by Alys Clare
Very slowly he nodded.
‘And then you pinned Peter de Mauley to the wall and fired all those frantic questions at him,’ she went on. ‘He answered you as briefly as he could, probably realizing that to do so was the best way to see the back of the madman – that’s you, by the way – and his companion. Then you yelled at me to hurry up because we had to flee away north-east.’
‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Yes. It was no longer there, this evil, tainted thing that I have to find. And, because some inspiration came to me so that I knew what I must find out from Peter de Mauley, I believe I know where to find it. It is—’
‘It’s with the King,’ she finished for him.
His light eyes, wide with shock, met hers.
‘We are riding north-east,’ she said. She had some idea of the lie of the land and she could see, somehow, inside her head, where her home was, where London lay, and what there was to the north-east. And, remembering word for word what her father had said regarding his own destination, she knew what – or rather who – was there.
As if that was not enough, there had been that sudden, terrible realization as she had stood in the courtyard of Corfe Castle. The instant of seeming to see into the Queen’s mind; the understanding, as Faruq had urged her to hurry away, that it was not Isabella whom the peril threatened but John.
Faruq was still staring at her. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘I think – no, I know – that it is.’
‘What is this evil object? Can’t you tell me?’ she pleaded. ‘Some dreadful poison? A fatal potion disguised as a flagon of wine?’
‘No, not a potion or a poison,’ he said. He lowered his eyes. ‘I wish I could tell you, for your guesses are shrewd and not so far from the mark, but I cannot.’
‘But we—’
‘Meggie, please do not attempt to persuade me, for trying to decide what is right – to honour my solemn oath of secrecy or to reveal the truth to you when you have done so very much to earn my trust – tears me apart!’
The last word was almost a sob.
‘Very well.’ She made herself relax. ‘But, as I believe I said to you before, if you change your mind and decide you need an ally to confide in, I’m here.’
That late afternoon, evening and night had set the pattern for the days that followed. They would sleep till late afternoon, safe in some out-of-the-way spot, then rise, pack up, erase all traces of their presence and set off again. It was October now and past the equinox, and already the nights were drawing in. This worked to their advantage, and they made the very most of the lengthening hours of darkness. With Meggie’s unerring guiding hand, they travelled fast.
Now, as she lay on her pine-needle bed, comfortable and warm, her appetite reasonably well sated, she knew she should try to sleep. She still didn’t know precisely why Faruq had to make this journey – this difficult, exhausting, tension-filled journey – but she knew why she did, and she guessed it amounted to the same thing. Filled with a deep-seated worry that there was danger – not just the danger of battle, of assault by the rebel barons or by some advance party of the French prince’s, but a danger she didn’t begin to understand – she knew she had to find the King.
The next day they almost came to grief. Riding at dusk, the night’s ride only just begun, they should have been alert. But, somehow, both of them managed to miss the fact that the little track they were on was about to join a wider, much more frequented road, and on that road was a troop of well-armed, finely mounted men.
Just in time Meggie, in the lead, drew up Auban so sharply that he almost threw her in protest. She managed to stay in the saddle, twisting round, mouthing frantically to Faruq, ‘Back! Back!’
He understood. Thankful to her soul for a bright, perceptive companion, Meggie slid off Auban’s back and led him in Faruq’s wake, along the path they’d just travelled, deep, deep into the thick forest where they’d slept the daylight hours away.
They tethered the horses and crept back to stare down at the road. The troop of soldiers was still passing by: they were riding two abreast and there must have been getting on for a hundred of them. Meggie stared at the banners. Were they King John’s men, hurrying to lend their might to his army? Or were they rebels, travelling the same way but with the opposite intent? She didn’t know.
When the last pair had passed and the dust was settling, they went back to fetch the horses. ‘Faruq, listen,’ she said.
He glanced at her. ‘We had a narrow escape, yes?’
‘Yes.’ She grimaced. ‘That’s what I need to talk to you about, because we might not be so lucky next time.’
He stopped dead. ‘We will not stop,’ he said sharply. ‘We cannot, for I—’
She put her hand on his arm. It was rigid with tension. ‘That wasn’t what I was going to say.’ He relaxed slightly. ‘We need a reason for heading into the fighting zone,’ she said. He stared at her. ‘Faruq, here we are, the pair of us, racing across England to find King John, and we need a very good excuse because most people who aren’t either soldiers or out of their minds will be fleeing in the opposite direction.’
She had his attention now.
She remembered her father’s summons; nobody ignored a demand from the King.
‘I suggest we say we’re healers,’ she went on, more confidently than she felt. ‘I am one anyway, so it’s no pretence, and we’ll say you’re my pupil.’ He frowned. ‘My assistant,’ she amended.
She could hear the protest before he made it.
‘Look, Faruq,’ she said before he had a chance, ‘I know you’re a man and used to being the one in charge, but I doubt very much you know as much about healing as I do, so if we’re challenged and have to convince someone, you won’t be as good at it as I will.’
Slowly he nodded. ‘That is sense. Very well.’
‘We shall say that I’ve been sent for because—’ she thought hard – ‘because they’re worried about an outbreak of some sickness and they need healers to get the troops better and back on their feet,’ she improvised.
He looked at her doubtfully. ‘You think we’ll be believed?’
‘Oh, why not?’ she replied recklessly. ‘Anyway,’ she added as they untied the horses’ reins and mounted up, ‘it’s the best I can think of.’
He nodded again, then led the way off down the path.
East Anglia. Marching feet, the thump of hooves, the ring of metal on harness, the clink of sword in scabbard. Jehan, too, was riding north-east. His Bretons under Yann Duguesclin were crossing the wetlands, and even their fast progress had slowed down.
Jehan was deeply troubled. Despite Duguesclin’s iron control, rumours flew among his Breton band. There was whispered talk of his plans. He was going to select a small band of spies, men breathed to each other as they huddled in quiet corners, and send them, disguised, to infiltrate the King’s army. They would report back and in this way he would know when and where to strike. He would judge the perfect moment to send in the killers, and the plan would not – could not – fail.
The men seemed to have a faith in Yann Duguesclin amounting to worship. It was as if he was holy.
Jehan could no longer ignore his misgivings. Away from Meggie, oh, how far away, he was missing her; missing the life they were making together. He had tried so hard to suppress his doubts, but he was habitually honest with himself and he had all but given up. He made himself face the fact: this vengeance on a man who may or may not have killed a Breton prince seemed an act of folly.
Do I even care? he asked himself. Did I ever, really, believe all this was so vitally important? Important enough to chuck everything else away?
But whether he did or not was swiftly growing irrelevant. He was here, in Yann Duguesclin’s army, and Duguesclin had no doubts whatsoever. He had his plan, he believed in it utterly, and he would forge ahead until its end was achieved. The latest rumour was that he had already selected his killers, and there were three of them: hard, lean men with impassive, expressionless faces; ex
pertly trained, so it was said, in their art. There would be no going back, for them or any of the Bretons, once the plan had been implemented.
The long column had drawn to a halt. They were crossing a narrow stream and the order had come to water the horses.
A runner came panting along. He caught sight of Jehan. ‘He wants you,’ he said curtly. There was no need to say who wanted him. ‘Follow me.’
Jehan stood before Yann Duguesclin.
‘I want someone good with horses,’ Duguesclin said softly. ‘They tell me I need the blacksmith.’
Jehan didn’t know what to say and so kept silent.
Duguesclin nodded towards a trio of men standing a little way off, their horses in the stream beside them. ‘You’d better start riding with them straight away,’ he said. ‘The sooner you grow familiar with them and their mounts, the more use you’ll be.’
He turned and strode away.
Jehan, his heart knocking painfully in his chest, went to fetch his bay gelding.
NINE
10 October 1216
Josse awoke with a sand-dry mouth and the embarrassing awareness that he’d been snoring. Loudly, probably, for the previous night’s eating and heavy drinking would have led to very deep sleep. He raised his head from the mean and smelly pillow. The shutters were still firmly closed across the three or four high, small windows – nobody in the big sleeping room had made any effort to open any of them, although fresh air would have been extremely welcome – and he could only just make out the long, broad shape of his brother, lying next to him. The space where Geoffroi had slept was now empty, and Geoffroi’s blanket was rolled and neatly tied.
Perhaps, Josse thought hopefully, Geoffroi was out foraging for breakfast and something to drink. A bucketful of water wouldn’t have gone amiss.
The three of them had taken lodgings in the same establishment that Geoffroi had deemed good enough for their horses. Josse smiled. His son had clearly taken more care in selecting accommodation in accordance with the horses’ comfort than that of his father and uncle. Still, the place wasn’t too bad. It was very crowded, but that probably applied to everywhere in Lynn just then. Bringing their own blankets had, however, been a wise move.
He waited for a little longer but, when Geoffroi did not appear, got up, pulled on his boots and reached for his cloak. He roused Yves, already stirring, and the two of them were just emerging from the latrines when Geoffroi came hurrying up. ‘We’re to go back to the hall where we feasted last night,’ he said. ‘There’s food and drink set out, apparently, and we’d better hurry if we’re not to find it’s all gone – they’re falling on it like raptors.’
In the hall, they joined the queue and found themselves swept along through a wide arch and into another, smaller hall, where meats and bread had been set out. Most of the men had been at the feast. Many, Josse noticed, were roughly his age, and had probably been summoned by the King for the same reason. He recognized a few faces from the distant days of his youth and young manhood, although, with the unreliable memory that comes to all men as they start to grow old, he found that no amount of effort could bring back their names … He reassured himself that his former companions would undoubtedly suffer the same affliction, however, and put it out of his mind.
Looking back through the arch, Josse could see King John seated at the heavy oak table on its dais at the far end of the main hall. Two men, a lad and a couple of comely young women were waiting on him, proffering various jugs and dishes. With increasing impatience and rising temper, John waved them all away.
Josse studied him. He didn’t look very well. Whispers were chasing each other round the high hall, and it seemed everyone was aware of the King’s symptoms. He had been sick, he had a crushing headache, he’d voided his bowels at least twice. Other symptoms, such as the yellow whites of the eyes and the greyish pallor of the usually ruddy face, Josse could see for himself. The King was clearly suffering from an almighty hangover and, given the astonishing amounts of alcohol that he’d consumed the previous evening, it was hardly surprising.
Josse felt a lurch of sympathy. He’d never known when to stop, he reflected. Despite the very early age at which John had started to acquire a taste for wine, ale, cider – pretty much anything alcoholic, in fact – he had never learned the fundamental laws of consequence. How many times, Josse mused, had he watched John suffer like this? Too many to count …
Yves and Geoffroi had pushed their way to the boards where food and drink had been laid out and, using their height and width advantage shamelessly, had managed to pile three platters with an assortment of the proffered fare. Now they made their way to a half-empty table towards the back of the hall, and Josse was about to join them on the bench when one of the men attending on the King came hurrying up.
‘You’re to come with me,’ he said. He jerked his head in the King’s direction. ‘It’s an order.’
With some reluctance, Josse followed him through the crowd and up the steps to the raised table where King John sat. He stared up as Josse approached. ‘Sit down, my friend,’ he said in a hoarse voice. Josse had a vague memory that the night had ended with some singing; probably quite a lot. He obeyed the command. John studied him, and Josse was just deciding that he had no idea at all which of the old faithful he was when the King leaned closer and, amid a fume of hot breath that smelt unpleasantly of fermented fruit, said quietly, ‘How is your daughter?’
Other men also have daughters, Josse told himself firmly. It’s probably just a lucky guess. Nevertheless, as he told the King briefly that Meggie was well and would be honoured to be remembered, he couldn’t prevent the warm glow that suffused him.
‘She does you credit, Josse,’ John said. ‘You must …’
But his eyes had caught movement at the back of the hall, and, as Josse turned to look, he saw a rider – hot, sweaty, dusty, and with an expression of the gravest apprehension – shoving his way through the throng towards the King.
‘What news?’ John demanded as the man, reaching him, fell on his knees on the filthy floor. ‘Oh, get up, you fool,’ he added impatiently, ‘I can’t hear what you’re muttering down there.’
The man stood, straightened his clothes, leaned forward and, on tiptoe, put his face up close to the King’s. Now he looked as if he was on the point of breaking down, his exhausted face falling into lines of abject distress.
Josse heard the hissing of his whispered words. He couldn’t make out all of them but one was enough: Dover.
He knew already that it wasn’t good news, for he had seen the messenger’s expression. He was, he reflected in a strange moment during which he seemed to stand apart from the hall and turn into an observer, probably only the second of that vast company to have that realization.
But, only a few heartbeats later, everyone knew.
For the King stood up, so violently that he overturned his big, heavy chair and sent it flying off the dais to land with a deafening crash on the stone floor behind him. And, in a voice so loud, so filled with anguish that it hurt to hear it, he bellowed, ‘Hubert de Burgh has failed!’
Almost every man there knew who Hubert de Burgh was, and the few who didn’t were swiftly enlightened by those standing nearest. There was a moment of silence, and then the uproar began.
Josse edged closer to the King, who was staring down at the parchment that the messenger had just given him. Josse could hear his frantic, muttered words; see the blue eyes in their yellowed whites scanning the few lines of writing, as if desperate to find he’d been mistaken.
Then he turned and stared straight at Josse. ‘He can no longer hold out against the besiegers,’ he said dully. ‘He asks my permission to surrender the castle to Prince Louis.’
Just for a few moments, Josse really believed the King was going to see sense; to yield to the inevitable, give the necessary orders and send the messenger straight back to Dover, perhaps even with a word or two of thanks to de Burgh and his garrison for having fought so well for s
o long.
But this was King John. And, very soon, Josse acknowledged his own foolishness.
The King boiled over like a tightly lidded pot on a hot stove. His incandescent fury roared up through him in a red tide and, the foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, and gouts of spittle flying like hailstones, he screamed, ‘No surrender! NO SURRENDER! He’ll hold the castle and the garrison will fight to the very last man!’
There was a great roar as at least half, and probably two-thirds, of the company caught his fervour. But quite a lot of men were looking sick and ashen. They were the older men, the veterans of battles and sieges, the ones who knew that holding out was sometimes pointless, and that fighting to the very last man was wasteful, agonizing and ultimately quite futile.
And now Josse felt a rising fury of his own. The men at Dover had given all they had, and the dear Lord alone knew what conditions had been like; what privations had been endured, how much pain and suffering – how many deaths – had been witnessed.
Helewise’s young grandson Ralf was there. Was he still alive? If so, if somehow he had managed to survive, was he now to have his life thrown away by the King’s careless and uncaring hand, purely because John was too angry to see sense?
No. He wasn’t.
It was reckless and extremely dangerous, but in that instant Josse didn’t care. He shot to his feet and spun to face the King, so close that they were almost chest to chest. He said, his words clear and cold and only for the King’s ears: ‘That, my lord King, is madness.’
John stopped his rant. He seemed to freeze, his face as still as if he’d suddenly been paralysed.
‘They have fought for you so bravely,’ Josse plunged on, too furious to stop. ‘Undoubtedly they would die for you, but is it right to let them?’
The King did not move.
I probably have only moments to live, Josse thought. He was quite surprised to discover it didn’t really bother him very much.
But then John seemed to collapse into himself. He felt around behind him for his chair. Swiftly Josse substituted another, less grand one. As if the King was suddenly boneless, he sank into it.
