Joanna (61 page)

“He was not taken prisoner,” Joanna said, “that was what Lord Salisbury wrote to saythat Geoffrey was not a prisoner.”

The men looked at her, stunned, then horror began to grow in their eyes. Tostig’s head dropped forward and he began to cry in long, racking sobs.

“No, do not weep,” Joanna soothed, “at least, not yet. He is not dead. He cannot be.”

She told them then of the offer to pay ransom to obtain Geoffrey’s body, except that to keep from enraging them in their weakness she did not admit the ransom would be doubled for a corpse or that the offer was made by the queen. Instead she pretended it was done by the king out of love for Salisbury, so that he might not need to grieve over a son buried in an unmarked and untended grave. When she was finished there was total silence in the place where they sat. Sir Roger and Tostig just stared, unbelievingly.

“Where is he?” Tostig cried at last, levering himself painfully to his feet as if, in spite of his illness, he would run and look. “If he was not dead on the field, and not escaped, and not a prisonerdead or alivewhere is he?”  
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That was a question that Geoffrey himself would have liked to have answered at about the time Tostig was asking it. He had a dim awareness that time had passed, a good deal of time. He had vague memories of screaming with pain and babbling with fever, and it seemed that the torment had lasted forever and ever. To compound the horror, there had been a woman mixed up in it, a woman who changed inexplicably from an old crone to a much younger creature. Somehow, also, the woman had gotten mixed up with his old fear of the queenonly this time it was the ugly crone who had tormented him and the beautifulno, Geoffrey thought, she was not beautiful nor even very young, only soft-voiced and she had been kind.

The woman must be realonly it was two different women, of course, who had spoken to him at different times. Then he had fainted or slept between visits so that it seemed to him it was one woman, changing magically from age to youth. That piece of clear deduction made Geoffrey feel much better. It gave him something to work with, but as he considered further he realized it was no help. He had no idea, really, how often either woman had come or whether they had come together or how long a time had passed between their visits. He must have been very close to death, he realized.

He slept then, as suddenly as light is extinguished by snuffing out a candle, and woke as suddenly when he was firmly gripped by two pairs of strong hands. Instinctively, he struggled against the restraint without much effect because of his weakness, until a renewal of heightened pain in his left hip brought the realization that he was being held so   that his wounds could be dressed. Doubtless when he was fevered he fought against the pain, being unable to realize it was for his own good. To the best of his ability then, he relaxed his body and lay still, merely turning his head to look curiously at his attendant. It must have been the older woman who had treated him at first and thus he had associated her with torture. It was not she, but the younger one who salved his wounds now.

Although she must have realized he was conscious from the change in his behavior, she finished what she was doing before she lifted her head to speak to him. When she did so, her face was hard, her eyes cold. Geoffrey never learned what an effort that had been, which was just as well.

“So you have your senses again,” she said. “Now, who are you?”

Shocked, Geoffrey hesitated a moment. He had associated this woman with gentleness, but her voice and manner showed nothing of that. Tears of weakness rose in his eyes; he swallowed them back and replied, “I am Geoffrey FitzWilliam.”

The woman cast her eyes up to heaven with impatience. “There cannot be more than ten hundred Geoffrey FitzWilliams in England, France, Brittany, Normandysay true, what are you to William, earl of Salisbury?”

“Say true!” Geoffrey exclaimed indignantly. “I do not lie on greater matters nor on those for which I feel shame. Why should I lie when I am proud. William, earl of Salisbury is my father.”

“Salisbury’s heir,” the woman breathed like a prayer.

If Geoffrey had blood enough, it would have risen into his face. Nonetheless he replied steadily, “I am his son but not his heir. I am a bastard, out of Lady Margaret of Hemel.”

That pleased her less. She looked at Geoffrey sharply. “Upon what terms do you stand with your father?”

All at once Geoffrey remembered the last time he had seen Salisbury, falling from his horse limp as a dead man. lie himself had been the cause. He had called out a warning   and his father, perhaps not hearing properly, doubtless thought he called for help and had tried to come to him, neglecting his own safety.

“I have killed him,” Geoffrey breathed, tears coming into his eyes again. “God curse me, I have killed him.” His voice rose to an agonized wail, but the woman cut him off impatiently.

“You have done no such thing. Salisbury is alive and wellbetter than you by far from what I have heard. He is prisoner in Paris.”

“Alive? He is alive?”

“Yes.”

The woman did not repeat her question. There was no need for it. Bastard or not, it was clear that the father and son were close-knit, which meant that Geoffrey could probably draw on Salisbury’s purse for more than a plain knight’s ransom. She had thought so from the beginning, for her uncle-by-marriage, who had brought Geoffrey to the keep, had told her how Salisbury reacted when Geoffrey called to him. That was why Louis of Baisieux did not kill the young man, who had not even guarded himself against the blow. Instead, at the last minute, he had turned his sword so that only the flat of it crashed against Geoffrey’s temple.

Loss of blood and exhaustion had done the rest. As Geoffrey toppled, unconscious, from his saddle, he had been seized. His sword had already fallen; his captor stripped away his shield and cast that down, both because it was in the way and because he wished to keep secret the identity of the man he carried across his saddlebow. He had no intention of permitting Geoffrey to be added to the general pool of prisoners and have his ransom go mostly or completely into King Philip’s purse.

In the rolls of the Exchequer, Louis of Baisieux owed an enormous debt to the king of France. This debt he did not acknowledge as just, although he paid a little on it year by year to keep his land. He served Philip grudgingly, always ready to avoid an obligation if he could.   When he took Geoffrey, Louis was not sure whom he had captured. Only from the fine horse, rich armor, surcoat, and shield, he believed the man was wealthy. From Salisbury’s reaction, he believed his captive was important to the brother of the king of England. If so, this was a prize Philip of France would want to have in his handsand if Philip wanted it, Louis was determined he would not get it. He dared not bring Geoffrey to his own small keep. If Geoffrey was important, a search might be made for him. Louis was known to have taken part in the battle (most unwillingly), and might be asked to show his prisoners. Thus, he had brought Geoffrey to the keep of his nephew, his sister’s son. Léon of Baisieux was a prisoner in England and had not been at Bouvines so it was unlikely Geoffrey would be sought in his keep.

In fact, the search for Geoffrey was more intense than Louis expected. Nonetheless, he clung to his decision, more stubborn the more desirable Geoffrey seemedbesides, he was not certain he had the right Geoffrey; Geoffrey was a very common name. Then, when Isabella’s offer trickled down through the secret vines that such rumors travel, Louis was trapped in his denial. At first he wished to take the chance of handing Geoffrey over. The sum named would virtually clear his debt. It would not even be necessary to kill Geoffrey. He was already so near death that moving him to Paris would kill him.

To Louis’s intense surprise, for she was ordinarily as meek as a lamb, Léon’s wife, Gilliane, opposed this idea. She had pointed out that Louis paid very little on his debt; therefore, to clear it would not be nearly as profitable as having the whole ransom in his own purse.There was sense in that. Moreover, they might gain even more than mere money, Gilliane said. It might well be possible to exchange Geoffrey’s person for that of her husband and, since Geoffrey was rich, get the ransom too. Louis had his doubts, but Gilliane added a clincher in that, if Geoffrey died, they could always say they had found him in a serf’s hut and collect the reward anyway. Between his reluctance to benefit   Philip in any way and his fear of explaining why he had not admitted having Geoffrey as a prisoner sooner, Louis yielded to Gilliane’s reasoning.

In fact Louis’s doubts had a sound foundation. Gilliane usually knew nothing and cared less about money and the running of estates, but he told himself that Gilliane wanted Léon back. This was true, but there were other reasons for Gilliane’s sudden quickness of mind that Louis would not have approved. Yes, she wanted Léon back. It was dangerous to be without a man; her sons needed their father. Louis did what he could, but he had his own property and children to consider also. Moreover, Gilliane hated and feared the duties of the estate that devolved upon her and she knew she did not perform them competently. She loved Léon toohe was kind; he never beat her without good reason. Of course, she loved him, as much as one could love a man Who never seemed to notice one was alive, except for the few minutes spent in coupling. Even then Gilliane often wondered whether he knew or cared whose body received him.

Apparently, Geoffrey was of a different kind. When Gilliane had first undressed him, the letter he had written to Joanna fell from his sleeve. Curious, Gilliane had called a clerk and had it read to her. She had not known that real men wrote such words to their wives. Only in the romances that the minstrels sang had she ever heard such tenderness. She did not really think of Geoffrey as a lover. He was too young for her, and it would be a sin, and, anyway, if he could look upon her in that way the letter would be a monstrous liebut her heart softened toward him. Then, as the days passed and she fought for his life with every bit of skill and knowledge she had, he became dear to her as a child that one tends and protects is dear. Now as she looked at him, she was glad. The Geoffrey who cared so much for his father was very likely to have written the truth of his heart in that letter.

“I assure you that Lord Salisbury is not only alive but little hurt, if at all,” Gilliane said, unable to resist soothing   the anxiety she saw still in Geoffrey’s eyes. “He rode upon his own horse into Paris, I heard.

“Thank God for that,” Geoffrey sighed. Then, glancing around, “Where am I, my lady? Who are you?”

“I am Lady Gilliane, and you are in the keep of Léon de Baisieux.”

“What!” Geoffrey exclaimed, and, weakly, began to laugh.

A look of distress crossed Gilliane’s face, but she shrugged her shoulders and started to rise.

“Do not go,” Geoffrey begged. “I am not wandering in my wits again, I swear. It is only that before the battle, the very day before when I heard how near Baisieux was, I said to myself that I must come and pay my respects to you and to Sir Léon’s motherif the older lady who lives here is his mother.”

Gilliane plumped down upon her seat again, staring with surprise. “It is his mother indeed. How do you know Léon? Is he your prisoner? Have you seen him? How is he?”

“He is not my prisoner, nor have I seen him since a year ago, nor do I know aught of his present state,” Geoffrey began. But suddenly a cold sweat bathed his body and beaded on his face, and the words slurred and ran into each other.

A strange conflict rose in Gilliane’s breast. Propriety bade her prod Geoffrey further. After all, she should more ardently desire news of her husband than the welfare of this strangerthis evil stranger, her mother-by-marriage would say. In truth, however, she was far more anxious to prevent Geoffrey from overtiring himself than to learn more about Léon. Pranticality came to her rescue. Geoffrey had already said he had no recent news of Léon. It was therefore unreasonable to fatigue her patient merely to satisfy her own curiosity as to how Geoffrey knew Léon and what he thought of him.

“Sleep,” she said, getting up again. “You will tell me when you are stronger.”   <><><><><><><><><><><><>

For a week and a half, Joanna suffered a torment that, she thought, would make hell restful. There was, there could be, no comfort of any kind. Had she known Geoffrey to be dead, however dreadful the pain, she would have endured, absorbed it into her soul, and eventually taken up her life again. This she had begun to do, and then… . Now things were worse. She could not settle to making herself believe she would never see him, never touch, kiss, love him, again. Every time she told herself that, had he been still alive, news of his whereabouts must have already reached them, contrary notions, each more horrible than the last, presented themselves. Perhaps he was mad, or alive but completely senseless. Perhaps he had fallen into the hands of some madman who took pleasure in torturing captives. Perhaps someone was starving him to death slowly for Isabella’s double ransom.

If Tostig and Roger of Hemel had not been so desperately ill, Joanna knew she would have lost her mind. They had made their way to Roselynde because their wills and desperation drove them beyond the real capacity of their bodies. Within the safety of its walls, with the added shock of learning their lord had mysteriously disappeared, both collapsed. Joanna had much to do simply to keep breath in their bodies at first and then to turn them toward life. As each made the turn, however, he unmeaningly tortured his poor benefactress by asking constantly if she had news of Geoffrey and when she told him “no,” discussing over and over how the lord could have been lost.

She came away from the chamber in which they lay early one evening almost wishing they had died, and before she could reach the safe sanctuary of her own chamber she was waylaid by Sir Guy who told her a priest wished to speak to her. Joanna walked to the hearth with lagging steps, trying to firm her spirit.

“Are you the Lady Joanna of Roselynde, daughter of Lady Alinor?”   Joanna’s attention fixed; her heart began to pound. ‘‘Yes, I am.”