by Lisa Hilton
I could not believe it. All the people at Lusignan – the half-recognizable village folk, even my mother’s maids – they all knew of this? And what about Lord Hugh? If this religion was women’s business, then what was Lord Hugh doing wearing a stag’s head and dancing about on the riverbank at night? I could not mention the other thing, though it was there between us, solid as a warming pan beneath the sheet. Instead I tried to make it sound foolish, a matter for muttering peasants like the old woman we had seen in the woods.
‘It was not him,’ Agnes insisted.
‘Agnes, I saw him. I saw the brooch, the Lusignan serpent. The same shape as the mark he put upon me, a serpent, like Melusina. Why?’
Agnes couldn’t say. At least, she tried, but she was not learned, and she could not make words to fit what was inside her.
‘It might have looked like Lord Hugh, but it was something else, in Lord Hugh’s body. Like the body of Christ, at Mass.’
‘Lord Hugh is not a god, Agnes. Do not speak so sinfully! Whether you believe it or not, the thing I saw on May Eve was Lord Hugh. And I know that as surely as I know he was in my chamber on my wedding eve. You know it too. Don’t lie!’ I was so angry I thought of having her whipped, of having John’s guard pull off her shift and shame her, of weals cut across her poor old back with a burning leather brand. But how could I think such things? I was wicked, the mark was making me as wicked as Lord Hugh. So I tried to be patient, to listen and to believe that she had acted because she thought it right.
All Agnes was able to explain clearly was that she had taken me to the sabbat, the meeting of the old faith, on my mother’s instructions, just as her own mother had carried her.
‘It was Tomas who took me, wasn’t it?’
‘He flew with you, yes.’
‘Flew?’
‘That’s what we call it, when we are summoned. Flying.’
I recalled the thick grease Tomas had smeared on Othon’s hooves the first time I had galloped him. It had felt as though we were flying.
Agnes explained that those who worshipped the horned man believed that they could take the form of animals, swift and light as foxes, strong as horses, fleet as hares.
‘What else? What else do they believe?’ I was insatiable now.
‘That there is no death.’
‘Like Christians, then?’
Agnes puzzled again over her words. ‘Not like that. There is no death, because it is the same as life, just a different … stage. When we eat bread, we are eating the death of the wheat that made it, but it becomes part of us, of our life. And when we die, we become part of the fields.’
‘Like the bread at Mass.’
Agnes smiled, quite the scholar, ‘That is where the Mass comes from, little one, from the old ways.’
‘And my mother? She wanted to make me part of this?’
‘Your mother loves you, little one. You are a queen now. Surely you see that?’
‘Then why—’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Did it happen to you too?’
‘Once. It happens to all of us. We have to become one with the horned man.’
I was bewildered. Agnes was an old maid, a spinster who had never had a husband. Had she … done that? I could not picture it.
‘And now? Why did Lord Hugh want me to marry Hal and then change his mind? Why did he treat me so kindly, and then …’ I could not say it. I bit my lip and took a deep breath. ‘Why did he pretend that the king had tricked him, if he didn’t care?’
‘I have only told you what I was bid, little one. But your mother said she would send you a messenger, someone who will explain, when the time is right. I was not to tell you, except for what happened in the woods that day, and you so ill, and I so afraid.’
I reached out and touched Agnes’s face. Her cheeks were wet. ‘I will not be without you for anything, Agnes. Don’t worry. You did what you were told. Don’t cry.’
But somehow that made her cry the harder.
*
I wished then that I had learned to write during those quiet days in the convent. I could read quite well, in both French languages, but like any lady, I had clerks to make out the grants and charters I was expected to witness as queen, and though I could dictate a letter, as Queen Eleanor had done to the Pope himself when her son the Lionheart was a hostage in Austria, I could hardly ask a nervous young priest to take down words about stag’s heads and midnight sabbats. And to whom should I send it? Did my mother intend to send me a letter? Or Lord Hugh?
I doubted that, too, because my marriage with the king had brought rebellion to Poitou. My flight with King John had made war, not peace. At first, Lord Hugh had feinted, asking John to offer him some recompense for the loss of his son’s bride. Instead, my husband sent his seneschal in Normandy to seize the castle of the Count of Eu there, who was Lord Hugh’s brother, and demanded that the vassals of La Marche, which he had granted to the Lusignans, pay homage direct to the English crown. Lord Hugh’s response was to throw off his allegiance to John and declare once more for the French king, sending his men to attack the garrisons held in John’s name. Each time my husband held a council, I questioned him, claiming that I wished to know the workings of his government, that I might be a better wife to him, but often he would play with my hair and tell me not to mind, that this was men’s business, and that I should not meddle in it as his own mother Eleanor had done. He preferred me to play with toys, or eat cakes with my ladies, or practise my dancing, to think on pretty things, he said, since I was so pretty myself. But sometimes, he would indulge me, and I discovered all I could of the Lusignans’ plottings, all the time feeling the throb of the mark on my shoulder and recalling the coldness inside me, which meant I belonged to them.
In May, a priest in Essex was summoned to a court of bishops to answer for himself after reports that he had led dancing in his churchyard on Easter Day wearing ram’s horns on his head. My husband took me to Portsmouth to meet with his barons and plan an attack on the rebels. We were to go to Normandy, and then, at the invitation of the French king, to visit him in Paris. I ordered a new wardrobe, more for the pleasure of hearing Lady Maude grumble at the expense than for any delight I took in it, and a scarlet velvet caparison for Othon, for when I rode him at our entry. So we crossed the sea once more, and once more, I could not rejoice in it, for all that water was surely my element now, as one of Melusina’s kin.
We lodged the first night at the Louvre, the fortress built over the river Seine, facing out towards the Norman strongholds of the English kings. The royal palace, the Cité was on an island in the middle of that river. King Philip had given it over for our use, and we would ride there in procession the next day. I was in my chamber with Agnes and the maids, looking over my cloth of silver gown, when a page skittered in with a message. I had sent a pair of beautiful gloves, gold-chased doeskin, to Princess Blanche, whom I was very curious to see, and she had returned a parcel of delicate lace to me. I thought carelessly that it must be another gift, and told the boy he might send the bearer in.
Outside, the spring night was clear, but the Louvre was a gloomy place, the walls vastly thick, with forbidding round towers at each corner and just two narrow gates to the south and east, barely wide enough for a mounted man to pass. I should be glad to lodge at the Cité, I thought, this place felt more like a prison than a palace. Still, the casements were shut against the stink of the river mud, and the room was bright with candles so that the maids could see about their stitching. When he came in, it was as though all their light danced to his face, so that for a moment, we sat in darkness. I thought two things: I thought that I might be looking into my own countenance, and that I had never seen a beautiful man before.
His hair, like mine, was ashy gold, with a sheen like new corn. His eyes, like mine, were the brightest turquoise, his skin, like mine, the colour of new cream. He was tall, and broad shouldered, and his waist was narrow. In fact, from the titters from the maids I could see he
possessed all the features of a knight in a romance, and somehow that made me cross.
I greeted him coolly, leaving him a long time on his knees, had water brought for his hands, fruit and wine, though I did not rise, and when we had accomplished the courtesies I asked him his name.
‘Pierre de Joigny, Majesty. Sent by your lady mother, the Countess of Angouleme.’
I shot a quick glance at Agnes, seated quietly in a corner busying herself with the lacings on my slippers. Her head moved very slightly, though she did not look up.
‘Leave us,’ I ordered the maids. ‘Now!’
As the girls made a languid show of gathering up their needles, for the chance of a few more seconds’ ogling. I could hear them giggling along the passageway after they had curtsied their way out. Agnes went quietly to the door and locked it before returning to her place.
‘Will it please you to sit, sir?’
‘Majesty, do you know who I am?’ asked Pierre.
‘I should think you are my brother, sir,’ I smiled. ‘I am very glad to see you, at last.’
Before my mother’s marriage to my father, she had been the wife of the Comte de Joigny, until the marriage was dissolved by the church as the two were found to be too closely related. I had never known anything of my brother except his existence, and that he was the king of France’s man. Had my mother sent him to make amends? I could not help being delighted to see him. We had the same blood, after all.
‘You are most welcome, Brother. I believe you were with King Philip in the Holy Land.’
He assented with a modest nod.
‘Then you will have much to tell me. I long to hear of your adventures.’
‘Indeed, Majesty. I hope we shall become good friends, if Majesty will do me the honour.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Though perhaps it is too much to aspire to, the friendship of such a beautiful lady as Majesty.’
‘You flatter me, sir. And perhaps yourself too, since a looking glass would show our countenances so alike.’
‘Impossible, Majesty. I could only ever hope to be a shadow to your sun.’
I had come a long way, I thought, from my hoyden days at Lusignan. I could keep up this kind of flirtatious patter for hours, charming, feinting, the idlest of conversation, designed with nothing more than mutual smugness and the whiling away of an evening. ‘But sir, you must forgive me. It grows late and I am rather fatigued by our journey. You say you bear a message from our lady mother?’
‘Just so, Majesty.’
I wondered what it could be. A letter, perhaps? But watching his face, I saw a tiny shadow cross it, like a cloud’s silhouette on the surface of a calm and sparkling sea. I tried to tell myself that this visit was a kindness, that Pierre had taken the chance to meet me while I was in his master’s city, or perhaps ask me some favour, a grant or a place, but I knew it was none of those things, and I felt cold again inside.
‘Then you will trust what I have to tell you?’
‘Why should I need to trust you, sir?’
‘It is a … delicate matter, Majesty.’
‘Then how might I know to trust you? You bring a letter, maybe? Or some token?’
‘I bring proof.’ His face in the candlelight now looked hard, marble-planed, and I knew that despite his pleasantries, he wished me ill.
‘As I said, sir, I am rather tired. Perhaps you will be so good as to find me once more at the Cité, once the ceremonies tomorrow are concluded. Agnes, would you be so good as to show the gentleman out?’
I turned but Agnes had not stirred.
‘Agnes!’ I rapped sharply. ‘I asked you to show my guest out.’
She shook her head dumbly. ‘Agnes! What can you mean by disobeying me?’ I glared at her, but she only shook her head and mumbled something.
‘What? What are you saying?’
‘That you need to hear what your brother has to say.’
I could not be angry with her. She looked so cowed and fearful. I thought wearily that I could summon the guard and order Pierre away from my presence in King John’s name, but then all my state, my commands, had done nothing to protect me so far. I might as well hear it, I thought, drawing myself up straight.
‘Very well. But do not tarry. What is this “proof” you speak of?’
‘This.’ He took a small package of black watered-silk from the pocket on his mantle. ‘Our mother sent it.’
He revealed a square of linen with a dark, red-brown stain. Inside, a little piece of parchment with a crude drawing in charcoal, slightly smudged, seven lines making a stag’s antlered skull, and beside it, a coiled shape that might have been another smudge had it not looked so very like another mark that I knew well.
I looked at the things, put out a hand to touch them, withdrew it, my fingers hovering over the pulse of their horrible power. I felt my composure fracture, dug my nails into the soft palms of my hands, bit down hard on my lower lip. I could not give way, yet my exclamation was a child’s, not a queen’s.
‘Agnes! Agnes, why? You said you burned it—’
‘I cut away a piece, as the Countess instructed me.’
‘I am come from court,’ said Pierre. ‘Our mother is there, as you perceive. You will see her tomorrow.’
‘I do not wish to see her. I will not.’
‘But you will listen?’ he asked.
‘Have I a choice?’
‘Where is the king?’
‘At supper with his men of Normandy. He will not come for a long time.’
‘Sister, please believe me. I know how strange this must have been for you, how lonely and hard. But I am here now.’ Pierre’s voice was so gentle, it made me want to weep. ‘You have been very good, and very brave, and I can help you, now.’
Perhaps it was the struggle to keep back my tears, or the irritation I had felt when the maids looked at him, but I could not hold on to my temper. And by God, I was bored of weeping. I threw the disgusting little bundle to the floor and hissed at him.
‘I am weary, do you hear me? I am tired to death of all these whispers and plotting. I am queen of England! I have no need of your protection, or my mother’s interference. You are nothing to me, and I will not have you make mischief in my life any more. And these,’ I kicked contemptuously at the scribble and the scrap of cloth. ‘These are wicked tokens. A priest would call them the Devil’s work and I will not have them near me. So you can tell our lady mother that. Now get out before I call the guard.’
And then I spoiled all my injured dignity by bursting into sobs after all, stifling them reproachfully in the hem of my gown, hunching myself smaller and smaller into a snail shell of pain. In a moment, I felt his hand gently stroking my back, and his touch felt like my mother’s, and I cried all the harder, until I lost my breath and began to gasp for air.
‘Here.’ Agnes took me firmly in her arms and gave me a little shake before pressing my wet face to her bosom. ‘Calm yourself, little one, there now, there now.’
Pierre knelt, as gracefully as if he were dancing, or handing a lady to her horse in a tapestry, to gather his foul tokens.
‘Sister, I cannot leave until I have spoken with you. Please, calm yourself, as your nurse says. Here, sit.’
They fussed about me, sponging my face and fetching a cup of wine, Pierre’s voice murmuring that all would be well. ‘You are recovered, Sister? I am so sorry for your distress. Now, here are the things you must consider. You are queen, indeed, but you are in danger. Your husband is weak, he will not hold his lands if the king of France moves against him.’
‘My husband loves me. He will protect me, whatever happens.’
‘Will he love you so much, Majesty, when he knows you are not a maid?’ He let it hang there, and then his voice continued, supple and sinuous. ‘You know he will not. Perhaps he would let you retire to a convent. But you know the penalty for adultery in a queen? It is treachery, after all, what you did.’
‘I didn’t do anything! It wasn’t my
fault, I was forced—’ I stopped myself. The dumb sickness that had come upon me after my wedding had been a blessing, I saw. I had shrivelled away in shock, like a snail caught in sunlight, and stopped my mouth. I might have cried out on Lord Hugh, proclaimed what he had done to me and asked my husband to avenge me. But John would not have wished to avenge me, as I had been spoiled, and in so spoiling me, Lord Hugh had made me party to the most heinous crime of all.
‘You could tell him that, Sister. Perhaps he will be merciful. But you have had a show of his temper, I think. He is not always a reasonable man, you must concede. Lèse majesté is a burning offence for a woman, know you that. Besides, John will not long be king. Lord Hugh never intended to be John’s man. Why do you think your betrothal was arranged to Angouleme’s old enemy as soon as the Lionheart died? Why did you think the king came to Lusignan to hear his fealty?’
‘I thought, I thought it was an alliance. To join their lands, as is usual. To bring peace.’
He snorted. ‘Are you such a child still, Sister, that you believe that? No one wished for peace. They wished for power, as all men do. And the lord of Angouleme with them.’
Papa. But my papa was a good man.
