your estate? I could have her killed as well!”

  My teeth chattered so that I couldn’t speak.

  He sighed. “I’m glad you escaped in Fontevrault, Alix, or we couldn’t be having this little conversation.” He bent over with his face in his hands. “God knows Henry wouldn’t be the first bastard on the throne.”

  I glanced at the door to the stairs—could I escape?

  Water was now splattering through the windows—could I distract John? Ask him to close the shutters? Then run?

  “Your office is getting wet, Your Highness.”

  He didn’t care.

  “You were a marriage prize once. You could be again—we could both profit.” His damp forefinger traced my chin. “After you’ve spent a few years in my bed.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. We have unfinished business, darling. You remember, Raoul remembers. You were my enemy once, but I always coveted you—you have to admit.”

  “Aye,” I mollified him, “only not this night. I’m bleeding.”

  “I know—or rather, Raoul knows. I can smell your cassis, but he . . . remember Raoul? God’s feet, how I do love you!” His eyes glazed. “However, I have to ride to Winchester this very night.”

  Winchester? Like the queen’s brother? Had he been lying about meeting the French?

  “But my jewel, Your Majesty.”

  “Why are you harping on your silly piece of glass? We’ve got much to settle!”

  I set my jaw.

  “God’s feet, let me see it then!”

  He took my stone to one of the pine-torch circles.

  I waited so long for him to comment that I grew chill. “I realize it’s very small. And somewhat pale in color.”

  He walked to the other pine torch.

  “I’m sorry I bothered you with it. If you’d like . . . ”

  “Where did you find this?” he asked.

  “Bonel, the Jew. Rouen. Why? Isn’t it real?”

  “Come over here.”

  Still with heavy padding about my hips, I waddled over to him.

  “There now, a ruby, you say?”

  Suddenly, I had doubts. This was a very evil man, to be sure, but he was no fool. And the stone, though brilliant, suddenly appeared small and pale, almost a chip.

  “I studied gemstones for more than a year,” I said slowly. “I’m certain . . .”

  “And I’ve never studied at all, but apparently I know more than you do.”

  I trembled. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty; I’ll take it back.”

  “It’s a pink diamond,” he said.

  “A what?” Diamonds are colorless! “There is no such thing!”

  “Rare, I grant you; I’ve seen only one before, on my grandmother’s coronation gown, the centerpiece of my treasure. Did you say you have more?”

  I couldn’t remember what I’d said. The diamond glowed like a living thing. “Aye, one, its twin.” Two fancies.

  “Two pink diamonds!” His hand closed. “Do you love me, Lady Alix?”

  The question confounded me. “What, Your Majesty?”

  “I’m asking if you will gift me with this stone. If you do love me, you will.”

  Aye, the way he collected treasure from all his subjects, if they did “love” him. I had no choice.

  “I need money, Your Highness. If I lose my estate . . .”

  “You won’t lose it.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “God’s feet, your eyes in this light. Gray diamonds.”

  “Hard to disguise,” I admitted.

  “I do love you, Alix.” His own eyes glittered in the hissing light. The torch also illuminated his features as I’d not seen them before. The years
had not been kind; still well shaped and excellently groomed, his face was ravaged. Perhaps a soothsayer could read his lines; what I saw was self-indulgence, cruelty, debauchery, murder. I grew confused—to be loved by a werewolf! Or did he say this to everyone?

  “And I want you. Not Raoul, but me, John. I’ve always wanted you since that first time in Le Mans—remember?”

  “Aye.” When he’d come to see Richard.

  “I know you think me a killer, and I am, a womanizer, and I am, a king, but the least successful ruler in a family of kings. Perhaps love is always incestuous—you bedded with my brother. My mother loved you—she said so—and I love you, too. We all love you.”

  Now he looked very young; he sounded sincere. What did he want? Never underestimate his intelligence. But this didn’t seem intelligence; it seemed feeling. Again, I trembled.

  “Calme-te! I want your diamond. Is it mine?”

  Didn’t he hold it in his palm? Of course, it was his!

  “And when may I have the other?”

  “If you want it, you must pay for it!”

  He laughed softly. “With my body? Oh, I will, I will. You’ll bring it to our assignation—is that what you’re saying?”

  “You speak of assignations and love, but that implies a place and time. You travel, and you have many castles.”

  “In fact, all the castles in Britain!” He laughed again. “I’ll meet you in King’s Lynn the first week in October.”

  “Where?”

  “The port town in Norfolk we mentioned earlier, in the Broads just south of Lincoln, where I go each year to be feted at the Guildhall.”

  “The Guildhall? Do you stay there?”