The Queen's Daughter Page 4

  Joan especially liked the way Papa told the story. He ended it there. Mama emphasized the consequences.

  As duke of Normandy and count of Anjou, Papa was still King Louis’s vassal. Mama was too, since Aquitaine was still a French duchy. They could not refuse to pay homage. What kind of example would that set for their own vassals? But Papa did not believe a king should bow to a king. While Joan had been in Fontevrault, Papa and King Louis had almost come to war more than once. Not even the dual marriage alliance, Henry wed to Margaret and Richard betrothed to Alice, could secure peace between two such bitter rivals.

  So four years ago, Papa had settled the contentious issue of homage by yielding the French fiefs to his sons. Henry became count of Anjou and duke of Normandy. Richard became duke of Aquitaine and count of Poitou. The county of Brittany went to Geoffrey. The boys paid homage to King Louis; since then, there had been an uneasy truce.

  Joan scratched lines in the dust on the floor. Henry was not just a sworn vassal of France, he was also King Louis’s son-in-law. Just how friendly were Henry and the French king? If Henry asked for France’s support, would there be war? Suddenly, horrible questions stretched out before her, leading where she did not want to follow. If Henry fought Papa, whose part would Richard take? And then Mama—

  Beware your wife and your sons.

  Joan whispered, “No.” She clasped her trembling hands and forced her mind to reason. Richard was content ruling Aquitaine. And Geoffrey was just fourteen—he would not commit treason on Henry’s behalf.

  The count of Toulouse wanted only to sow discord in her family. His words had no meaning.

  Yet, where was Henry?

  Slumping against the wall, Joan fought to hold back her tears. Could she ask Richard? Did he know Henry’s plans?

  Bells chimed and echoed through the corridors, calling the household to supper. Joan jumped up and rubbed her cheeks with her sleeve. She didn’t dare be late.

  She ran through the empty gallery, slowing when she reached the door to the great hall. There, Agnes stood beside Charisse, wringing her hands.

  “I’m here. Agnes, I’m here.”

  Agnes saw her. “Oh, child,” she said, reaching out an arm to envelop her. “Please tell me where you are going before you disappear.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Your face is filthy.” She dabbed at it with a handkerchief. “Let me see your hands.” Joan turned up her palms, and Agnes sighed. “Come along. It’s too late to wash you.”

  She followed Agnes to a low table, relieved she would not be on display while she dined. Looking across the room, she saw her mother at the head table, sitting between two of Papa’s Normans—men she knew Mama did not like. Charisse slipped into place behind the queen.

  At the opposite end of the table, her father sat beside the French princess. Alice was fourteen, sweet-faced, and starting to blossom. Papa had taken her as his ward years ago when her betrothal to Richard was first arranged. Alice lived in Poitiers, but Papa often summoned her to Chinon. She became haughtier with each passing year, and Joan was glad Richard snubbed her. She wished Papa would snub her, too; but he still took her onto his lap as if she were a child.

  The line of courtiers entering the hall began to taper off. Joan squinted, confused. Too many chairs remained empty. Too many chairs—

  She whipped her head around to look at her father; her chest ached as she drew in a breath. He rose but leaned one palm on the table. His eyes bulged with the tension in his clenched jaw. Joan followed the direction of his gaze back to the gaping vacancies at the table.

  Richard and Geoffrey were not there.

  The room buzzed with confusion. Joan felt danger closing in.

  The queen stood also, and her voice cut through the whispers like the sharp edge of broken glass. “Richard and Geoffrey will not make war on their brother. Nor will they break their oath to their sworn lord, the king of France.”

  All eyes focused on the king and queen. Her mother’s back was as rigid as the wall behind her. Her powdered white face glowed beneath her dark veil. The wide, deep-blue sleeves of her robe fell like folded wings over her clasped hands. If not for her mother’s perfect calm, Joan would not have been surprised to see her fly to the ceiling like Melusine.

  “They have returned to Poitiers,” Eleanor said.

  Relief washed King Henry’s face clean of fury, as though he had wiped it with a wet cloth. Joan stifled her cry. Richard and Geoffrey had not gone to France, but her father’s relief meant he believed they might have.

  He stood straighter and said in a deep, measured voice, “I would not ask my sons to kill each other. Did I build this kingdom so they might tear it apart?” His harsh laughter flooded the room. “Join your frightened children in Poitiers. I have no need of you here.”

  Joan’s eyes burned. John sobbed loudly, but she was too old to cry in an assembly.

  The queen nodded. “As you will, sire.”

  The corners of her mouth turned up and her lids lowered as she took her seat at the table. The king let out so long a breath he seemed to deflate. He sat down with force, scowling.

  Joan wondered which of her parents had won.

  T H R E E

  KING HENRY II OF ENGLAND WAS KNOWN THROUGHOUT Christendom for his energy and the speed of his military campaigns. Men who had fought against him told cautionary tales of his armies appearing from nowhere, in far-flung locations, after traveling distances that should have been impossible. One duke’s sarcastic complaint—“his steeds have wings”—had been repeated until it gained a strange credibility.

  But Joan knew her father’s horses possessed no wings.

  The previous dawn, four days after Richard and Geoffrey’s flight, she had climbed into a small wain with Agnes and four lady’s maids from Chinon. All day and all night they swayed and lurched, suffering the grinding screech of the axles and bumping over rocks in the road. They ate soldiers’ rations tossed into the cart by an unseen cook. If her father covered ground quickly, it was because he never stopped moving.

  Sleep eluded her throughout the long night, though she tried every trick, even piling blankets beneath her head until she nearly sat up straight, which didn’t prevent her teeth from clacking together every time a wheel met a hole. The wain was loud with the creaking of the wheels, the rustling of the canvas roof, and the moaning of unfamiliar maids.

  She was exhausted and stiff. Worse, she felt abandoned. Her elder brothers had left her behind, and her father had packed the still-weeping John off to Fontevrault as soon as the queen’s cortege rattled out of Chinon’s gate. Joan didn’t know why he had not sent her to Fontevrault also, or to Poitiers with Mama. And she was too frightened to ask.

  They were on their way northeast to the castle of Verneuil in Normandy—four days’ journey from Chinon and less than a day from the French border. Bishop Gilbert of London and Bishop Jocelyn of Sarum had gone ahead to Paris to ask King Louis to return the wayward son to his father. There was half a hope the pious French king would be sympathetic. Even so, her father intended to reinforce his petition by positioning an army in Verneuil.

  There was no longer any doubt that the young king had gone to the French court. Two days ago, Henry’s chancellor and chamberlain had returned to Chinon. They said they had deserted him at the bank of the Loire when they saw he would not be dissuaded from his treasonous course.

  Joan rolled onto her back and watched the black of the waxed russet roof lighten to gray. She heard the cooing and whooping of birds. Then hoofbeats alerted her to movement outside the wain. The wheels ceased rolling. The curtains parted, allowing a sliver of pale light to cut across the floor of the cart.

  “Joan, girl?” Her father’s voice was husky with his attempted whisper. He thrust his hand through the folds of cloth. “You’re awake? Come to the curtain.”

  Joan scrambled across protesting soft bodies. Her knees slipped from blankets and flesh to the hard wooden floor. She pushed her head outside and drew in
a breath of fresh air. The trees were budding, but the dawn air was cold and frost glistened on the ground.

  Her father held out his hand. When she had twisted halfway through the tangled cloth, he wrapped his arm around her waist and hauled her onto his saddle. Her skirts bunched beneath her thighs; she squirmed to smooth the wrinkles. He loosened his grip and wrapped his cloak around her, enveloping her in warmth.

  “Did you sleep?” he asked. She shook her head. “No? Neither did I.” His deep chuckle bounced her against his stomach. “In a few hours, we’ll rest the horses and eat. Do you want to ride with me until then?”

  “Oh! Yes, Papa!”

  He spurred forward to rejoin his knights. Joan peered from the cloak. She recognized several of the faces. Sir Rufus’s brother was there; she shrank behind the cloth. No one smiled a greeting. They looked tired and serious.

  Her father needed less sleep than most men. His voice held no trace of fatigue. He pointed out landmarks and remarked on the hunting. Then he dropped to a confidential tone, a teaching tone, to make sure she took note of her surroundings. See the way the breeze stirred the trees. Smell the faint acrid hint of smoke. A soldier should take note of odors that did not belong to the locale. If there wasn’t a village nearby, an enemy camp might be hidden in the woods.

  She nestled against him, knowing he talked to hear his own words of wisdom. He taught his sons the same way, but his sons were not there.

  He pointed out an eagle’s nest. She leaned back to look and almost fell from the saddle. He gripped her arm.

  “Remember to keep your weight centered. You know better.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Her face felt hot. His lessons ceased. When he did not deign to talk to her for the next few miles, she regretted the silence.

  “Joan, girl? You haven’t lost Tessie again, have you?”

  Her heart thumped. Now she wished the silence had not ended. “No, Papa. She’s in the wain.”

  “Tell me, how did the young lord of Toulouse happen to gain possession of your doll?”

  “I dropped her in the courtyard. Some boys were teasing me, and Lord Raymond chased them. I…he said he found Tessie after I left.”

  Her father coughed then cleared his throat.

  “You were with Amaria when she talked to the boy, weren’t you.” It didn’t sound like a question, but he waited for her answer.

  “Amaria didn’t talk to him. I did.” She felt his arms about her stiffen.

  “I wondered. Will you tell me what you two discussed?”

  “I asked him what the count said to you. You looked so angry, I was afraid.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me what he heard. His father said you should beware of Mama and Henry.”

  “Henry?”

  She could envision the crooking of his eyebrow, like a drawn bow, and was glad she did not have to look him in the face.

  “He said ‘your son.’”

  The crunch of the horse’s hooves on the hard dirt sounded loud. Her father’s heart sounded loud, too, or maybe it was her own. She should have told the whole truth.

  “So, you reported this to your mother.”

  “Amaria did. But I would have. I was frightened. I didn’t know what he meant, and I wanted to know.”

  “Did your mother explain?”

  “No.” Again, silence fell. It lasted so long, Joan decided she preferred the sound of talk, after all. “I suppose I know now.”

  “Do you?”

  “Henry has gone to France. If he doesn’t come home, you will fight him.”

  “Mmm,” he said. Then, “Hmph,” as if considering something. With one hand, he tucked the cloak tighter. “Is there anything else you would like to confess to me?”

  “No, Papa. Mama doesn’t tell me anything, either.” She said this so woefully, it sounded ridiculous. But it had a surprising effect. Her father laughed.

  “Your mother likes to play with secrets, doesn’t she? But you and I don’t like secrets. Perhaps it is because we have nothing to conceal. Honest people don’t need to keep secrets. Remember that, Joan, my girl.”

  “Yes, Papa.” She wondered what else he wanted her to say.

  “Shall we make a pact? An honest one? I won’t conceal things from you, if you don’t keep anything from me.”

  “I wouldn’t,” she protested. He must know she would never plot—

  “You would if you thought I might hurt Henry.”

  Joan frowned, confused.

  Over her head, he continued. “I don’t blame you. My girl, I swear to you, none of your brothers has anything to fear from me. I would let them strike me down dead before I would harm one hair of their precious hides. Henry will come home. I will forgive him. But I will kill anyone who stands in the way of our reconciliation. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  She did understand. Moreover, she believed him. Papa wanted what was best for them. So did Mama. Only…she didn’t think they agreed what was best.

  THREE BURGHS BOUND TOGETHER BY COMMON OUTER WALLS made up the city of Verneuil. Each was enclosed by a separate inner wall and a deep dry trench. Craftsmen and tradesmen lived in the East Burgh. The Lesser Burgh housed wealthier townsmen and clerics. King Henry’s men would be in the Great Burgh, which was dominated by the castle keep and its outbuildings. The Great Burgh had the highest walls and backed against the River Avre.

  From her perch in her father’s saddle, Joan listened to his talk of the city as they approached. He called the castle impregnable, then laughed and excepted the time he’d besieged it.

  Once inside, Joan immediately decided that she had never seen an uglier castle. Small windows were set so deep in the thick gray walls of the keep she felt entombed. Adjacent to the keep, joined to it by a covered walkway, was a three-story tower. The upper two floors were subdivided by wattle-and-daub partitions into tiny chambers all packed with men waiting to make war on her brother. She waited, too, wondering if her father would be true to his word.

  After a fortnight, the bishops returned from France. Her father allowed her to sit in the back of the council chamber while they made their report.

  “Sire, there is no good news,” the portly Bishop Gilbert stated. “When we presented King Louis with your message, he said, ‘Who is it that makes this request?’ We repeated, ‘the king of England.’”

  Bishop Jocelyn took up the tale, frowning so worriedly a ladder of creases ascended his forehead and disappeared under his miter. “He said, ‘That cannot be, for the king of England is here with me. But if his father, who was once king of England, still claims the title, let him be made aware the whole world knows he resigned his kingdom to his son.’ And then he dismissed us, sire. We had no opportunity to speak to the young king.”

  Joan bit her lip. It was King Louis’s fault! Surely, if Henry had been allowed to hear the bishops, he would have repented.

  Her father ground his teeth. “The king of France fancies himself a wit.”

  Bishop Jocelyn’s wrinkled face shook with earnestness. “Sire, I urge you to look to the security of your castles and people. Your son has drawn you into conflict with France.”

  Her father nodded. “We are prepared. My son will learn a lesson about war.”

  JOAN, TOO, LEARNED ABOUT WAR. THE FIRST LESSON WAS THAT a man renowned for quickness must also know when to be patient. Her father hired several hundred mercenaries and told them to wait. For three weeks, he met with messenger after messenger, men eager to curry favor by bringing bad news. Vassals all over Anjou, Limousin, and Angoulême rose up to lay waste to his strongholds, but he scoffed at suggestions that he subdue them.

  “Richard can deal with the local barons. Should I scatter my army throughout the realm seeking troublemakers while King Louis invades Normandy?” He would deal with traitors after he had brought Henry to heel.

  The second lesson was a bitter one: Trust no one. A lesson doubly learned.

  Shortly after Easter, Joan found out Richard and Geoffrey h
ad joined Henry in France. Not only that, but Richard had been knighted at King Louis’s hand. The French king’s vassals vowed to assist the young king in expelling his father. And the three princes swore they would make no peace with their father without France’s consent.

  It put her father in a terrible temper. Joan felt it best to stay out of his way. But one night as she was readying for bed, a knock on the door interrupted her prayers—a summons from the king. Joan recognized her escort—Sir Robert of Chenowith, one of Papa’s closest advisers. He appeared uncomfortable and did not speak as they walked. He opened the door to the king’s chamber but did not go inside.

  Her father sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. He raised it at her approach. The skin beneath his eyes sagged. The chancellor Geoffrey Ridel was present also. Joan didn’t like him. His eyes and lips were yellow-hued, and he always smelled like horse urine. She made a point of wrinkling her nose as she walked past him to the bedside.

  Papa said, “She was raising all of Poitou and Aquitaine in Richard’s name and her own, Joan.” Joan stared. Did he mean Mama? His voice turned harsh and he spoke past her. “The devil take her, I’d gladly hand her over myself.”

  “Sire,” interrupted Chancellor Ridel, “it is treason, plain and simple. Treason is punishable—”

  “I know how to punish treason.” He pounded his hand against his thigh, sounding angry and weary all at once. “That is not the issue.”

  She’d arrived in the middle of their conference. The king and chancellor were not yet finished arguing. But her father had sent for her.

  “Papa, what happened?”

  “Your mother was taken by agents of mine.”

  “Taken? Why?” Joan stomped her foot, though she would rather have thrown herself on the floor and wailed. Mama’s vassals in Aquitaine and Poitou had old quarrels against her father. If they chose to rebel now, it showed only that they knew how to seize opportunity.

  “She was riding with a light guard.” He spoke with a brittle patience that made her think he’d planned exactly what to say. “They caught her halfway to the French border, disguised in men’s clothes. If you have a more benign interpretation of these facts, you’re welcome to put it forth for my consideration.”