Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “He’s never been one for listening,” Peter said dryly, spun around as the door opened.

  “Well? How does he?”

  The Abbot appeared to be choosing his words with care. “I bled him, and that seemed to ease him somewhat. I’m going to prepare a mustard poultice now to draw off the pain.”

  “You can speak plamer than that, can you not?”

  The Abbot flushed at the peremptory tone. “Very well, my lord. The truth is that I can attend to the King’s spiritual needs. But more than that, no; it’s too late.”

  “You were not with him very long. How can you be so sure?”

  “He is passing clotted blood,” the Abbot said bluntly, and they no longer doubted, stared at him in bleak silence.

  As he entered John’s chamber soon afterward, Peter des Roches wondered why he’d needed a stranger to tell him John was dying. He had only to look into John’s face. The shocking gauntness, the relentless wasting away of flesh, the ominous ashen cast to his skin—the signs were there for all but the blind to see, attesting to an illness that was mortal. Only the eyes were still John’s, hollowed and feverish but utterly lucid, all too penetrating.

  John struggled to sit up at sight of Peter. “I’m not overly impressed with Abbot Adam. But I expect you’ll want him to accompany us to Newark on the morrow?”

  “Newark? Jesus God, John, you cannot! That’s twenty miles from here!”

  “And a damned sight safer, so let that be an end to it. Now fetch me some wine, Peter. You’d not believe the noxious concoction your Abbot would have me drink—egg yolk in rosewater!”

  Peter laughed, approached the bed. As he did, John reached up, grasped his wrist. “Tell me,” he said, “what you’re keeping from me. I heard servants talking, know a courier arrived from Hubert de Burgh. Why did you not want me to see him, Peter? What message did he bring?”

  Peter hesitated, but John had never been easy to lie to. “The news is bad, John. Hubert de Burgh has asked Louis for a truce whilst he consults with you. Their supplies are running out. He says if you cannot come to his aid, he may have to surrender Dover Castle to the French.”

  John’s grip loosened; he sank back upon the bed, and then turned his face toward the wall. He heard Peter’s footsteps retreating, heard the door quietly close. He shut his eyes, but the tears squeezed through his lashes, seared his skin like hot rain.

  To the Abbot, Adam of Croxton, the world as he knew it was encompassed within the white walls of his abbey of St John the Evangelist. If his was a narrowed focus, he felt no lack, had never yearned to break free of the familiar, to embrace the unknown. He had not welcomed the summons from the Bishop of Winchester, for he was not a man of worldly ambitions, and his every instinct warned him that no good could come to him at the King’s court.

  His instincts were sound. He found himself treating a dying man, while fearing that he might be held accountable for that death. His medical experience had been confined to the treatment of the canons and lay brothers of his abbey, local villagers, people who were in awe of his expertise, docile and submissive. Nothing had prepared him for a patient like John. Arrogant, irreverent, willful, he had yet to show any of the virtues that the Abbot expected of a dying Christian. He was not humble, not noticeably repentant, and he seemed thoroughly preoccupied with secular concerns, seemed to be devoting all his waking thoughts to his earthly kingdom at a time when he should be concentrating only upon the Kingdom of God.

  The Abbot had been appalled by John’s determination to ride north to Newark Castle. He’d have sworn John was too weak even to mount a horse, but John did, somehow managed to stay in the saddle for more than four miles. Even after he collapsed, he remained stubbornly set upon reaching Newark, and his men finally cut willows by the roadside, wove them into a makeshift litter, for however weakened his body was, John’s will was not to be thwarted. Go to Newark he would, and go to Newark he did, at a cost in pain the Abbot preferred not to dwell upon.

  Newark Castle was nominally in the hands of the Bishop of Lincoln, but in actual fact it was a royal stronghold, and its constable, Robert de Gaugi, did all in his power to make the King comfortable. John was lodged in the Bishop’s private quarters on the uppermost floor of the three-story gatehouse. For two days now, the Abbot had divided his time between John’s chambers and the chapel of St Philip and St James. As he entered John’s bedchamber, he was not surprised to find a scribe at John’s bedside, to find John dictating a letter to Falkes de Breauté, instructing him to free some servants of William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey.

  “Witness ourself at Newark on Tuesday, the eighteenth of October, in the eighteenth year of our reign,” John concluded, and glanced over at Peter des Roches to explain, “Rumor has it Warenne is ripe for switching sides again. A gesture of goodwill costs us little, and might just push him off the fence.”

  The Abbot watched in silent disapproval as John turned back to the scribe, began another letter, appointing Nicholaa de la Haye and Philip Marc as joint sheriffs of Lincolnshire. It both baffled and troubled him that John should be squandering his last hours in sordid political dealings, and he marveled that a man in such intense pain could be so coherent, so cynical, and so singleminded. In all respects, he was finding John utterly beyond his ken.

  John was still dictating, this time to Engelard de Cigogne, his constable of Windsor Castle, directing him to accept his son Henry as liege lord and to hold the castle for him. His voice had weakened over the past hours, for he’d been dictating similar letters since dawn to his sheriffs, constables, and castellans. The effort he was making to talk was obvious to all in the room, and when he paused for breath, the Abbot stepped forward, held out a cup of dark liquid.

  “Drink this, sire,” he entreated, and tried to mask his annoyance when John demanded to know what was in it. “My own mixture: sumac, gall, pomegranate rind, and opium. It will ease your pain, my lord.”

  John was panting, but he shook his head stubbornly. “It’ll make me sleep, too. And time is all I have.” When the Abbot would have protested, he flared into sudden rage. “My son is nine years old. Are you so stupid that you do not know what that means? A child King and a kingdom at war, with half the realm under French control. A right loving bequest to leave my son, is it not?”

  The Abbot shrank back, speechless. Peter des Roches moved toward the bed, said with as much conviction as he could muster, “John, I understand your fear. But you must not despair. I truly believe men will rally to your son. He’s but a child, has offended no one. Even men who are your sworn enemies might well forsake the French, return their allegiance to Henry.”

  John could almost believe him—almost. “To hear you tell it, Peter, the best thing I can do for my son is to die.” His outburst had exhausted him; he lay back against the pillows, fighting nausea. When he opened his eyes, the Abbot and Peter were bending over him, and he saw in their faces their relief that he still breathed. He swallowed with difficulty. He’d known for days that he was dying, but death was so very close now, was in the chamber with them, no longer willing to wait.

  “I always thought, Peter, that I’d…I’d fear to die…” His tongue seemed to have swollen, was so rough and dry that he had to labor just to shape his words. “But…after a week of this pain, I’m beginning to see it as…as a release…”

  Peter reached for a wine cup, held it to his lips. “Shall I hear your confession now?”

  John managed a ghostly smile. “I think not. Better the Abbot be the one to absolve me of my sins. You see…you know me too well, would not…not believe me when I said I forgave my enemies…”

  The Abbot looked shocked, but Peter was smiling through tears. John waved the Abbot away from the bed, plucked at Peter’s sleeve. “You must take messages for me…Tell Pembroke that I entrust Henry into his care, that he must safeguard my son’s crown. Tell Isabelle that she can rely upon Pembroke and Chester, that she can trust them…and you. Tell Pembroke, too, to reward those who…who were with
me at the last.”

  Peter could barely hear him now; he leaned forward, his ear to John’s mouth. “Tell Llewelyn ab Iorwerth…tell him to take care of my daughter. And tell Will…”

  John’s voice trailed off, and Peter prompted gently, “Tell him what, John?”

  John closed his eyes. “Nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing…”

  As the afternoon ebbed away, the sky darkened long before dusk and the wind intensified. The Abbot stood by John’s bed, watching the uneven rise and fall of his chest. He was amazed that John still lived, for he’d been fearful that John might die before he could hear his confession, give him the holy Viaticum, and perform the rite of Extreme Unction. But John had rallied briefly, had once again shown an inner resilience that somehow defied all claims upon mortal flesh. Having administered the Sacraments, the Abbot had to believe that John was now in a state of grace. Yet dark doubts he could not acknowledge gnawed at the outer edges of his faith.

  John had given the correct answers to the Seven Interrogatories, had received the Body and Blood of Christ, had shown the proper contrition. But after he was absolved, shriven of his earthly sins, he’d said softly, “Do not the Scriptures say there shall be greater joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over nine and ninety just persons?” Then he’d slept, and the Abbot did not know if he’d been sincere and seeking solace, mocking himself, or even mocking God.

  John awoke to blackness and burning pain, to panic. He could not see, and when he cried out, no one answered him. His mind clouded by sleep and the Abbot’s draught, he could not remember where he was or why he was suffering, and he tried to rise from the bed but had not the strength, lay there helplessly in the dark until the door opened and the Abbot entered.

  He saw at once what had happened, began to offer profuse apologies. “The shutter blew open, my lord, and the candles guttered out. I went to fetch a lamp, did not think you’d awaken.”

  The lamp was a crude one, no more than a wick floating in a bowl of fish oil, but its feeble light was the most welcome sight John had ever seen. For once he submitted willingly to the Abbot’s ministrations, let the monk squeeze water onto his swollen lips, bathe the sweat from his forehead.

  “Fetch the Bishop,” he whispered, saw the Abbot look away in sudden distress.

  “My liege, he…he’s gone. He and John Marshal left hours ago. They said it was urgent they reach my lords of Pembroke and Chester as soon as possible, in order to see to the safety of the young K—of your son.” He flushed, then added remorsefully, “You were so ill, my lord, and it seemed so unlikely you’d recover your wits…”

  “I understand…” And John did. Peter des Roches was his friend. But when a king died, his power died with him. He mumbled something too low for the Abbot to hear. He could not be sure, but it sounded as if John had said, “Sic transit gloria mundi.” Thus passes the glory of the world. He gave John a look of surprised approval, glad that John seemed to be focusing his thoughts now as he ought, upon the Hereafter, and then stammered, “Your Grace, I…I have a great favor to ask of you. Not for me, but for my abbey.”

  That came as no surprise. How tired he was, so very, very tired. He roused himself with an effort, said, “Ask, then. Let yours be the last favor I grant…”

  “My liege, if you only would…I know that you said you wanted to be buried in the Benedictine priory of St Mary at Worcester, before the shrine of St Wulfstan. But I wondered if…if you might consider…if we could have your heart and bowels for burial at Croxton?”

  John’s eyes opened—wide. “What?”

  “If you’d consent, my lord, it would be such an honor. We’d bury them at the High Altar and say Masses for your soul—” He broke off, dismayed and bewildered, for John was laughing. His laughter was unsteady, rasping and harsh, but it was unmistakably laughter.

  “If only I’d known there’d be…be such a demand,” he gasped, “we could have auctioned off the…the choice parts…” The horrified look on the Abbot’s face only made him laugh all the more, until he could not laugh and breathe at the same time, began to choke.

  Thoroughly alarmed, the Abbot propped him up with pillows, hastened to give him wine. As the spasm passed, he lay back, closed his eyes. “I think I always knew…”

  “Knew what, my liege?”

  John turned his head, looked at him for a long time without answering. “I always knew,” he said, “that I’d die alone…”

  Joanna reached the Benedictine priory of St Mary at Worcester shortly after dark on Friday, November 18. The hospitaller was awaiting her at the priory gateway; so, too, was her brother. Richard helped her to dismount, kissed her cheek. The hospitaller was looking askance at Joanna’s Welsh guards, but when she asked if he could accommodate her men, he nodded. “But of course, Madame. It is an honor to serve the sister of King Henry.”

  Joanna said nothing, but Richard saw her flinch. He took her arm as the hospitaller assured her that all was in readiness to commemorate the late King’s month-mind with a solemn Requiem Mass. “Joanna, do you want to go to your chambers now?” he asked, and she shook her head.

  “I want to go to him first. Will you take me, Richard?”

  They walked in silence for a while. It had been snowing sporadically throughout the day, began again as they crossed the courtyard. Joanna’s hood fell back; she seemed not to notice as droplets of snow dusted her hair, melted upon her mantle. As they entered the south walkway of the cloisters, she said, “Tell me,” and Richard did, told her all he’d learned of their father’s final days.

  “A violent windstorm struck Newark ere he died. That’s not uncommon for the season, but the fool servants took fright. Word spread that the Devil was coming to claim Papa’s soul, and some even fled.” They’d stopped by the church door. He saw the anguished question in her eyes and shook his head. “No, Papa never knew. The Abbot who tended him wrote to Isabelle, said that by the time the storm reached its height, Papa was no longer conscious. He died soon after midnight.”

  “And did they strip his body of his clothes and rings? Did they take all of value, as they did when his father died at Chinon?”

  Her bleak insistence upon knowing the worst troubled Richard, but he did not lie. “Yes. But his soldiers kept faith, the routiers whom men scorned as base mercenaries, paid hirelings. They alone did not forsake him, Joanna, escorted his body to Worcester. Bishop Silvester officiated at the burial, but it was done without much ceremony, and in haste. The main concern was with getting Henry crowned as quickly as possible.”

  “I heard it was done at Gloucester. Were you there, Richard?”

  He nodded. “On the twenty-eighth. The Bishop of Winchester crowned him, since the Archbishop of Canterbury is still in Rome, under suspension. But then, even were he not, Westminster is in rebel hands. They did not even have a crown, Joanna, had to use a gold circlet provided by Isabelle.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “The younger children are still at Corfe. Henry and Isabelle are at Bristol with Pembroke. They reissued Papa’s Runnymede charter last Saturday, with some of the more objectionable provisions deleted, that committee of twenty-five being the first to go. It is a shrewd concession, allows the barons to save face, and I think all but the very proud and the very embittered will come to terms with Pembroke and Chester. Peter des Roches told me that during Papa’s three days at Newark more than forty couriers arrived from rebels seeking to make peace with Papa. But by then it was too late…”

  They were still standing in the cloisters. Joanna’s face looked chalky in the lantern light; nor had Richard liked the flat, brittle tone of her voice. “Joanna…” He sighed, not knowing what to say. “I am truly sorry you had to come alone like this to Worcester.”

  “I had no choice. My husband is at war with England.” Joanna drew an audible breath. “Nor do I think I would have wanted him with me…not here.”

  He started to speak, but she’d turned away, was moving ahead of him into the nave of
the church. Vespers was done, and the monks were now at supper in the refectory; Joanna and Richard found themselves quite alone. Torches flared in the choir, and a dark object before the High Altar was ringed with white syze candles, with flickering light. Joanna moved up the aisle, until she was close enough to touch her father’s stone coffin.

  “But he wanted to be buried with St Wulfstan,” she whispered. “He often told me so…”

  “Bishop Silvester and the Prior assured me that his wishes will be honored. They plan to move the shrines of St Wulfstan and St Oswald from the crypt, to place them on either side of Papa’s tomb.” Richard smiled sadly. “Papa would have liked that—sleeping with saints.”

  Joanna was still staring at the tomb. “Richard, would you mind leaving me alone for a time?”

  He started to object, thought better of it. “I’ll await you back at the Prior’s lodgings.” He turned toward the shadowed nave, then stopped. “Peter des Roches told me something I think you’d want to know, Joanna. He said that whilst Papa was at Lynn, he made a grant to Margaret de Lacy, Maude de Braose’s daughter. He gave her one hundred eighty acres of land in the royal forest of Acornbury, to found a religious house in memory of Maude, her husband, and her son.”

  The candles encircling John’s tomb wavered, swimming before Joanna’s eyes in a dizzying blur of brightness. She stood very still, listening as Richard’s footsteps faded. And then she moved forward. She knelt in the coffin’s shadow for an endless time, until her knees ached and she trembled from the cold. But she could find no comfort in prayer.

  “You’re proving to be a merciless ghost, Papa. I should have expected it, knowing you as I do.” Her tears were coming faster now. “What do you mean to do, Papa? Shall you haunt me for the rest of my days?” Her voice broke; kneeling on the icy tiles before John’s coffin, she wept bitterly.