The Queen's Daughter Page 5

  She turned her head. Her father’s face was a blur. The young lord of Toulouse had said they would rob her of her innocence. He’d said it as if innocence were a good thing. What a fool.

  “What will you do to her?”

  “She’s been imprisoned.”

  “Where?”

  “That is a secret.”

  “A secret?” She blinked, but the tears rolled down her cheeks. “A secret, Papa?”

  “Your brothers mustn’t know where she is.”

  “Do you think I would tell them?”

  “Ah, Joan, girl.” He caressed her chin with one finger. “Of course you would. This way, you will not have to tell.” He stood, putting his hand on her back and pointing her to the door.

  She walked away, her legs stiff as pikes. Sir Robert pushed the heavy door open when she pulled on the handle. As she passed through, she heard the chancellor’s voice.

  “I told you it was a mistake, sire. She’s proven useless as a hostage. Why would holding her curb the queen’s treachery? You’ve been more conscientious of her care than her mother would have been. And you can’t believe her brothers care a whit—”

  Sir Robert yanked the door shut.

  QUEEN ELEANOR HAD SAID MEN NEEDED SWORDS TO FIGHT, but women had better weapons. What would she say now? Know your enemies? Joan didn’t even know whose side she was supposed to be on.

  In May 1173, the count of Flanders invaded the Norman–French border at Pacy. Joan did not need her father to keep her informed—with all the excitement in Verneuil even the lowliest stableboy knew the young king and Duke Richard were with the count.

  With Geoffrey under his wing, King Louis brought the French army to the Norman Vexin. A buffer between France and Normandy, the Vexin had been Princess Margaret’s dowry. Joan knew some might say Louis was within his rights to claim it for his son-in-law, but they wouldn’t say it in front of King Henry. The French took the first castle late in June.

  Papa yelled at everyone. She expected him to leave—half hoped he would—but instead he dispatched his mercenaries against the count of Flanders’s men.

  When the mercenaries drove the Flemish from Pacy, the count moved to the Vexin to join King Louis. The combined armies headed west to Driencourt where they succeeded in capturing another of Papa’s castles. But during the short siege, the count’s brother was killed by a crossbow bolt. The count returned home to settle his brother’s affairs. Papa laughed at his haste to abandon the French cause, then announced it was time to take his own knights to the field.

  A celebration was held on the eve of the army’s departure. The great hall was so crowded Joan feared she’d be trampled. The king appeared at the start of the feast. His eyes shone with enthusiasm—as if war were no different than a hunt.

  The celebrants quieted to hear the chaplain’s brief blessing. When he finished, shouting erupted once more. Apparently the promise of bloodshed sent spirits soaring—her father’s included. Boasting of old battles and basking in compliments, he hadn’t sounded so jovial for a long while.

  The table grew slippery with spilled wine. Papa ate three puddings, but Joan felt ill and barely touched the food. How could he be so excited when they were fighting her brothers and only one side could win?

  AS SOON AS KING HENRY TOOK HIS ARMY TO RELIEVE Driencourt, King Louis descended upon Verneuil. Within four days, the French army had pitched camp outside the Great Burgh, decorating the rolling green hills with colorful tents and banners, patchworked with clearings for horses. Carts formed a semicircular wall to the rear. In a fanciful mood, Joan might have pretended a fair had come to Verneuil, but this was no time for fancy.

  From the ramparts, she watched a crowd of soldiers struggle to push a war engine into position—a trebuchet, she guessed—an ugly thing of beams and ropes and chains. She tamped down her dread. Hugh, lord of Verneuil, promised the wall would hold a long while. Young Henry’s banner fluttered amidst those of King Louis’s other vassals. The hot July wind carried the scent of pitch and French smoke.

  Sir Robert found her. She watched him approach; he grimaced all the while.

  “Princess, don’t come up here alone.”

  “Where is Richard? I don’t see Aquitaine’s standard.”

  “We think he has gone to rally the Poitevin rebels.”

  “Will my father go to Poitou after Driencourt?”

  “I expect he will come here first.”

  “Why?” She lifted her chin defiantly. “We are well fortified. Lord Hugh says we can defend Verneuil until winter.”

  His expression softened. “Listen to you, Stout-Heart. Who is ‘we’?”

  She sniffed, annoyed by his condescension.

  “If King Louis attacks,” he continued more seriously, “we can defend ourselves. But he doesn’t have to fight, he just has to wait. We depleted the town’s food stores, sojourning here so long.” He hesitated before adding, “The garrison is strong, but I have doubts about the burghers. If they decide to open the gates—”

  “Open the gates? My father will boil them alive.”

  “If they are starving, they might be willing to risk boiling.”

  Surely they would not surrender while sheltering King Henry’s daughter. Scowling to hide her anxiety, she demanded, “Did my father instruct you to frighten me?”

  “He instructed me to see to your safety. If it comes to it, we’ll sue for your safe passage to Fontevrault. You’ll be safe with the nuns.” The knight bit off a piece of his thumbnail, his face doubtful.

  “What else is wrong? You may as well tell me. You know I’ll find out.”

  “Nothing.” He sighed. “Only the enemy is not supposed to know you are here. Your father was worried they might try to take you hos…hostage.” He blushed faintly.

  The word made her cold; his reluctant acknowledgment of what they’d overheard embarrassed them both.

  “They’d have to take Verneuil first.”

  In a rush, Sir Robert said, “Lady, I know the young king. He would clear a path in his own ranks with his sword to let you walk through.”

  “That is kind of you to say.” She turned away and stared at Henry’s banner so Robert would not see her eyes tear. “They still have to take Verneuil first.”

  ON AUGUST 6, ONE MONTH INTO THE SIEGE, THE HUNGRY burghers begged the French for permission to send to King Henry for food. If he refused, they promised to surrender the city. King Louis agreed on the condition they surrender in three days’ time if relief had not arrived. Sir Robert was forced to negotiate Joan’s safe passage to the nunnery, although Joan begged for, and received, the same three days’ grace.

  On August 9, the king of England appeared on a hilltop overlooking Verneuil. Joan heard that the army he’d managed to march was half the size of the French force, but King Louis did not make time for a head count. As they fled, his men set fire to the Lesser Burgh and grabbed what prisoners they could.

  Joan watched from the ramparts again. Sir Robert had led the garrison from the castle to join King Henry; they chased the French back toward the border. She could see small pillars of smoke far in the distance. For a while, she thought she heard shouting, but then she didn’t hear anything. After a time, she descended the stairs and went back inside to wait for her father.

  The next morning, she found him. She walked alongside, half running, as he headed for the dining hall.

  “Did you see Henry?”

  He spat on the floor. “Fine company he keeps. Men with fast horses.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  “He wasn’t hurt?”

  “Henry is a fast rider himself.” He stopped and put his hands on her shoulders. “But look at you, standing your ground. Should I hang Sir Robert or put him in prison and forget to feed him?”

  She shrugged off his hands, furious he would tease when she had been so worried, hurt he had not come to talk to her.

  “Are you angry with him for letting Henry know I was here? Or for
not letting Henry know sooner?”

  He grunted and started walking again. “For letting your whining supersede my orders.”

  Joan dug in her heels. “Next time you should make your orders clearer.”

  “God’s feet!” He whirled about so abruptly, she flinched. “Your mother must be mute since you’ve stolen her tongue. There won’t be a next time. Tomorrow you go to Fontevrault.”

  “Papa! But…but…that isn’t fair!”

  He rolled his eyes—to Joan, a worse chastisement than a cuffing. Yet instead of scolding her, he muttered, “This is the damnedest war I’ve ever fought. It is hard enough to do battle without injuring my adversaries, and now I have to keep one eye on them and the other on you. Do you want me to lose?”

  She waited a moment before answering sulkily, “No, Papa.”

  “Then help me, Joan, girl.” He stepped closer. With one finger he lifted her chin. “Go to Fontevrault with a smile.”

  JOAN WENT TO THE ABBEY FEIGNING A SMILE, BUT HER FATHER asked too much if he expected her to continue pretending contentment. Summer passed and autumn came and still the king fought his sons. Joan grew weary waiting for letters that never arrived.

  When the abbess sent for her, Joan tiptoed into the parlor, expecting only another reprimand for fidgeting during mass. Sir Robert stood by the window.

  “Princess.” He made a small bow. There was more gray in his hair, and his face was brown with sun. She looked at his fine-fingered hands. The nails were well kempt. He smiled at her. She breathed—the news was good.

  “Sir Robert, I’m glad to see you.”

  “You’ve grown an inch, Princess Joan. You’ll be as tall as Richard.”

  She frowned. Agnes had just finished letting out her hems. The nurse told her no man wanted a wife taller than he was, as if she could control her own growth.

  “How is my father?”

  “Hearty. He sends his love.”

  “And my brothers?”

  “No doubt repentant. Alive, despite their best efforts to get themselves killed.”

  “And my mother?”

  The smile left his face. “That, I don’t know.”

  “She is alive?” Blood pounded in her ears. If he said he didn’t know, she would faint.

  “Yes, of course she’s alive. The witch will outlive us all.”

  “Thank you, Lord God,” she whispered. She would stop fidgeting in church. “How goes the war?”

  “You can’t imagine how those words sound coming from your little mouth. You are how old, Princess, seven?”

  “I’ll be eight next month. The twelfth of October.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s right. I knew I was here for a reason. Your father has a present for you.”

  “Where?” Her eyes darted to the shadows behind him. She heard him laugh.

  “Not here. In Gisors.”

  The kings of England and France traditionally made their peace treaties in Gisors, under a tall, spreading elm tree.

  “Under the elm tree,” Sir Robert said, echoing her thoughts.

  “Oh, Robert! My father has won!”

  “He is winning. He asked your brothers to meet him, and they have agreed. Will you come?”

  In answer to his question, she threw her arms around his waist and embraced him.

  ON SEPTEMBER 25, 1173, AN UNSEASONABLY CHILL WIND BLEW in Gisors. Joan sat atop a hill on a high, cushioned chair, with a pelt across her lap for warmth. Agnes had opted to stay in their tent at the foot of the hill. Four knights attended Joan—one was a handsome young man named Sir Walter. She knew him because of his father, also Sir Walter, who was often called to the king’s council. Papa spoke of the elder Sir Walter as one of the few sensible men in England. He was the lord of Sarum, a faraway place on the chalk downs of Wiltshire. Joan had once asked Mama what a chalk down was, and Mama pursed her lips and answered there was no reason to know.

  From her perch, Joan could see the elm tree. If it had not been so windy, words might have reached her; today she could only sit and watch.

  Her brothers rode to the parley three abreast, Richard tall and fair and straight-backed. She thought he might be taller than their father if they stood side by side. Henry dismounted and stood with his arms crossed. She could not see his face. Geoffrey stepped to Richard’s side, bumping him and not moving away—he must be terrified of Papa. King Louis’s vassals crowded beside them; Louis kept back a pace.

  Her father’s company looked finer. They flew England’s banner high, as well as those of Anjou, Poitiers, Normandy, and Aquitaine.

  She wished she could hear something, or at least see the men’s expressions. Everyone stood so still it was impossible to tell if anything was being said. Joan shivered under her wraps and wished her brothers would hurry and concede.

  She saw a great shifting of men. The treacherous earl of Leicester, who had allied with King Louis early in the war, now broke from the French ranks. He was waving his arms in the air, and she could hear a faint voice. He must be shouting.

  “Oh!” Joan jumped up. Had the earl drawn his sword? She could see nothing in the confusion. Guards encircled her.

  “Come back to the tents,” young Walter said and grabbed her arm.

  “I want to see my father.”

  “I said come!” Walter slung her over his shoulder. She beat on his back while he hauled her down the hill to the camp. In front of the tent, red-faced from the effort and breathing hard, he dropped her to her feet.

  “What happened? Tell me!” She wondered if he was making her a prisoner. But that was silly—she was Papa’s prisoner already.

  “Be quiet, girl. Go inside.” He shoved her.

  She stumbled inside, and Agnes rushed toward her. “Joan! What is it?”

  She wrapped her arms around Agnes’s waist and sobbed. Over the shouting of men and the whinnying of horses, she could hear young Walter yelling to someone that she was safe.

  Sir Robert came to the tent. Agnes brushed the stray wet hair from Joan’s eyes.

  “What happened?” Joan asked.

  He started to stretch a hand to her and then pulled back as though remembering his place. Hollow-voiced, he said, “King Louis won’t let your brothers make peace.”

  F O U R

  KING HENRY VISITED FONTEVRAULT JUST ONCE DURING the winter. Joan waited impatiently while he spent two days with John before coming to see her.

  She thought Gisors had aged him. He was growing stout. He rambled over dinner, seeming not to notice the meager plate the nuns had provided, their usual meatless fare. Fighting had resumed immediately after the conference; this time, England was not spared. The earl of Leicester invaded from the south, and King William of Scotland attacked from the north, but her father’s English subjects remained steadfast. He had been able to divide his time between Normandy and Poitou and let England see to itself. He told her Richard had tried to take the port town of La Rochelle. When that failed, he took the riverside city of Saintes.

  “It was a good plan, taking Saintes.” He scratched his beard and looked over her head. “If I were a little older, and he were a little older…” He bent his gaze back to hers. “If it was five years hence, Joan, girl, I’d tell you to put your eggs in Richard’s basket.”

  He would say no more about the war, except that they’d agreed to a truce until spring. He was spending the winter in Poitiers. Joan asked after her mother, but he took a large bite of bread and chewed a long time. When he spoke again, it was of something else.

  Before leaving, he kissed her head and told her to be good. As if she had any choice in Fontevrault.

  He returned in mid-May.

  The fighting had been heavy early in the spring, but now the rebels were cooling their heels. She thought her father was preoccupied. He talked little but paced quite a bit.

  “I’ve decided to go back to Verneuil. Will you come, or are the memories too frightening?”

  “I wasn’t frightened in Verneuil, Papa.”

  “That�
�s right. You hadn’t the sense.”

  She frowned at him. “Why are you moving?”

  “I don’t like Poitiers. It smells of your mother.”

  “Why did you spend all winter there?”

  He looked at her sharply. “It was close to the battlefront. I wanted to be sure no one disturbed the truce.”

  “Oh.” It didn’t make sense. Wouldn’t Poitiers have been a better choice?

  Her father must have noticed her puzzlement because he laughed. “It’s a castle filled with baby princesses. It was a horrible winter. There were five of them, with one brain among them.”

  Joan counted. Henry’s wife, Margaret, must be there. And Margaret’s sister Alice, if she was still intended for Richard. And of course John’s betrothed, the little heiress of Maurienne. Anyone else?

  “Was Constance there?” The young countess of Brittany, Geoffrey’s fiancée, had come into her father’s wardship.

  “Yes, and little Emma of Anjou.” He laughed again but did not sound happy. “Not so little. I’m going to give her to Prince David ap Owen of Gwynedd. I can use a bit of Welsh support. If the Scottish king breaks the truce, I’ll be hard-pressed to beat him back again and still fight the French and your brothers.” He ground his teeth and looked at something on the wall.

  Joan felt unsettled. Did he fear the Scottish king so much? “Who is Prince David?”

  “A Welshman. He has a rival claim to the throne. Like a hundred other Welshmen.” He shook his head. “What do you think, Joan, girl? Will you come to Verneuil and keep the womenfolk from driving your poor father to lunacy?”

  She rolled her eyes, said, “Who will keep me from lunacy?” and smiled when he laughed.

  Joan badgered Agnes to have her baggage prepared by the following day. Agnes showed so little enthusiasm for traveling, however, that Joan asked her father if they might leave her behind. She told him she was too old for a nurse, but the truth was Agnes’s ill spirits weighed down her own. The king said he supposed there would be women enough.