The Wolf at the Door Read online

  The Wolf at the Door

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Disclaimer

  Principal Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Aftermath

  About the Author

  Read More

  Copyright

  The Wolf at the Door

  Graham Shelby

  This book contains views and language on nationality, sexual politics, ethnicity, and society which are a product of the time in which the book is set. The publishers do not endorse or support these views. They have been retained in order to preserve the integrity of the text.

  Principal Characters

  JOHN, King of England

  PHILIP AUGUSTUS, King of France

  ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE, Dowager Queen

  ISABELLE OF ANGOULÊME, Queen of England

  WILLIAM MARSHAl, Earl of Pembroke

  ISABEL DE CLARE, Wife of William Marshal

  ARTHUR, Duke of Brittany

  WILLIAM OF BRIOUZE, Knight Commander

  MAUD DE ST VALERIE, Wife of Briouze

  HUBERT WALTER, Archbishop of Canterbury

  STEPHEN LANGTON, later Archbishop of Canterbury

  HUGH LE BRUN, Lord of Lusignan

  RALF OF EXOUDIN, Brother of Hugh le Brun

  ROGER LACY, Castellan of Chateau Gaillard

  SALDON, Constable of Corfe Castle

  ROBERT FITZWALTER, Rebel Leader

  Chapter One

  Theft

  June, July 1200

  It was to be an act of retribution, a balancing of the scales. Or so it was claimed.

  For the fourth time that morning the lookout unsheathed his knife and turned the blade until it caught the sun. The warning flash was acknowledged by the horsemen clustered below-him on the plateau, and they urged their mounts into the forest.

  The lookout remained for a while on the crest of the hill, peering in the direction of the approaching dust-cloud. It was now less than a mile to the east, and it all but obscured the triple-towered castle of Moncontour. Nevertheless, the horses that stirred the dust had undoubtedly come from the vicinity of the castle – reason enough for the ambushers to take cover.

  Satisfied that the riders would eventually descend to the plateau, the lookout scrambled down the western slope of the hill, reclaimed his horse, and followed his companions among the trees.

  The fifty or so ambushers all wore enclosed helmets, strange headgear for a hot June day. The heavy iron casques were pierced by ventilation holes and narrow eye-slits, and the men were dressed in rough, full-length surcoats, devoid of markings. Their leaf-shaped shields had been smeared with mud, obliterating all blazons, and plain swords had been substituted for any with an engraved inscription. There was no way of telling one man from the next, for anonymity was essential to the plan.

  As on the three previous occasions someone asked, ‘Are you certain it’s them?’ And, as before, the lookout shrugged irritably. His voice dinned inside the protective mask as he retorted, ‘How many times must I tell you? If I wait to identify them, I’ll be spotted. No, I am not certain. It could be them; it could be anyone. If your eyes are so damn sharp, you go up there!’ He raised his arm in an angry gesture towards the hill, then guided his horse deeper into the forest. He had been chosen as lookout because he was the best man for the job, which meant the man with the best eyesight. But what did he get for his pains, crouched hour after hour in the sun? Stupid questions from those who had sat rolling dice in the shade. Well, the next time he was chosen he’d rub dirt in his eyes, and let someone else roast on the hillside.

  None of the ambushers accepted his challenge. Instead, they quietened their horses and sat silent, squinting through the trees.

  Before long they saw the dust rise above the crest, and heard the drum of hooves, the chink of metal, the murmur of voices. Six voices at least and, the best indication of all, a sudden light laugh.

  * * *

  Thirty miles to the north, in the Long Hall at Chinon, the King of England fidgeted with impatience. Audemar was now an hour overdue, and his tardiness bordered on contempt. If he did not arrive soon he would find himself in serious trouble, regardless of his age or failing health. One more hour, the king decided, and then Audemar’s name would be added to his list of enemies.

  He nodded agreement with himself and gazed along the table at his commanders. They were there in their dozens, the warlords of England and her continental possessions. Men from Normandy and Anjou, Maine and Brittany, Aquitaine and Poitou, together with the local barons of Touraine. On the face of it, a rewarding show of strength for the new king, and an intimidating welcome for Audemar.

  It was true that some of the barons had responded out of loyalty to the crown, though most were simply curious to see how he would handle the first major crisis of his reign. However, few of them held out much hope of success, for the world already knew the king by his freshly coined nickname, John Softsword.

  He leaned forward in his high-backed chair and said, ‘Pass that candle up to me. If Audemar is not here by the time it burns down to the next ring, he’ll be found guilty in absentia and join the others on the list.’ Aware that the statement sounded peevish, he added, ‘He’s an old man, that’s why I’m allowing him the extra time. Old men move slowly.’

  The thick tallow shaft was pushed closer, and one of the barons cursed as hot fat splashed his hand. He was uncomfortable enough in his link-mail hauberk and embroidered surcoat, without having blistered fingers to suck. Smoke twisted up from the candle, mingling with that of pitch torches and unmarked tapers. No matter how trivial or serious the situation, the occupants of the Long Hall were perpetually under a cloud.

  * * *

  The laughter was still in the air as the riders reached the crest. They checked their advance, gazed down at the silent, tree-filled plateau, then descended the slope. They noticed the absence of bird-song, but blamed it on their own noisy approach. The horses moved faster on the incline, and the leading members of the escort were careful to let their palfreys run on, so the others would not be bunched as they reached the plateau…

  Hidden among the trees, the anonymous ambushers identified Hugh le Bran of Lusignan, Count of La Marche; his brother Ralf of Exoudun, Count of Eu, and between them, the prize they had come to collect, Isabelle of Angoulême, le Bran’s bride-to-be. The girl was tall and slender and sat well in the saddle. It did not seem possible that she was only twelve years old.

  The ambush had been rehearsed three times a day for a week. It was too much to expect that fifty horsemen would charge forward through bracken and between trees on a single word of command, so it was left to those at the edge of the forest to secure the victory. There would be a shout, and those who heard it would respond, and it was up to them to spur clear of the trees and destroy the escort.

  And after that initial shout there was to be absolute silence, save from the one elected spokesman. The others were not to utter a word, on pain of death, and it was this prohibition, more than the charge itself, that had necessitated twenty rehearsals.

  Like any trained chevaliers, the ambushers had been brought up to announce themselves on the field, for a man was nothing if he did not declare himself to the enemy. The war-cries were simple – one’s name, one’s fief, one’s liege lord – anything that would separate friend from foe. But today’s work was to be done in silence, and it had taken a week to convi
nce the ambushers that their closed helmets and muddied shields would be valueless if they emerged from the trees yelling their names.

  But practice, and the shadow of the gibbet, had finally fastened their tongues.

  The last of the approaching riders reached the plateau. As they joined the column and milled about, not yet in formation, they heard a single word roared from the forest.

  ‘Avaunt!’

  It was enough to alert them, but there was no time to close ranks. The ambushers streamed out, slashing at the escort, not caring if the men were killed or wounded or merely unhorsed. The prime objective was to isolate Isabelle and the Lusignan brothers, and it was done with murderous efficiency. The quiet June day was torn apart. Men and horses crashed to the ground, or staggered away from the contracting circle as more assailants plunged from the forest. It was a nightmare that had slept on fitfully until midday.

  Hugh and Ralf could do no more than heft their swords and let their astonishment flare into anger, then bum away in frustration. They belonged to one of the greatest families in Christendom. They counted among their ancestors Kings of Jerusalem and Cyprus, whilst they, themselves, were dominant figures in the West, and had survived countless ambuscades. But even the Lusignan brothers did not value themselves as high as fifteen to one.

  Even so, Hugh swung at one of the attackers, and the man leaned away, as though despising a fight. Ralf also struck out blindly, but the ambushers circled wide, refusing to engage. While the brothers howled their chagrin, Isabelle hunched down in her saddle, sure that one or other of them would catch her with his free-swinging blade. God knew, most war wounds were inflicted by chance.

  Hugh was the first to bring his fury under control, and he leaned across to steady his impetuous kinsman. ‘Leave it be, brother. They’ve insulted us enough.’ He transferred his attention to Isabelle, resting his hand on her arm as he glared at the ring of barrel helms and drab grey surcoats. His frustration had burned to ashes, and he was ready to accept the truth. For the first time in memory the warlords of Lusignan had been taken by surprise.

  * * *

  Count Audemar was carried into the Long Hall on a litter. It was a cleverly-designed affair, with legs that swung down at one end, enabling the old man to lie with his head raised, as though on a cushioned couch. This and his appearance explained the delay; he was sixty years old, and his legs were now completely paralysed.

  The litter was borne by two sturdy young knights, and their constant attendance had given rise to various vile rumours. But they were not Audemar’s lovers, nor his illegitimate offspring, nor were they unnaturally attracted to each other. It was mere coincidence that had brought them to his castle within the same week, two youths with the dark, curly hair of Aquitaine, and the desire to earn themselves the eventual buffet of knighthood.

  When they first arrived they were ignorant and uncouth, armed only with letters of recommendation. Audemar had been on his feet in those days, and had accepted them into his service with the salutory warning that they would be trained as rigorously as any Templar or Hospitaller. They would be expected to wait at table, study the songs and poetry of the region, and master the brutal arts of warfare. They would not complain when his sergeants cuffed them silly in the yard, nor when his jongleurs made them pick at the strings of the citole until their fingers bled. They would clean dung from the stables, stand a full night’s guard in any weather, and remain at all times fully obedient to their seniors. In short, they would do as they were told, and learn whatever they were taught.

  They would, for example, accord an unwashed cripple the same respect as a nobleman. They would show a peasant woman the courtesy due to a chatelaine. They would care for an urchin child as for any prince of the realm. And, if they were ever found guilty of cruelty, theft or disloyalty – all-embracing terms – they would be whipped raw in the presence of the entire garrison. Should there be any repetition of the crime, Audemar would personally brand them on the palms of their hands and evict them naked into the world. He was glad they did not smile at his promise, for they could surely believe he would keep it.

  However, if the clumsy, slipshod youths survived their training with honour, they would find their blood purified, their minds sharpened and their hearts imbued with chivalry. No Christian house would be closed to them, and they would be valued for their rarity, as men of the world.

  And, he told them with justifiable pride, they would receive the buffet – the stinging slap of a gauntlet – from Audemar Taillefer, the Iron-Cutter. It would be the last blow they need ever accept, a final test of humility, and a reminder of their fealty. The next man to strike them or their master had better beware, for by then they would be knights of the realm, the martial servants of God, and handy with any kind of blade.

  Three years later, the young men had been dubbed by the warlord and given small fiefs on his domain. He promised that, in time, he would find wives for them and allow them to purchase more land. But for the present they would continue in his service and take the lowest seats at table. They did so without demur. They were his men, his gentlemen, but they acknowledged that they still had a lot to learn.

  Known now by the names of the villages on their fiefs, Peter de Vars and Alan d’Anville set the tilted litter on the floor. King John had already half-risen from his chair, his impatient expression melting hurriedly into one of polite concern. He had not known that the old man’s body was so far gone. Had Audemar been thrown from his horse, or poisoned by bad meat, or what? Someone should have informed him, not allowed him to make threats about guilt in absentia without first knowing the warlord’s condition. He should have been told. God’s eyes, it cost him enough to retain his legions of informers and spies. They should have found out. That’s why they were paid.

  He moved away from the chair, glanced at Audemar’s dark-haired watchdogs, then at the rest of his entourage. Fifteen of the Angoumois nobility, a grim, big-bellied pack.

  The visitors gazed, in reply, at the King of England. They knew a few things about him, and had heard a thousand rumours, though they had discounted most of the tales as so much exaggeration. They had heard, for instance, that Softsword was a dwarf, and thin as a vine pole, and that his arms were made pendulous by the weight of rings on his fingers. But that was nonsense, of course, for King John was no midget monkey.

  He was, however, less than five-and-a-half feet in height… And the heels of his boots were cut from a dozen slices of coloured leather, lifting him three inches from the ground… And every finger was encircled, and there were bracelets on his wrists, and a pendant seal on a chain around his neck… And his cloak, embroidered with scenes of court life, hung from his shoulders like a struck tent…

  His brother had been Richard Coeur-de-Lion, the Lionheart, the Plantagenet giant who had led the Great Crusade against Sultan Saladin and the assembled might of Islam. Richard of England, who had wielded a double-headed axe with the ease that most men swung a sword. Richard, master of the crossbow and the springy, twelve-foot lance; a man of prodigious strength and magnetic personality, of extraordinary physical courage, and with an insatiable desire to be at the head of any cavalry charge or victory parade. He’d loved a parade, the Lionheart, and the cheers that fenced it in.

  Understandably, his vices had been as vivid as his virtues. Overbearing pride, an obsessive greed for money, a well-mined vein of cruelty and an intimate predilection for men. The only woman who had pleased him had been his mother, the magnificent Eleanor of Aquitaine, but even she had failed to control his appetites. He had fathered no children, in or out of wedlock, and his death from arrow-shot had left England without an heir.

  Save for his diminutive, high-heeled brother, John Softsword.

  Audemar’s barons watched the king approach their master. John had worn the crown for little more than a year, but he had only recently come south to Chinon, and few of the visitors had ever seen him before. At first sight, they did not like what they saw.

  He bowed cu
rtly to Audemar. ‘I’m sorry to find you laid low, my lord. I trust it’s a passing blight, and you will soon—’

  ‘It isn’t,’ Audemar said. ‘The legs have died ahead of the body, that’s all.’ He brushed the subject aside and asked, ‘Why am I brought here, King John? Your emissary was as impolite as your summons. I thought I had made it clear that I was not yet ready to pledge allegiance to you. I owe nothing to the English cause, nor to the ambitions of your enemy, Philip of France. I hold myself aloof from your quarrels, as I did from those of Coeur-de-Lion. If you, or Philip Augustus, want me for an ally, you must buy me with reasons, not dictates. I am the master of my domains, and content with them. Why should I be dragged behind the walls of England, or the palisades of France? Can you tell me that, lord king? Can you tell me why your war should become mine?’

  John stared down at him, then looked away, frowning, as though he had misheard the words. His thin face reddened, and he rubbed his hands together, a closed fist against an open palm. Those who knew him, knew the signs.

  Like his father, the dead King Henry, and his brother, the dead King Richard, John Softsword suffered from what many termed the Angevin sickness – a mindless loss of temper. A dozen times in the past he had hurled himself to the ground, thrashing and kicking, or drawn his sword to slash indiscriminately at the furnishings. Afterwards, he could not remember what he had done, though horrified witnesses told him that spittle had leaked from his mouth, and that a blood-chilling scream had found its way between clenched teeth. Once, years before, he had been involved in a chess game with a friend. His opponent had made some winning move, and John had promptly snatched one of the solid stone pieces and bludgeoned him senseless. Fortunately, an onlooker had wrested the chessman from his grasp before he could strike another blow, but John had then broken free, smashed the inlaid table and careered across the room with such force that he had dented an iron shield, propped against the wall.