The Wolf at the Door Read online

  It was now that Philip Augustus raised money for a monastery, while John kept company with priests and bishops, his purse for once stretched wide on behalf of the Church. He no longer yawned and chatted during Mass, and his courtiers left their dice at the chapel door.

  Those extrovert clergymen who prayed and prophesied were well rewarded, as were the soothsayers who foresaw Philip die in agony, or John succumb to a poisoned roast, an arrow, an accidental fall. But the highest paid were those with a weather-eye, who could assure their patrons of an imminent thaw and a bright blue sky. The French army could then resist. Both sides were ready and eager to reopen hostilities.

  * * *

  Concerned by Philip’s autumn successes, William Marshal had penned a series of letters to King John. He had queried the Angevin’s inactivity and forwarded a list of castles that were, in his opinion, vulnerable or of special strategic importance. By their very nature, most castles dominated their surroundings, but those on the eastern border of Normandy formed a bulwark against the French. If they were to fall – Arques and Driencourt, Conches and Bonneville and, heaven guard it, Château Gaillard – then Philip could lead his men to the very heart of the duchy.

  By February the warlord had dispatched five letters, but received no reply. He wrote a sixth, in which he sought the king’s permission to return, then threw it on the fire. His pride forbade such a request. John had dismissed him, so John could recall him. Besides, Marshal was enjoying his first respite in more than two years, and he was loth to start the long struggle to Falaise, or Rouen, or wherever the king was now. The country was still snow-bound, so the French would not yet have taken the field. And the Channel was still treacherous, something else to be borne in mind.

  His wife steered clear of the problem. She was four months pregnant, and prayed that it would snow unabated until midsummer’s day. So long as the land lay buried and the sea continued to boil, Marshal might as well stay at home. She could not keep him there against his will, any more than John could bar him from the court, but she was content to suffer the rigours of winter and grow big with his child. Their child. Their sixth son, perhaps, or their second daughter. It no longer mattered which, though her unspoken preference was for another girl, for Pembroke already dinned with the yelps of its future masters. Five male children in full cry and, thank God, the walls were still standing.

  As for the situation abroad, she would neither encourage nor dissuade her husband in his views. If he felt it was right to go he would do so, regardless of John’s silence, or her own pleadings. But until that sad, sunny day, she would share her happiness with him, and secretly entice down fresh falls of snow.

  * * *

  Three hundred miles to the south-east, at Rouen, the situation was less settled. Duke Arthur had been interviewed again, but with the same lack of success. No, he’d reiterated, he would not disavow Philip Augustus in exchange for Brittany. Nor would he pay homage to the so-called King of England. ‘However, I admire your impudence, Uncle, offering me something that is already mine. I am Duke of Brittany, and recognized as such by everyone but you. Why not give me something I don’t possess? Anjou, for example, or the crown that clings so precariously to your head? Philip was my age when he became king, and I’m quick to learn. Besides, your abdication would be such a popular event.’

  Once more he was hustled down to the dungeons, leaving John to decide whether firmer measures were called for.

  Later, in the privacy of their quarters, the king and queen had turned their attention to William Marshal. For the twentieth time John had upended an inlaid box and spread the warlord’s winter letters about the table. For the twentieth time the Sparrowhawk had remarked on the spidery script, seeing it as an indication of Marshal’s failing powers. ‘He’s growing weak, though he’s too proud to admit it, else he’d have dictated his dull warnings to a clerk. His fingers have stiffened, you can see. In another year or so they’ll be nerveless, and then what use will he be, in battle or anywhere else?’

  John managed a smile, anxious to humour her. He could not tell her now, in February, what he had failed to say in December – that he wanted Marshal back, stiff-fingered though he was, harsh and critical though he was. They would argue, of course, and the Earl of Pembroke would do nothing to hide his disdain for the jewel-laden monarch and the indolent Sparrowhawk. For her part, she would continue to see him as a dried-out relic, still feeding off his stale reputation, and she’d remember how he had ignored her during the first months of her reign. A rejected woman was a dangerous animal, but far less so than a disregarded queen.

  As for John, he knew he would be torn between Marshal’s obvious good sense and Isabelle’s persuasions; torn between them and thus tempted to strike out blindly on his own. He was aware now that he had wasted the victory at Mirebeau. He should have treated the prisoners with dignity, dispensed with the parades and banquets, and – yes, kept the Arab near by. Instead, he’d alienated many of his senior commanders and given fresh heart to the enemy; that and large areas of Angevin territory.

  Mirebeau had been his first great triumph, and it had gone to his head. But he’d had the winter to think about it, and he was determined to learn from his mistakes. Unfortunately, his determination did not render him deaf to Isabelle.

  Stirring the letters on the table, she said, ‘You’ve let the cold weather make you despondent, my lord. You don’t say it outright, but I know you’re ready to send for William Marshal. The French have gained some insignificant outposts, and a number of those men we thought trustworthy have turned against us. But the real problem is in your head, where you’ve worried things out of proportion. I agree we should have been more forceful after Mirebeau, but I do not look to the stiff-necked Earl of Pembroke to redress the balance. I look to you. You’ve tricked the enemy before, and you’ll do it again. But this time, when they think you incapable of furthering your success, you’ll be on the way to Paris. I tell you, husband, no sooner will they have recovered from one defeat than they’ll be reeling from fifty more.’

  Now that she had encouraged him, the young queen turned the coin. ‘What is France, anyway, but a petty kingdom squeezed between us and the German states? They are nothing, the French, and they’d do well to stay within their borders and thank God they’ve been granted what little space they have. I must say, sweet, it surprises me that you worry about them at all. Come the spring, you’ll be on firm ground and playing them like the fish they are. You have already landed Arthur and the Lusignans; the rest are bound to follow, for they travel in shoals.’

  John admitted the possibility. Perhaps things were as the Sparrowhawk saw them; not as simple, of course, for one did not catch armoured knights with a fishing-line, but less gloomy than his own overcast views. The lost ground could be recaptured, the mistakes rectified and, as Isabelle had said, the balance redressed. But, most cheering of all, she looked to him to do it.

  He said, ‘Your optimism is infectious, Sparrowhawk. Does it extend to the Lusignans and my nephew of Brittany? If you could see the beginnings of a solution—’

  ‘With regard to Hugh and Ralf, yes, but not Arthur. His mind is poisoned against us. If you threw that fish back he’d taint the whole river. He’s more infectious than I.’ She yawned, shook her head, then treated him to a gentle, spreading smile. ‘I must retire, my lord, will you keep me company?’ She watched him collect Marshal’s letters and return them to the decorated box, and she noticed that on this, the twentieth occasion, the king made no attempt to stack or square the sheets. His wife took it as a favourable sign.

  * * *

  The snow thawed and ran into the rivers. The valleys remained spongy, though the patrols could once again ride the ridges and camp away from home. Reports were sent back to Rouen, but there was something odd about them, as though the patrol leaders had forgotten the object of their missions. Castles that should have been friendly to the Angevin cause were now listed as sympathetic to the French. Towns that had hitherto welcomed th
e passage of English knights had closed their gates to all who opposed Philip Augustus. The reports still contained estimates of the enemy’s strength and development, but the greater part of the messages was taken up with details of defection. Border fiefs that had been loyal to King Henry and King Richard had now gone over to the French. Barons who had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with Coeur-de- Lion in Sicily, Cyprus and the Holy Land were now seen in Paris, or Chartres, or Blois. Even new-made knights, their oath of allegiance still warm on their lips, were now disavowing King John in favour of King Philip.

  It was clear that a new infection had spread through the Angevin possessions, and one that had apparently been carried by the snow.

  John evaded the truth as long as possible. He insisted that each report be checked, then accused his spies of invention. Stabbing at names on the list, he said, ‘These men, for example. They both spent Christmas with us here at Rouen. And now you claim they’ve turned their cloaks! It’s inconceivable. We played with their children! We gave them presents! Others on this paper, yes, I can see some who’d serve any master of the moment, but not these. Nor him, I know him. Nor these two, God’s breath, I’ve slept in both their homes!’

  The messengers flinched, but held firm. The reports were accurate, their word on it. Their lives, if need be. Everyone on the list was either in company with the French, or strengthening his house against the English.

  Wisely, they did not mention the dozens of knights whobeen seen but not identified by name. If they were added to the list, the pages could be bound together to make a book…

  And so it continued, the progress of the French army almost forgotten in the face of this greater threat from within. The infection was most widespread in the central territories of Maine, Anjou and Touraine, though the entire border of Normandy was now at risk. Aquitaine and Gascony were as yet untroubled; more than could be said for Poitou, hard- pressed by the allies of the captive Lusignan brothers.

  However, it was the westernmost duchy of Brittany that inspired King John to murder.

  * * *

  Some men stood within the Angevin’s circle of friendship, yet did not command his respect. They made good mealtime companions and could be relied upon for a scandalous story or a game of dice, but there it ended. They took no part in the war councils, but were merely expected to vote along with the king.

  Others, like Marshal, were valued for their administrative abilities and the serious air they brought to the proceedings. Beyond that, they were encouraged to seek their own diversions, preferably outside the court.

  There were few who were both popular and revered, their advice heeded, their humour acclaimed. One such was William of Briouze, a stocky, pock-marked Norman whose ancestors had fought in the vanguard of the Conqueror and had been granted fiefs on both sides of the Channel. There had always been a William of Briouze, and he had always been favoured by his king.

  The present, fifty-year-old suzerain was no exception, and it was he who brought Duke Arthur up from the dungeons for his third interview with John.

  This time Queen Isabelle was absent, and the assembly hall deserted. There was no frieze of guards, no servants, no musicians, no dogs loping across the uneven tiled floor. This time uncle and nephew would be tête-a-tête, with only Briouze in attendance.

  In an effort to induce an atmosphere of informality, the king himself had gone around the hall, extinguishing the torches in their brackets and snuffing all but a few of the thick tallow candles. There was now a pool of light at one end of the obligatory table dormant, and a dull red glow in the chimney alcove. A stone wine jar warmed beside the fire, whilst, on the table, three cut-glass goblets deflected the candlelight.

  Dressed for the part, the king wore a plain gown, a drab leather belt and three unremarkable rings. He could not remember when he had last abandoned so much jewellery – most likely in preparation for the rescue ride to Mirebeau – and he was glad the hall had been placed off-limits to his courtiers. If they saw him like this they would think he’d been reduced to penury. By tomorrow, Rouen would be alive with rumour. ‘…The king has sold his personal treasures to pay for the war… England has been declared destitute… There’s to be a special tithe … Half one’s goods and chattels, three-fourths of one’s coins…’

  Just as well he’d pinched the candles and put guards on the door. The plan was to soften his nephew, not panic his subjects.

  He tested the warmth of the wine jar, grunted and set it on the table. As he did so the doors were swung open and Briouze ushered Arthur into the chamber.

  ‘Come along into the light,’ John beckoned. ‘Warm yourselves with some of this; Vieux Cahors, if the vintner’s to be believed. By the way, Briouze, did you see that my nephew was fed?’

  The warlord waited until he had steered his charge along the hall, then said, ‘I regret, king, that the self-styled Duke of Brittany lacks co-ordination.’ He saw John frown and elaborated, ‘He threw some prime stew on the floor and remarked on the king’s vomit masquerading as meat. It seemed pointless to serve him again.’

  John sucked his teeth, peered at the brilliant glasses, then looked up at his emaciated prisoner. ‘This won’t do, Lord Arthur, starving yourself out of spite. I ordered an excellent meal for you this evening, fresh-killed today, and now you’ve wasted it. You tax my patience, but, if you’ve changed your mind, I expect we’ll find something for you in the kitchens.’

  ‘Only you would know,’ Arthur murmured. ‘Is your vomit kept in store, or is it collected after each expulsion?’

  John nodded at Briouze, who clapped his hands on the young duke’s shoulders, forcing him into a chair. ‘You’re an unpleasant creature to keep around,’ the king told him. ‘And, as I say, you stretch my patience. So far we have had two profitless discussions, and after this I see no reason for a fourth.’

  His wrists manacled together, the dried blood visible on the backs of his hands, Arthur gestured in time with a shrug. ‘Personally, I see no reason for this one. Where are we, anyway, in some mysterious grotto? Or is England so poor that she can no longer afford a flame? Or is it you, Uncle? Are you putting the cost of candles against your next gold ring?’

  Behind him, Briouze said, ‘I’ll make him more attentive.’ But John wagged a finger. ‘Not yet. First I want him to hear how Brittany has fared.’ He turned aside, filling the three glass goblets, then pushed two of them across the table. Briouze collected his, waited for John to drink, then copied him. Arthur ignored the remaining glass, as though it was intended for someone else.

  ‘Brittany,’ John said, ‘yes, the sad state of Brittany.’ He rested his elbows on the table, making a roof for his glass, and went on, ‘You will not have heard, buried away in a dungeon, but the duchy to which you lay claim is in sorry repair. My troops have already taken Rennes and invested the city of Nantes, and it’s only a matter of time before—’

  The harshness of Arthur’s laugh cut him short. ‘Rennes, you say. And Nantes. Taken or beleaguered. Oh, you purblind— My dear, purblind kinsman, your sight really has been ruined by these cheap candles. And not only your sight, but your mind as well. So Brittany’s in a sorry state of repair, is it? And your troops are in Rennes?’ He laughed again, and let it fade into a sigh. Then he emptied his goblet and held it up, twisting the glass so that the fight cut fissures in his uncle’s face.

  ‘I don’t know what you’ll offer me today, but it should not be freedom. Rather, you should pay me a fortune to stay down there in the dungeons and tell you how the world turns. The sad state of Brittany? Is that what you’ve heard in this ill-lit nest? Well, Lord King of England, it’s been a different story down below.’ He saw John frown, and turned in time to glimpse the warlord’s bewilderment. Then he looked across the table again, his victory assured.

  ‘What a silly trick, my lords. What an unworkable pretence. Did you really think I’d turn deaf in a dungeon? That the truth would not find its way below ground? Did you imagine you could snuff a few candles an
d, in this dishonest darkness, treat me to a lie? Your troops are nowhere near Rennes, or Nantes! They are not even within the borders of Brittany! But hear what I’ve heard, though you know it already. The Bretons are within striking distance of Angers, and moving along the coast of Normandy towards Avranches. It’s not my people who are in need of repair. It’s yours, what few there are of them.’

  He came to his feet, catching Briouze off-balance. He was still holding his glass, and now h e flicked it aside, sending it as far as his fettered wrists would allow. It shattered on the floor and splinters of glass flew back into the yellow pool. John pushed himself from his chair, his embarrassment fuel for his rage. Was it not enough that treason swept the countryside, or must it now find its way into Rouen, along the passageways of the castle and down to the dungeons? Arthur had learned the truth from someone; a servant, a gaoler, a member of the garrison, a member of the court, a priest, why not? Someone had crept down there, put his lips to the spyhole in the door and whispered the good news.

  Angers… Avranches…

  Briouze recovered his balance and stepped forward to restrain the prisoner. John was also moving forward, shouting at the warlord to let things be. Arthur had meanwhile withdrawn to the shadows, grinning in triumph, his blood-streaked hands raised to scratch his nose. He saw the king approach, lowered his arms and said, ‘It’s no wonder the world knows what you do, Uncle, before you do it. I am your most important prisoner, and yet even I receive daily reports of your plans. I daresay I could conduct the Bretons’ campaign from my cell.’ He moved backwards, farther away from the light, and it was only at the last instant that Briouze saw the wine jar in John’s hand.

  There was a melee of sound and movement. Arthur retreated, laughing at the king’s discomfort, and John went after him, once more prey to the Angevin sickness. Briouze said, ‘No, king,’ realized he had pitched his voice short and roared, ‘King! Leave him be I King’