The Wolf at the Door Read online

  ‘You should employ me,’ Arthur said. ‘Ensconce me down there with a chair and table, and some of your husbanded candles, and I could tell you—’

  But by then John was swinging the jar. He did so with all his strength – the vestigial strength of Melusine’s descendant? – and it shattered along with Arthur’s skull. There was an instant’s silence, and then the duke’s body crashed to the floor, framed by the clatter of stone shards. There were other sounds, though these were mercifully forgotten – the noisesome settling of the body, the last gargled cry of apprehension from Briouze, the ghastly sigh of achievement from King John. The sounds went together and died with the Duke of Brittany, and then there was a longer silence, broken only by the crackle of logs and the give of the uneven tiles.

  Cautiously, as though infiltrating an enemy camp, Briouze moved alongside his king. The men had seen death before, dressed in every habit, but they had never been so relieved to find it cloaked by the dark. It lay there scarcely visible, a faint gleam around the wrists.

  Few men behave rationally in the aftermath of murder. John skirted the corpse and began edging the shards of stone against the wall. Briouze said, ‘Leave him be,’ then realized his advice was too late. He started towards the door – to alert the guards? To summon a physician? – then turned abruptly on his heel and went back to review the body. John appeared from the shadows and thrust a goblet into his hand, but the glass was empty and anyway the jar was gone. Sombrely, the king said, ‘We must find out who gave him the information, eh, Marshal? You know how to go about it and— I mean Briouze. You know what to do.’

  The warlord looked at him for a moment, then slowly shook his head. ‘No, king, you meant what you said. You meant Marshal. I too wish he was here, wish he’d been here to prevent—’ And then a despairing lift of his hand.

  John suddenly started to shake. It was forbidden to touch the monarch, and it was anyway something he abhorred. But now Briouze caught him by the upper arm, and John clutched him in return. For the first time they acknowledged the enormity of their act.

  ‘We have killed your nephew,’ Briouze intoned. ‘We have committed a mortal sin and are consigned into Hell. Our flesh will be scraped away, and every raw part turned in the fire. But even before that, when the world learns what we have done—’

  ‘When the world learns,’ John echoed dully.

  ’You must send for Marshal.’

  ‘When the world learns of it, then—’ He swung his head away, his eyes vacant. He may have glimpsed the corpse, or seen nothing, but when he faced Briouze again his expression had changed. ‘If the world learns of it,’ he said. ‘If it learns.’

  ‘We must recall Marshal and—’

  ‘Yes, we will, but first listen to me. Think on this. The world need not learn of it, not yet.’

  ‘Conceal the body? But—’

  ‘Wait!’ He remembered something Isabelle had said. If you threw that fish back… If you threw that fish back…

  And why not?

  He wrenched himself free, his voice distorted by fear and guilt and complicity: ‘Listen to me, Briouze. There is a way.’ He turned towards the eastern end of the hall, pointing beyond the pool of light. ‘You see that window? It’s no more than twenty feet from the Seine. The river flows fast enough there. It’ll take the body downstream, maybe to the sea. Bodies float for a while, don’t they? And then they sink, and that’s an end of it. Like men washed overboard, who ever finds them?’ He stared at Briouze, stared and nodded, willing the man to agree. ‘Well, are you with me in this or not?’

  He had already decided that if Briouze rejected his appeal he would run for the door, pull it open and scream that the warlord had murdered Arthur of Brittany. And he might do it yet… The temptation was growing…

  ‘Yes, I am with you. We are already condemned by Heaven, so— Yes, let’s get on with it.’

  It was a slow and grisly task. They went down on their knees to scour the floor with rushes, which they then heaped on the fire. Briouze sacrificed his cloak, so that Arthur’s blood would not drip a trail across the tiles. Then they dragged the corpse into the window alcove, the young duke’s head bound with its makeshift turban. John opened the shutters and waited to lift the body over the sill. He was overcome by another brief paroxysm, shuddering at the realization that he must spend the next few moments in the moonlit aperture, in full view of Almighty God. The King of England seen as a murderer, his nephew as victim.

  Eventually he managed to control himself and flapped a hand to send Briouze on his way.

  And now a fresh terror afflicted the king. What if Briouze summoned the guards and they ran in to find their monarch crouched in the window, sharing the view with the lifeless Duke of Brittany?

  The warlord was passing the pool of light when John hissed, ‘My Lord William? When this is done a month from now, you’ll be raised to the highest estate. That was always my intention. I have always seen you as the most deserving of men.’

  Looking back, Briouze could not separate the king from the shadows. The horror of what he had done – what he had failed to prevent – had tilted his senses, and he heard himself say, ‘As my lord king desires.’ Then he nodded courteously in the direction of the moonlit window and went on along the hall.

  Outside, he told the guards that King John and Duke Arthur were still deep in discussion. ‘They may well be reconciled before the night’s out, and there have already been tears of remorse. None of us need witness such a scene, it’s too private. Stand away out of sight somewhere. Down at the foot of the stairs, that’ll do.’

  The guards understood. This was a family matter, and they’d all been faced with comparable problems; truculent children, interfering relatives, that sort of thing. Nice to know, though, that it happened to kings and princes.

  They clattered off along the passage and down the steps, while Briouze made his way outside, then round to the river wall. On the way he stopped, afflicted by the same spasms that had already gripped the king. He found it necessary to squat in the darkness before groping his way along the talus of the wall. The shame of that act would outlive the murder itself, and the memory of it would, in time, cost him everything he possessed. He was inalienably loyal to the king and could excuse anything John did. He was a Norman warlord, one of a line, and inured to death. It happened, brought pleasure or regret to others, and was then forgotten. But what he would not forget, nor forgive, was his own weakness, the need for sudden physical relief. It made him no better than a fearful child, and the darkness made it worse.

  Nevertheless, he found his way to the window, reached up to tap the hilt of his dagger against the stone, then accepted the bundle that was pushed out over the sill. The conspirators kept silent, and Briouze dragged the turbaned corpse across the damp grass to the Seine. The body went in with a quiet splash, disappeared and then rolled to the surface a few yards down-river.

  A moment later the current edged it aside, as though rejecting so dangerous a passenger, and it disappeared again under the lee of the bank. Briouze started after it, then saw it drift obstinately into the mainstream and float away into the darkness. He waited, but there were no warning shouts, no flares of light on the bank. Duke Arthur had gone from the castle unnoticed.

  Briouze turned and peered up at the window, hoping to see his king. What they had done they had done together. Briouze had witnessed the death; it was only right that John should have witnessed the departure. But the window was already shuttered against heaven and the moon.

  Chapter Five

  Lost Cause

  May–September 1203

  There had been no news for several weeks, and now, on the same morning two messengers entered the yard at Pembroke. The first had visited the castle before, in February, and would continue to call every three months or so, for as long as Earl Marshal remained there. Dignified with the title of courrier, the man was in Marshal’s employ, his eyes and ears in Normandy. There were other courriers – a harsher term was
spies – and their reports enabled the warlord to keep abreast of events on the other side of the Channel. He had courriers in most of the continental territories, but this morning’s caller was the best-situated, an accepted member of the court at Rouen.

  Encouraged to cast his net wide, his reports consisted of proven facts, rumours and sheer guesswork. Nothing linked them, unless, like today, it was a thread of pessimism. Whatever the news, it was bad.

  There had been more defections, more defeats, more names added to the list. A flight of angels had been seen circling above Paris. The city of Le Mans and the fortress of Vaudreuil were rumoured to be on the verge of surrender. King John and Queen Isabelle had closeted themselves in their private chambers and, so far as the courrier could tell, the Angevin defence was in the hands of individual commanders. If a baron wished to take the field against the French, he did so. If not, he stayed within his own borders or, more likely than not, allied himself with the enemy.

  Oh, yes, and one other thing. Every prisoner had been removed from the dungeons at Rouen and dispersed throughout the country. But stranger than that, the gaolers and their families had also been transferred; not to another Norman stronghold, but to a castle in southern Aquitaine. And, strangest of all, no one had seen hide nor hair of Duke Arthur since the first days of April.

  Of course, he might have been sent back to Falaise, to rejoin Hugh and Ralf, or even to England for safe keeping. But it was odd that he had vanished without trace. Almost as though he had been – buried?

  There was now a definite pattern to the war, if it could be called a war. Philip Augustus was threatening the chain of border fortresses in Normandy, and with every expectation of snapping the links. Maine, Anjou and Touraine were in turmoil, neighbour turned against neighbour, or merely sitting it out, whilst in the west the Bretons were poised to strike at Angers, Avranches and an ever-increasing number of towns and castles. In short, Normandy was now cut off, and John was upstairs with the Sparrowhawk.

  It was time Marshal re-entered the fray. Indeed, it was long past time, but his pride would still not allow him to ask permission of the king. He had been banished – no, that was too strong a word – excluded then from both the court and the continent, and all because John had wished to take sole credit for Mirebeau.

  Mirebeau… Great God, how that victory had dwindled, changed shape, then reared up to spawn an endless stream of defeats. It was surely the costliest triumph ever achieved by an English king, for it had convinced Softsword that he was all the things he was not.

  If Philip Augustus had any sense he’d engineer another Mirebeau, then wait for the Angevin empire to collapse. And what if he lost a further two hundred knights and nobles, and a second pair as hot-headed as the Lusignans? He had already made up the numbers in turncloaks.

  Enraged by this latest series of disasters, the Earl of Pembroke urged himself to swallow the bitter lees of his pride. Whether or not John would admit it, the king had need of him. Christ see it, Normandy had need of him! And the rest of the schismatic territories. They all needed him, or someone like him, to raise their spirits and stiffen their spines. The French might think themselves at war, but the English clearly did not. Left without a leader, they seemed content to fence off their own petty holdings, barricade their doors and hope for the best. But the best would very soon become the worst. The empire would be lost, and on its heels would come a full-scale invasion of England. And who, by then, would be left to patrol the shores? A few hired mercenaries and the garrison of Pembroke?

  He would leave for Rouen within the week and, if necessary, force his way into the royal bed-chamber and haul the dilatory king—

  No. He could not leave yet. Not when his wife was almost eight months pregnant. Not when the news of his departure might upset her enough to lose her grip on the child. He would wait until she had given birth. Then he would do what he could to save the Angevin empire.

  * * *

  But the second messenger of the morning destroyed his plans. The man was not a courrier or, if he was, he was paid by King John, for the letter he brought bore the king’s brown wax seal. The last time Marshal had handled such a seal was at Corfe, where he’d dropped it on the steps.

  The letter did not quite constitute a summons, not quite an invitation, not quite an apology. It was if anything a request, formal and polite and out of character. It addressed, ‘Our respected friend and champion the Earl Marshal of Pembroke and Striguil,’ then went on:

  ‘You must know, Earl Marshal, that the French have been blessed by a series of fortunate victories, whilst we ourselves are plagued by the treason of little men.

  ‘Your presence here would add immeasurably to our determination, and with you at our side we shall quickly rid ourselves of the intruder. Be with us as soon as you can, in the knowledge that whatever advice you give will be taken to heart.

  ‘We send warm greetings to the Lady Isabel, but would remind you that you are missed at court, and missed by England.’

  If the letter had not already convinced him, he was swayed by the final phrase. King John had at last admitted the truth. England did need her senior warlord – her stiff-necked earl – and not ensconced at Pembroke, but at Rouen, or wherever the battle was to be joined.

  It would be hard on his wife, for he had, in a way, overstayed his welcome. Had he set out three months ago she would have had time to adjust, time to resign herself to another lonely birth. God willing, this would be their seventh healthy child. But, of the six she had already borne him, only two had been placed wet and squalling in his arms. Far from home, he had heard about the others from emissaries, courriers.

  * * *

  Visitors to Pembroke were invariably surprised at the chatelaine’s freedom of speech. William Marshal was as arrogant as a lion, as vain as a peacock in display and, with anyone else, as touchy as a baited bear. Yet during the latter years of his marriage he had allowed – indeed, almost encouraged – the Lady Isabel to dispute with him, as though her woman’s head encased the mind of a man. They found it unsettling, the lords and ladies who called by, then dismissed it as the Arab’s infatuation with the pale-haired de Clare.

  In their own homes things were different. The wife was required to comfort her husband, administer the estates in his absence, and otherwise devote herself to the everyday business of the castle and the welfare of her children. It was understood that her thoughts were inconsequential, and that her opinions would merely reflect those of her husband. How else could they be expected to live together, if not in complete harmony?

  There were a few exceptions, a few men who invited their wives’ views, a few women who aired them uninvited. The dowager Queen Eleanor, now in retirement at Fontevrault; the Sparrowhawk, presumably in bed at Rouen; and Isabel de Clare, who had taken the news calmly and urged Marshal not to delay his departure.

  ‘The letter is untimely, we’re agreed on that, and it’s unjust that you should miss the advent of your child. But you’ve been absent from court too long, my lord, not least because of your mutual pride, yours and the king’s. Now that he has called you, you’d best rejoin him, before the entire empire becomes a hunting ground for France.’

  ‘That’s curtly put,’ he said. ‘Do you blame me for the situation? You call it mutual pride, but what more could I have done? How many letters have I dispatched since last autumn? Ten? A dozen? A dozen letters sent to court and placed in his hands. And not a single reply, until today. Now, tell me, lady, what was I supposed to do, beg at the gates?’

  She rested her hands across her belly, her fingers entwined. ‘It would not have come to that, and you know it. Beg at the gates? No, for they’d have been wrenched open the instant you appeared. Your arrival would have done more to hearten the army than anything so far. It still might, if there are enough men left to form an army. But don’t you see where your pride has placed you? No one will advance unless you are there to lead them. Every contingent will ask for you. You, William Marshal! They will all w
ant you! And the more you are drawn into combat, the greater the risk that—’

  ‘What?’ he smiled. ‘That I’ll be damaged? My sweet Isabel, do you think I’ll be harmed by the French? Oh, thirty years ago, perhaps, when I handled a sword like a thresher’s flail. But not now.’

  Holding himself erect and scowling dramatically to make light of his boast, he said, ‘Bear in mind if you will – It was this proud creature who knocked Richard Lionheart from his horse. And I dare say the patch of ground still bears the imprint of his buttocks.’

  She realized he was trying to cheer her, and did not remind him that his skirmish with King Richard had taken place thirteen years before, when he had been in the prime of his life. True, he was still one of the paramount champions of the West, witness his dealings with Ralf of Exoudun, when he’d disarmed the trouble-maker with practised ease. But even so, even with his skill and experience and peerless authority, he was almost fifty-seven years of age and by any standards old for battle. The enemy would be hard put to bring down William Marshal. But it was not inconceivable, for they had already caused an empire to stumble.

  * * *

  In spite of the rumours, King John had not spent all his time in bed with the Sparrowhawk. He too had his courriers, legions of them, and they apprised him of events in England and – as true spies – in France, Flanders and the German states. His clerks had also been kept busy, writing at his dictation to the English nobility and the money-hungry mercenaries throughout Europe who had not yet allied themselves with Philip Augustus.

  John’s appeals were attractively worded, though they did not dispose of the two outstanding problems. The royal treasury was as low as an ebbed tide, and mercenaries by definition worked for reward. If they could not be paid, they could not be hired. Or worse, if they were recruited with a promise and it failed to materialize in the form of coins or booty, they were liable to turn on their masters – in this case King John and his few remaining suzerains.