by Alys Clare
It was as if a heavy door had slammed in Meggie’s face.
Isabella, she guessed, had sensed her interest and somehow shut her out.
She is more powerful than I suspected, Meggie thought, maintaining her smile despite her shock. Although I do not believe she is aware of it.
She committed the last image to memory, for she knew she must recall it.
So this, she thought, was his wife; this was the woman married to that strangely appealing man with the bright blue eyes whom Meggie had met in a forest clearing and who had once offered to teach her swordsmanship. Automatically her hand reached down for her sword, but of course it wasn’t in its usual place in its sheath at her side. The guards at the outer gates had been very reluctant to admit her and Faruq at all, and there had been no chance of progressing even a step inside the keep until they had surrendered their weapons – left with the horses – and been thoroughly searched.
With Isabella’s descent into the courtyard, more guards had materialized, moving with quiet efficiency to stand encircling the Queen.
The Queen folded her arms across her slim body and tapped a foot. ‘Well?’ she prompted.
Peter de Mauley gave her another deep bow. ‘My apologies, my lady Queen. The woman is called Meggie and the man’s name is Faruq.’ He paused, shooting a narrowed-eyed glance at the visitors. ‘They say – well, he says he’s come to warn you that you could be in danger. He says that—’
‘Of course I’m in danger,’ Isabella interrupted, her tone scathing. She seemed to have abandoned politeness. ‘My husband, the lord King, is fighting for his realm – fighting for his life, I dare say – and I am kept here in this desolate, blighted castle for my own safety.’ The last four words were spat out with such venom that Meggie could almost imagine it, smoking in the air and scorching the ground as it landed. ‘The rebels, the French prince, roving bands of foreign mercenaries who are probably also out for his blood and wouldn’t mind a drop or two of mine – dear God, what’s a bit more danger here or there?’
Peter de Mauley bravely held his ground in the face of her furious tirade, standing quite still, hands clasped in front of him, head bowed. When she had finished, he said quietly, ‘If my lady is content to allow me to make some enquiries, it will be my honour to do so.’
Perhaps, Meggie mused, watching the Queen closely, that was how you dealt with queens. For, as if de Mauley had known quite well what Isabella’s reaction would be, she seemed to be calming down. A sudden noise not unlike the frantic cooing of a flock of agitated doves interrupting her intense observation, and, raising her eyes, Meggie watched as a group of some seven or eight ladies-in-waiting came fluttering down the steps. As if to serve as a foil for the Queen’s dramatic and eye-catching crimson gown, all of them were dressed in soft shades of grey and beige. Most of them were at least a decade older than their mistress; the majority were comely but plump. Together with the generous petticoats fluffing out the wide skirts, they looked like doves as well as sounding like them. At a subtle nod from de Mauley, the one leading the advance came trotting over to the Queen.
‘My lady, will you not come back to your quarters and rest awhile?’ she said timidly, her voice high-pitched with nerves. ‘It is warm out here in the courtyard and we would not want the sun to burn my lady’s fair cheek, would we?’
Slowly Isabella turned to the woman. She was about to make some hurtful, cruel remark – Meggie thought she could almost see the words forming in the Queen’s mind – but then abruptly she slumped a little. ‘No, we wouldn’t,’ she said softly. ‘Very well, then …’ She paused, staring down at the woman – Isabella was at least half a head taller – ‘… Marjorie? Matilda? Whatever your name is. Very well.’
She turned and began to walk away, the waiting woman tripping along at her side and the others falling into place behind. The guards watched as the little procession approached the steps, some already melting away into the shadows of the dark room from which they had emerged.
Gradually, gently, Meggie began to retract the sensors she had been extending towards the Queen. The process was almost complete when, her foot already on the first step, Isabella turned and stared right at her. ‘I suppose I should thank you, you and the dark-haired fellow,’ she said grudgingly. She glanced at Peter de Mauley. ‘See to it that they get some food once you’re done with them,’ she commanded. ‘They look as if they need it.’
She began to walk slowly up the steps. But then once more she stopped and looked down at Meggie. ‘Be thankful you live in the freedom of out there,’ she said, waving her arm towards the steeply sloping fields beyond the walls. The long sleeve of her gown blew in the breeze like a crimson banner.
Then, her face briefly falling in an expression Meggie couldn’t read, she went on up the steps, under a low archway and out of sight.
As Peter de Mauley led her and Faruq off into the small guardroom that appeared to be his own private domain, Meggie was at first too busy thinking about Queen Isabella and that strange, powerful image of looming peril to pay attention. It was only when the two voices began to sound angry that she pulled herself back into the moment.
‘She’s not going to be poisoned, I tell you!’ Peter de Mauley was saying crossly. Meggie was quite sure it wasn’t for the first time. ‘Her food is prepared under very close scrutiny and at least two people taste every item of food and drink before it is put before her.’
Faruq, Meggie thought, looked like a man who was trying to convince someone of a vital, crucial point while not being allowed to explain fully what that point was. It’s not only I who is not hearing the full story, then, she thought with a wry smile.
‘But …’ Faruq began. He met her eyes, and his held an appeal that she couldn’t answer.
Not wanting to let him down, she said, ‘And, of course, the Queen is always attended at her meals, so if there was any danger of her choking, for example, help would be at hand?’
Peter de Mauley looked puzzled, as well he might. ‘Well, yes,’ he agreed. He was staring quizzically at her, as if to say, Why on earth should she choke?
Faruq said suddenly, ‘May I be shown the place where food is prepared?’
Meggie was quite sure de Mauley was going to say no. But, watching Faruq closely, suddenly she saw him as the constable must surely be seeing him: a young man, sincere, distressed in his urge – his need – to help; his conscience deeply disturbed at the thought that only he could save the Queen from some terrible fate.
And then, as she’d known he would, Peter de Mauley grinned and said, ‘Oh, why not?’, adding in a mutter, ‘What harm can it do?’
With Faruq and Meggie following close at his heels, he led them out of his little room, across the courtyard, under a low arch, along a network of branching passages and up a long flight of steps that emerged into what was clearly the castle’s kitchen quarters.
Meggie’s first reaction was amazement at the sheer amounts of food and drink contained on the shelves, the boards, hanging from the beams supporting the roof and stacked in barrels and crates on the floor. A stab of fury flooded her – swiftly she suppressed it – at the thought of all this for one woman, her ladies-in-waiting and a modest garrison of troops, when the vast majority of the population had little idea of where the next meal would come from.
She took several deep breaths and returned her focus to Faruq.
He seemed to be circling the huge room, stopping here and there to inspect and sometimes pick up whatever had caught his eye. But, she realized, he was being very clever: if he was checking just the one commodity – the meat, perhaps, or the barrels of beer, or the shelves groaning with costly and beautifully made platters, cups and knives – he was disguising the fact. Watching closely, in only a brief time she saw him sniff at, feel all over with his fingers and even surreptitiously lick objects as diverse as a crust of bread, the end of a smooth, round goat’s cheese, a knife, the dregs in a wine jug, an elegant glass goblet containing water, a side of bacon, one of a
batch of newly baked cakes and a wooden platter.
Finally, after what seemed like a long time, he raised his eyes to Meggie and shook his head. Peter de Mauley, who had clearly seen the gesture, said with indulgent patience, ‘Satisfied now, young man?’ He gave Meggie an exasperated smile.
Faruq, head down, strode over to the arch under which they had entered. Leaning close to Meggie, de Mauley said softly, ‘I knew he wouldn’t find anything.’ Straightening, a faint look of pride on his face, he said, ‘We have to take good care of her. The very best care, in fact. Otherwise …’ He didn’t finish his observation.
There was no need to say what he and his garrison might expect if they let their guard down and allowed any harm to befall the Queen.
Indeed, Meggie reflected as she followed Peter de Mauley along the twisting and turning route back to the courtyard – already worried about a brand-new concern of her own – it didn’t really bear thinking about.
Ahead of them, Faruq suddenly stopped. Preoccupied, Meggie barely took in the expression on his face. But then, running back to de Mauley, he asked him a question; an urgent question, by the tone of the muttered words, although Meggie couldn’t make out what he was saying. Forcing her own anxiety to the back of her mind, she hurried towards the two men, but Faruq saw her coming and drew Peter de Mauley away. Now he was demanding something, holding de Mauley by his sleeve, his face close to the older man’s, light eyes narrowed and intent. De Mauley said something – a few curt words – and Faruq spoke again, desperate now. De Mauley, shaking off the grasping, clinging fingers, added something else, pointing away over the high castle walls towards the north-east.
Then Faruq moved. He began to run as hard as he could, calling back to Meggie, ‘Come on! We have wasted so much time and now we must fly like hawks!’
She looked at Peter de Mauley, who stood watching Faruq’s retreating back. If she had hoped for some clue as to what had just happened, she was to be disappointed, for de Mauley’s expression had closed into a disapproving frown and, even as she stared at him, he spun round and strode back inside the inner keep.
Meggie ran after Faruq.
As they reached the horses and Faruq hurried to mount, she yelled, ‘What’s happened? What did you just find out?’
‘Hurry!’ he cried. ‘Get on your horse!’
She stayed exactly where she was.
He seemed to understand that she would not move without some explanation. Casting a despairing look into the sky and muttering a curse in his own tongue, he met her angry eyes. ‘I came here to seek something,’ he said, speaking very fast in a low voice. ‘It is evil and very, very dangerous, this object, and, because I believed it was the Queen who was in such peril from it, I expected to find it in her vicinity, but it is not here!’ He gave a sound that was a cross between a sob and a moan. ‘But if what I fear is right, we must follow it because now—’
Meggie was already up on Auban’s back, kicking him to a trot then a canter, for she didn’t need to hear any more. She heard Faruq thundering along behind her.
Faruq had believed that this perilous object, whatever it was, threatened the Queen, but he was wrong. What he had just said was combining powerfully with her instinct and those worrying impressions that had come into her mind as she stared at the Queen, and – for the moment, anyway – she knew all she needed to know.
It wasn’t Isabella who was in danger.
It was the King.
EIGHT
Josse, Yves and Geoffroi were a day’s journey from Lynn. They hoped to reach the town late the following afternoon, and Josse was very worried that they might arrive only to find the perpetually restless, endlessly peripatetic King had already left.
They should have arrived by now but Yves’s horse had picked up a stone and, despite Geoffroi’s care and his meticulous tending of the injured foot, they’d been forced to spend a whole day in their camp until Geoffroi deemed the horse fit to travel again.
Yves, observing Josse seething with impatience, tried to comfort him. ‘Your lad’s the one who knows about horses,’ he said, ‘and you’d be a fool to override his advice.’ Josse gave an injured, indignant sniff; it was a very long time since anyone had called him a fool to his face.
‘But we have to get on!’ he snapped at Yves. ‘It’s been far too long since we heard the King was aiming for Lynn, and there’s absolutely no guarantee that—’
‘Be calm,’ Yves interrupted gently. Despite himself, Josse found that he was soothed; it was strange, he reflected, but over the past days it seemed that he and Yves had slipped back into the character of the men – the boys – they had been long ago in their youth. Josse had always been the impatient one; the one who had all the ideas, who urged Yves and the younger ones on to more and more daring exploits, who tried to make them ignore the perils and dared them to follow where he led. Had it not been for Yves and the quiet voice of reason, he had often thought, who knew if all of them would have survived to manhood. It seemed highly unlikely.
Sensing Josse was weakening, Yves said, ‘I approve of my nephew, Josse.’ He nodded over to where Geoffroi stood beside the injured horse, a frown of concentration on his open, friendly face, one hand feeling for the heat of infection in the horse’s foot, one moving gently in a constant, soothing motion on the horse’s shoulder. ‘And how I admire his touch! It’s only a matter of days since he and my old Hector met each other, and usually it’s months before Hector puts his trust in someone, if he ever does. Yet there they are, peaceful as you like, and you’d almost think your boy had whispered in Hector’s ear and said, Trust me, I’m here to help and I’ll do my best not to hurt you.’
Josse grinned. ‘Knowing Geoffroi, he probably did.’
For want of something to do to fill the long hours of their enforced day’s rest, Josse and Yves had left Geoffroi with the horses and explored their surroundings. They had camped on a wide tongue of land that extended into the marshy fenland to the west, where waterways twisted and turned this way and that before collecting and flowing out into the Wash. They were on the edge of what appeared to be an ancient settlement, with the remains of long-abandoned huts and simple, one-roomed dwellings strung out along a track that rounded the curve of the land. Up on the higher ground to the east stood a solitary oak: huge, spreading, magnificent, and, from the width of its massive trunk, hundreds of years old. Down at the fen edge, with the wide expanse of dark water stretching out before them, they had stood staring at what seemed to be a little island, a few yards from the shore. On it there were some large stones; as Yves observed, stone was unusual in the vicinity, and so it looked as if these had been brought here and transported out to the island for some specific purpose.
‘You’d almost think they were grave markers,’ Josse said softly. The island, and indeed the whole area, was affecting him oddly, and he seemed to sense the presence of phantom people … friendly, inquisitive people; he felt no fear.
Practical, reasonable Yves, standing by his side, said, ‘They can’t be graves out there, Josse. Whoever would have buried their dead out on that little offshore island?’
But Josse, perhaps more sensitive than most men since his years with Joanna, wasn’t so sure. Just for an instant, he had thought he’d seen the outline of a figure, crouched over a raised hump of ground on which someone had placed flowers.
It wasn’t the moment to mention it to Yves. Josse, smiling, didn’t think there was ever a moment for that. His down-to-earth brother had never been one for flights of the imagination. So, turning and beginning the walk back to their camp, he merely said, ‘I expect you’re right.’
They made steady progress the next day and rode into Lynn as twilight fell. Even from some distance away it was clear that King John was there. The roads leading into the town were thick with horse-drawn carts, ox carts, men on horseback, troops of marching men, local men and women laden with all manner of goods that they thought they had a chance of selling to the King and his followers, from bread and
barrels of beer to leather belts, mending kits and spare stirrups.
Lynn was a thriving, hard-working and growing port, one of the country’s wealthiest. The extensive quays and wharves were always lined with vessels: some crossing the seas and oceans; some voyaging up and down the English coast and trading in items such as herring and timber. The richest of the merchants had built their fine houses well above the noise and the filth of the harbour, but the majority of Lynn’s population lived and worked in the seething throng of constant arrivals and departures. Shopkeepers and tavern proprietors rubbed along with sailors, captains, prostitutes, priests, thieves, fortune-tellers, acrobats, and young men with the bright eyes of unsullied innocence and untried optimism, drawn to the prestigious port and hoping for a little of what they saw as the easy success of its inhabitants.
Josse was tense and cross even before they arrived. For the last dozen miles he had been beset by an image of reaching Lynn to be told the King had just left and nobody had much of an idea where he was bound. He had constantly tried to force the pace, and Geoffroi’s repeated refusals – ‘Uncle Yves’s horse is still not totally sound, Father, and we will do more harm than good if we make him hurry!’ – had finally made Josse lose his temper and yell at him.
Yves the peacemaker had intervened, pointing out gently but firmly to Josse that, for one thing, the three of them wouldn’t be much use to the King if one of them had a lame horse; and, for another, there was no reason whatsoever to assume King John had left Lynn. ‘When last we received news a couple of days ago,’ he said with calm reason, ‘he was on his way to Lynn but still some distance away. It is surely unlikely, even for him, to have got there and already left again.’
‘He might have done!’ Josse, hurt that his brother seemed to have joined his son in opposition, was angry all over again. ‘He’s always been like that and—’
