The She-Wolf (The Accursed Kings, Book 5) Page 26

  Mahaut’s huge forefinger, which was as tough as a piece of wood, took Heaven to witness. And to please her ally of the moment she turned to Jeanne the Lame and said: ‘Your sister was most certainly innocent, my poor Jeanne, and we have all suffered misfortunes from Isabella’s calumnies, and my mother’s heart has bled because of them.’

  Had she been allowed to go on like this, she would no doubt have reduced the Council to tears. But Robert said: ‘Your Blanche innocent? I should like to believe it, Aunt. But it really cannot have been the Holy Ghost who got her with child in prison.’

  King Charles the Fair frowned nervously. Really, Cousin Robert had no business to remind people of that.

  ‘It was despair that drove my little girl to it,’ cried Mahaut angrily. ‘What had my dove to lose, when she was dishonoured by calumny, imprisoned in a fortress and driven half-mad? I’d like to know who could withstand such treatment.’

  ‘I’ve been in prison too, Aunt, at the time when your son-in-law Philippe put me there at your behest. But that didn’t make me put the gaoler’s daughters in the family way nor, from despair, make use of the turnkey for wife, though these things seem to happen in our family!’

  The Constable’s interest in the discussion began to revive.

  ‘And how do you know, Nephew, though you take such pleasure in sullying the memory of a dead woman, that my Blanche was not taken by force? After all, her cousin was strangled in the same prison,’ she said, looking Robert straight in the eyes, ‘so she may well have been raped. No, Sire my Son,’ she went on, turning back to the King, ‘since you have summoned me to your Council …’

  ‘No one summoned you,’ said Robert; ‘you came of your own accord.’

  But it was not so easy to interrupt the old giantess.

  ‘I will give you this counsel which comes straight from a mother’s heart, which has never ceased to beat for you, despite everything that may have estranged us. I say this to you, Sire Charles: expel your sister from France, for each time she has returned here some misfortune has befallen the Crown. The year you were dubbed knight with your brothers and my nephew Robert, who may well remember it, Maubuisson caught fire and we were all nearly burnt to death. The following year she brought such a scandal on us that we were all covered with infamy. A scandal which a good King’s daughter, and a good sister to her brothers, even had there been any shadow of truth in it, ought to have kept quiet about, instead of spreading slander everywhere, with the help of I know whom. And again, in the time of your brother Philippe, when she came to Amiens that Edward might render homage, what happened? The pastoureaux ravaged the realm. And now that she’s come back again, I positively tremble. For you are expecting a child, who one hopes will be a son, since you must give France a king; so I warn you, Sire my Son, to keep this harbinger of misfortune as far removed as possible from your wife’s womb.’

  She had indeed aimed the quarrel of her cross-bow with precision. But Robert was already making reply: ‘And when our cousin the Hutin died, my good Aunt, where was Isabella then? Not in France, so far as I know. And when his son, the little Jean the Posthumous, died so suddenly in your arms, when you were holding him, my good Aunt, where was Isabella then? Had she visited Louis’s room? Was she among the assembled barons? My memory may well be at fault, but I do not recollect her presence. Unless, of course, the deaths of those two Kings are not, in your view, to be counted among the misfortunes of the realm?’

  Rascality was face to face with even greater rascality. It needed but another couple of words and they would be openly accusing each other of murder.

  The Constable had known the family for nearly sixty years. He puckered his saurian eyes and said: ‘Let us not stray from the point, Messeigneurs, but come back to the subject at issue.’

  And there was a quality in his voice which somehow or other recalled the tones of the Iron King.

  Charles the Fair passed his hand across his smooth brow and said: ‘Suppose, to give Edward satisfaction, we expelled Messire Mortimer from the kingdom?’

  Then Jeanne the Lame spoke. Her voice was precise but low-pitched; nevertheless, after the great lowings of the two Artois bulls, she was listened to.

  ‘It would be a waste of time and trouble,’ she said. ‘Do you really think our cousin will part from the man whose mistress she now is? She is devoted to him body and soul; she lives only for him. Either she will refuse to let him go, or she will go with him.’

  Jeanne the Lame hated the Queen of England, not only because of the memory of Marguerite, her sister, but also because of this too great love Isabella was displaying to the whole of France. And yet Jeanne of Burgundy had no real need to complain; her tall Philippe loved her in every sense of the word, in spite of the fact that her legs were not of the same length. But the granddaughter of Saint Louis would have liked to be the only woman in the world who was loved. She hated the loves of others.

  ‘We must come to a decision,’ the Constable repeated.

  He said this because it was growing late and because the women were talking much too much at this Council.

  King Charles nodded approval, and then declared: ‘Tomorrow morning, my sister will be taken to the port of Boulogne to be there embarked and returned to her legitimate husband under escort. I will it.’

  He had said ‘I will it’ and everyone present stared at each other, for that phrase had emerged but rarely from the mouth of weak Charles.

  ‘Cherchemont,’ he added, ‘you will prepare the commission for the escort and I will seal it with my lesser seal.’

  There was no more to be said. For Charles the Fair was stubborn, and he was the King, and he sometimes remembered it; and the odd thing was that this usually occurred when he thought of his first wife, who had treated him so badly and whom he had loved so much.

  The Countess Mahaut alone permitted herself to say: ‘A wise decision, Sire my Son.’

  And then they all separated without much in the way of effusive good-nights. They all felt they had been parties to a wicked deed. Chairs were pushed back, and everyone got to his feet to salute the departure of the King and Queen, who were the first to retire.

  The Countess of Beaumont was disappointed. She had thought her husband, Robert, would win the day. She looked across at him and he signed to her to go to their room. He had still a word to say to Monseigneur de Marigny.

  The Constable with a heavy step, Jeanne of Burgundy with a limping step, Louis of Bourbon limping too – how halt the descendants of Saint Louis were! – left the room. Tall Philippe followed his wife looking like a pointer that has failed to flush the game.

  For a moment or two Robert of Artois spoke quietly to the Bishop of Beauvais, who gently rubbed his elegant hands together.

  A moment later Robert was on his way back to his room by the cloister of the guest house. There was a shadow sitting between two pillars, a woman staring out into the night.

  ‘Happy dreams, Monseigneur of Artois.’

  The drawling, ironic voice belonged to the Countess Mahaut’s lady-in-waiting, Béatrice d’Hirson, who was sitting there, apparently in a reverie, and awaiting what? Robert’s coming of course; and he was well aware of it. She got to her feet, stretched herself, stood outlined under the arch, took a step forward, then another, her hips swaying and her dress trailing over the stone.

  ‘What are you doing here, my fine wench?’ said Robert.

  She did not answer directly, but turned her face up to the stars and said: ‘It’s a beautiful night, and a pity to sleep alone. Sleep is slow in coming in such warm weather …’

  Robert of Artois went close to her, gazed down into her long eyes that shone so defiantly in the dark, placed his huge hand on her buttocks – and then quickly withdrew it, shaking his fingers as if he had burned himself.

  ‘My pretty Béatrice,’ he cried laughing, ‘be off to the pond and cool your bum, before you burst into flames!’

  His coarseness of speech and gesture made Béatrice tremble. She had long b
een awaiting an opportunity to seduce the giant. For she knew that from then on Monseigneur Robert would be at the mercy of the Countess Mahaut, and she, Béatrice, would at long last have at least satisfied a desire. But it was not to be tonight.

  Robert had more important things to do. He went to his apartments and entered the bedroom of the Countess, his wife. She sat up in bed. She was naked, for she always slept thus in summer. Robert, with the very same hand with which a moment before he had stroked Beatrice’s bottom, automatically caressed a breast that indeed belonged to him by marriage; but it was merely a way of saying good night. The Countess of Beaumont was far from being excited by this caress, but she was amused by it; she was always amused by her giant of a husband and by wondering what was going on in his mind. Robert of Artois subsided into a chair. He stretched out his huge legs, raised them from time to time, and let them fall back, heels together.

  ‘Aren’t you coming to bed, Robert?’

  ‘No, my dear, no. I’m even going to leave you for Paris shortly, as soon as these monks have stopped singing in their church.’

  The Countess smiled.

  ‘My dear, don’t you think my sister of Hainaut might give Isabella asylum for a while to give her time to assemble her forces?’

  ‘I was thinking that, my beautiful Countess, I was thinking just that.’

  Madame of Beaumont was reassured; her husband was bound to win.

  It was not so much Isabella’s service that got Robert of Artois to horse that night as his hatred of Mahaut. The bitch wanted to oppose him, harm those he protected and recover her influence with the King, did she? She’d see who had the last word.

  He went and shook his valet, Lormet, awake.

  ‘Go and get three horses saddled. And warn my equerry and a sergeant-at-arms.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Lormet.

  ‘No, not you, you can go back to sleep.’

  This was pure kindness on Robert’s part. The years were beginning to weigh heavily on his old companion in misdeeds, who was at once bodyguard, strangler and nurse. Lormet was beginning to be short of breath and the mists of early morning did him no good. He grumbled. Since he wasn’t needed what was the good of waking him? But he would have grumbled still more if he had had to go with them.

  The horses were soon saddled; the equerry was yawning and the sergeant-at-arms getting into his equipment.

  ‘To horse,’ said Robert; ‘this is going to be something of a ride.’

  Sitting well down in the saddle, he kept to a walking pace as he left the Abbey by the farm and the out-buildings. Then, as soon as they reached the expanse of sand that stretched lonely and brightly gleaming amid the white birch trees under the night, a real landscape for fairies, he spurred his horse into a gallop. They went by Dammartin, Mitry, Aulnay and Saint-Ouen, a four hours’ gallop with a few breaks to breathe their horses and one halt at an inn, which was open at night to serve market-gardeners’ wagoners.

  Dawn was not yet breaking when they reached the Palace of the Cité. The guard allowed the King’s first councillor to pass in. Robert went straight up to the Queen’s apartments, stepping over the sleeping servants in the corridors, crossed the women’s room, while they squawked like frightened hens and cried: ‘Madame! Madame!’ But the giant had already passed on.

  Roger Mortimer was in bed with the Queen. A night-light was burning in a corner of the room.

  ‘And it’s so that they may sleep in each other’s arms that I’ve galloped through the night; and fast enough to take the skin off my arse!’ Robert thought.

  As soon as they had got over the first moment of surprise and the candles had been lit, all embarrassment was forgotten in the urgency of the moment.

  Robert informed the two lovers as quickly as he could of what had been decided at Chaâlis and was being plotted against them. As he listened and asked questions, Mortimer was dressing in front of Robert of Artois with that complete naturalness which is usual among soldiers. Nor did the presence of his mistress appear to embarrass him; they were obviously quite used to living together.

  ‘My advice to you, my friends, is to leave at once,’ Robert said, ‘and to go to the territory of the Empire where you will be out of danger. You must both go, and take young Edward with you, and perhaps Cromwell, Alspaye and Maltravers, but not too many, so as not to slow you down. You should make for Hainaut, and I’ll send a courier on ahead of you. The good Count Guillaume and his brother Jean are both great and loyal lords, feared by their enemies, loved by their friends, of great good sense and of perfect honour. The Countess, my wife, will write to her sister on your behalf. It’s the best refuge you can find at the moment. Our friend Kent, whom I shall warn, will join you by way of Ponthieu, to assemble the knights you have gathered there. And the rest is in God’s hands. I’ll see that Tolomei continues to send you funds; anyway, he can do nothing else now. Increase the numbers of your troops, do your best, and fight! Oh, if the Kingdom of France were not so important, and I could afford to leave my aunt’s wickedness a free hand, I’d willingly go with you.’

  ‘Turn your back, Cousin, I’m going to dress,’ said Isabella.

  ‘What, Cousin, no reward? Does that rascal Roger want to keep everything to himself?’ said Robert, as he obeyed. ‘The lucky dog!’

  For once, his broad jokes did not seem shocking; indeed, there was something very reassuring about his ability to joke in a crisis. Though he was considered so wicked, he was capable of kindness; and his indecency of speech was sometimes merely a mask for a certain modesty of sentiment.

  ‘I owe you my life, Robert,’ Isabella said.

  ‘One good turn deserves another, Cousin, one good turn deserves another! You never can tell!’ he called over his shoulder.

  He saw a bowl of fruit laid out on a table ready for the lovers; he seized a peach, took a great bite out of it, and the golden juice poured down his chin.

  There was a hurrying to and fro in the corridors, equerries were running to the stables, messengers going off to the English lords who lodged in the town, and the women were quickly packing light travelling-trunks with what they needed; there was a great bustle and stir in all this part of the Palace.

  ‘Don’t go by Senlis,’ said Robert, his mouth full of his twelfth peach. ‘Our good Sire Charles is too close to it and might have you followed. Go by Beauvais and Amiens.’

  Their goodbyes were hasty; dawn was just beginning to light up the steeple of the Sainte-Chapelle and the escort was waiting in the courtyard. Isabella went to the window; for a moment she was overwhelmed by emotion at the sight of the garden, the river and the nearness of the rumpled bed in which she had known the happiest time of her life. Fifteen months had passed since that first morning when she had breathed, on this very spot, that marvellous scent which spring broadcasts when one is in love. Roger Mortimer put his hand on her shoulder and the Queen’s lips bent towards it.

  Soon the horses’ hooves were ringing out in the streets of the Cité, then on the Pont-au-Change and towards the north.

  Monseigneur Robert of Artois went to his house. By the time the King heard of his sister’s flight, she would have been out of reach for some time; and Mahaut would have to be bled and purged so as not to be choked by a flux of blood. ‘Ah, my good bitch!’ he thought. Now Robert could sleep, as heavily as an ox, till the bells rang out at noon.

  PART FOUR

  THE CRUEL INVASION

  1

  Harwich

  THE SEAGULLS WERE CRYING and circling the ships’ masts, searching for refuse thrown overboard. The fleet was approaching the port of Harwich, with its wooden mole and line of low houses, on the estuary into which flow the Orwell and the Stour.

  Two of the smaller ships had already gone alongside and disembarked a company of archers to ensure that all was quiet in the neighbourhood; the coast did not appear to be guarded. There had been some slight confusion on the quay where the inhabitants, who had gathered to watch so many sail lying offshore, had fled w
hen they saw the soldiers landing; but they had soon been reassured and the crowd gathered again.

  The Queen’s ship, wearing the long pennant embroidered with the lilies of France and the leopards of England at the peak, was steady on her course. Eighteen ships from Holland were following her. The crews, under the orders of the master mariners, were taking in sail; the long oars appeared along the ships’ sides, like wing-feathers suddenly deployed, to assist in working the ships into port.

  Standing on the sterncastle, the Queen of England, surrounded by her son Prince Edward, the Earl of Kent, Roger Mortimer, Messire Jean de Hainaut and several other English and Dutch lords, watched the working of the ships and the shores of her kingdom growing ever nearer.

  For the first time since his escape Roger Mortimer was not dressed in black. He was not wearing a full suit of armour with a closed helm, but merely the harness for forays, a helmet without visor to which was attached the mail camail which hung down over neck and shoulders and a mail hauberk over which floated his surcoat of red and blue brocade, embroidered with his emblems.

  The Queen was similarly attired, her fair slender face framed in steel; her skirt trailed to the ground but beneath it she was wearing greaves of mail like the men.

  And young Prince Edward was also dressed for war. He had grown taller these last months and almost begun to look like a man. He was watching the seagulls which, so it seemed to him, were the same, and with the same hoarse cries and greedy beaks, as those that had attended the departure of the fleet from the mouth of the Meuse.

  The birds reminded him of Holland. Indeed, everything, the grey sea, the grey sky with a few faint lines of pink, the quayside with its little brick houses, where they were soon to land, the green, rolling country with its lakes behind Harwich, all reminded him of the Dutch countryside and made him turn his thoughts back to Holland. But had he come to a desert of stones and sand under a flaming sky, he would still have thought, by contrast, of the landscapes of Brabant, Ostrevant and Hainaut which he had so recently left. The fact was that Monseigneur Edward, Duke of Aquitaine and heir to the throne of England, had fallen in love in Holland at the age of fourteen years and nine months.