The Scarlet Lion (14 page)

   De Warenne was not interested in domestic comparisons and preferred to keep to the point. "Let us hope King Philip and the Breton brat are not so well served," he growled. Reaching to the wine jug, he swore when he found it empty, and thrust it at a squire to refill. As the lad left, de Warenne's usher, resplendent in chequered livery, appeared at the tent entrance, a travel-stained Benedictine monk in tow. "My lords." He bowed. "Brother Geoffrey brings news from the King."

   De Warenne nodded, dismissed the usher, and beckoned the

monk forward. "Speak," he said.

   The man knelt. "My lords, the King has won a great victory. He sends you tidings that he has captured Prince Arthur and Hugh and Walter de Lusignan."

   "What?" William gestured to the man to his feet.

   The monk stood up. "At Mirebeau, my lord, whilst they were besieging Queen Eleanor." Gratefully, he took the wine that William directed a squire to give him.

   "I thought the King was at Le Mans." De Warenne frowned. "That's nowhere near Mirebeau."

   The monk surfaced from his cup. "Eighty miles, but he covered it with his army in two days…riding day and night."

   Longespée looked puzzled. "What was Queen Eleanor doing there?"

   "Start from the beginning," William said. "What happened?"

   The man drank again and composed himself. "Prince Arthur came to King Philip and did homage for Brittany, Aquitaine, Anjou, and Maine, and then he set out immediately to take Aquitaine with the loan of two hundred of King Philip's knights."

   The three earls exchanged glances.

   "Queen Eleanor heard what he intended and left Fontevrault to go to Aquitaine and raise the barons against him, but these days she is not in good health, as you know, and had to stop for respite at Mirebeau. Prince Arthur and the Lusignans arrived and besieged her there."

   "Disgraceful," William muttered, filled with protective rage that a woman almost eighty years old should be hounded and harassed by her own grandson and his vile Lusignan allies.

   "The Queen sent to the King for aid, but with little hope since he was in Le Mans. Prince Arthur promised to let her go if she would agree to yield him Aquitaine. She pretended to think about it to play for time, but said to her own people she would rather crawl the length of Aquitaine on broken glass than yield an inch of ground. Arthur and the Lusignans took the town and the castle—all but the inner keep, where she barricaded herself in."

   Unable to sit still for his fury, William jerked to his feet and paced to the edge of the awning. He stared at the camp. He knew what he would do to the Lusignans—and Arthur—if his hands and their throats ever came into contact.

   "They received their just deserts," the monk said with grim satisfaction. "As soon as my lord King received the Queen's cry for aid, he set out to bring it. He rode through the night and the day and the night again, and came upon Mirebeau at dawn. Prince Arthur and the Lusignans never knew what struck them. One minute they were breaking their fast and preparing for the final assault, the next they were at sword point. Three of the Lusignan brothers have been taken prisoner as well as Prince Arthur, and two hundred French knights. It's a disaster for Philip of France and the Bretons."

   "Hah!" Salisbury banged the trestle with fierce triumph. "I knew John had greatness in him! It's a feat worthy of anything Richard could have done! Let them all laugh on the other side of their faces for once!"

   The refilled wine jug arrived and the three Earls toasted the victory with raised goblets while the monk was furnished with a platter of the capon and bread.

   William was perturbed. What had been done to Eleanor lingered like a bad taste on the palate. He was doubly pleased to have persuaded Hubert Walter against supporting Arthur for King. "When you have rested, perhaps you would bear another message," he said softly to the monk.

   "Gladly, my lord," the man replied between mouthfuls.

   William cupped his jaw. "A priest has immunity and can tread where I would not send one of my own messengers. I ask you to go to Ralph of Exodoun in the French camp. He

needs to know his brothers are in custody."

The monk spluttered.

   "I will make it worth your while," William continued, before the shock could become refusal. "If you do not feel you can accept a fee for yourself, then I will gladly give alms to your foundation."

   Backed into a corner, the monk reluctantly agreed, although the heavy pouch of silver William dropped into his hand went some way towards lightening his expression. "I always pay my debts," William said and allowed the monk to think that he was talking of the silver he had given him.

Eleven

LONGUEVILLE, NORMANDY, APRIL 1203

Papa's home," Mahelt said. She had been sitting in the windowseat overlooking the bailey, feeding her pet caged linnet seeds from a dish in her hand.

   Isabelle, who had been discussing a letter with her clerk concerning a gift to the cathedral at Glendalough in Leinster, ceased speaking and went to look out of the window. What she saw caused her to issue brisk orders to her women and run down to the hall to greet him. William entered the room at full stride, as if either trying to keep up with a giant or running away from one. He was always brisk with energy, but Isabelle could tell that something was badly wrong. Usually his vigour was zestful and exuberant, but she could almost see the anger rising off his skin like vapour as he made for the stairs, with only the most perfunctory greeting to the retainers and hearth knights in the hall.

   Isabelle dispensed with formal words of welcome, waved away the servants, and followed him back to the private chamber. She took his cloak, signalled her women to keep out of the way, and had the nurses take charge of the children. Mahelt was desperate to show him her linnet but Isabelle prevailed over tears and tantrums and sent her out in the care of Sybilla D'Earley.

   She organised the swift provision of a meal: thick slices of beef, bread, salat greens, marrow tart. She had a bowl of hot water brought and fresh linen towels, still smelling of the sunshine that had bleached them as they blew on the drying ground.

   "How bad?" she asked as the door closed behind the last servant and she poured him wine.

   He dug his fingers through his hair which was still deep brown through the crown and nape, but showing glints of silver at ears and brow. He had muttered more than once that until John came to the throne he had not had a single grey hair, and in essence it was true. Taking the wine from her hand, he drank, set it down, then, going to the hot water, he sluiced his face and hands. "I don't know yet."

   "Is Longueville threatened?"

   William dried his hands and face. "Not so far, but John can probably manage its loss by midsummer if he's so inclined." He hurled the towel across the coffer. "He has only gone and released the Lusignan brothers and lost the support of William de Roches into the bargain."

   Isabelle bit her lip. That was certainly not good.

   "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed that Queen Eleanor's son could be so stupid. All he took from them was a promise to go in peace and not rebel against him again." William picked up his wine again, drank it in several fierce swallows, and slamming the cup down refilled it. "Their cause was dead but John has just reattached the head to the torso. A Lusignan will keep his word the way a whore keeps an oath of chastity. They're all brigands and outlaws! Christ on the Cross!"

   Isabelle had rarely seen him so riled. Usually he allowed troubles to slide off him like rain off waxed leather. "What of de Roches?" she asked. He was the seneschal of Anjou, a man who was scrupulous and principled. While acknowledging that Prince Arthur had certain rights and claims, he had been horrified at the youth's attack on Queen Eleanor at Mirebeau and had spearheaded John's rescue mission and the subsequent capture of Arthur and the Lusignans. "What has John done to him?"

   William picked up a marrow tart. "De Roches gave his aid at Mirebeau with the proviso that he be allowed a say in what happened to Arthur afterwards."

   "Yes," Isabelle murmured. "I knew of that."

   "Well, John refuses to let him see Arthur at all, and won't negotiate with him over custody. De Roches says Arthur is the rightful heir to Touraine and Anjou—which is true. He says John should accept Arthur's surrender, make him grovel, and let him go." He gestured with the tart. "He asks how hard it can be to keep down an adolescent youth. Now John's turned as stubborn as a constipated mule and transferred Arthur to the Tower of Rouen."

   "Have you seen him?"

   "Yes, last week." William's upper lip curled with distaste. "He's a spotty, obnoxious brat, and so full of bile that I'm astonished he hasn't burst. Had he been one of ours, I'd have taken him by the ear and tanned him over a barrel." He gave her a look alight with anger. "Threatened to have Pembroke off me the moment he was King. I told him it would take more balls than he's got between his legs to break me and that since I don't care for blood sports, I wouldn't like to see him try."

   Isabelle shook her head. "Perhaps it's all a boy's bravado."

   William devoured the tart and reached for another one. "If so, it's bravado that has been carried too far and for too long. De Roches insists it is right to free the lad. I agree. Arthur might act like a young wolf, but underneath all the swagger and posturing he's a scared pup with his tail between his legs. He hates John, but that's not the point. Hatred comes as part of an Angevin king's birthright." He sighed heavily and brushed crumbs from his tunic. "If I was John I'd pen him in Brittany. The whelp wouldn't be able to do much damage and folk would soon tire of him and his attitude. As it is, de Roches has lost his patience with John and ridden off to join Philip of France."

   Isabelle looked at William in dismay. De Roches was like his name, a rock, and John could ill afford to lose him.

   "So now we have lost one of our staunchest allies to the French and where he goes, others will follow," William said.

   "What's to be done?"

   "God knows," he said with exasperation. "I pray that John sees at least some sense before it's too late. He can't put the Lusignans back in their cage, but if he would let Arthur out of his…if only into a larger enclosure. A month ago we had the upper hand; we were winning. Now we might lose it all."

   She eyed him closely. "You mean lose Longueville and our lands in Normandy, don't you?"

   William shrugged. "It might happen. I'm not saying it will."

   A shiver ran down Isabelle's spine. She had never seen William so pessimistic before. Even when times were bad, he had a gritty determination to succeed—a relish for the challenge. "Surely there must be something we can do to safeguard them for the future?"

   William refilled his cup and sat down on the cushioned bench before the fire. "It would help if John was prepared to negotiate with the French, but persuading him…" He sighed heavily and shook his head.

   "You have friends and kin in both camps. You have to try."

   "And so I will, love, but leading a horse to water is not the same as making it drink. I used to think Richard was difficult, but at least he was straightforward, not devious. If he drank, he drank and moved on without planning to kick you in the groin in retribution. Ah God, enough of this. Where are the children? I'd rather distract myself with the pleasure of their company than swill myself into a wine-stupor."

                             *** In the Tower of Rouen William de Braose did not have the comfort of his wife and children as an alternative to wine. His gut was roiling, his bladder full, his feet unsteady as he staggered outside to take a piss and breathe fresh air. He had left the King drinking steadily with his household knights and cronies, casting dice, arguing petulantly. His paymaster, the man whom he had set on the throne by his sworn oath that it was Richard's dying wish to make John his heir. The man who owed him everything. His wife said he should ask for everything too whilst John's need and gratitude was still as fresh as wet lime-wash. The more they had, the more power they would be able to wield.

   The torches of the guards were tares of smoky flame as they patrolled along the battlements. One of the towers was known as Conan's leap. In his youth, King Henry the first of that name had pushed a man to his death from the parapet in a fit of rage. De Braose gazed at the parade of torches, then wished he hadn't as he lurched and had to grab the wall. After a moment he recovered sufficiently to fumble in his braies, find his member, and, with a sigh of relief, begin pissing against the wall. His bladder was so full that his urine emerged as a trickle and his coordination was so impaired that he splashed his silkembroidered shoes and the fur-edged hem of his tunic.

   Two men emerged into the bailey from a darkened doorway. De Braose eyed them warily. Even half-inebriated, he was attuned to danger. Power came at a price and he had made many enemies along the way and very few friends. The men were moving furtively, but even so he recognised them as a couple of John's hired swords: Poitevan mercenaries with the status of knighthood but not welcomed amongst the habitual bachelors of the mesnie. John kept them because they would do anything for a fee. André, the taller of the two, had been given the daily task of feeding Arthur and emptying his slop pail, ever since the youth's transferral from Hubert de Burgh's safekeeping at Falaise to the deepest, darkest cell in the Tower of Rouen.

   De Braose watched the men from his eye corner, but they appeared intent on their own business. Moving furtively, they crossed to the gate, bribed the porter on duty with a clink of silver, and slipped out into the night. De Braose finished pissing and adjusted his clothing. He didn't recall John having ordered them to do any clandestine work, but then the King was so secretive that it was difficult to know his mind from one dark thought to the next. De Braose turned to go back to the hall, but something made him hesitate and sway over to the doorway leading down to the cells, from which the mercenaries had just emerged. He paused there, unsteady on his feet, his stomach sour, and his bladder tender from its distension. Instinct told him to leave well alone, to walk away, but curiosity and a sense that something was wrong made him lurch across the ward to the porter's lodge. The porter, who was cooking himself eggs and bacon over a brazier, looked round incuriously.