The Queen's Daughter Page 7

  At the hearth, Richard laughed loudly and rose from his knees. Men beside him groaned, slapping at his legs while he stuffed coins into his purse. She looked away, but too late. He caught her watching and came back to the window.

  “Toulouse is a beautiful place. Warm and golden pink with sunshine all year round. They speak our language there.” He slipped from Norman French to the tongue of the south, Occitan. She heard her mother’s voice in Richard’s and loved him even as she cursed his trick. No one else in the room would understand. “The troubadours are gayer. The wine is round and sweet in your mouth, like a kiss. Jeanne, Toulouse belongs to our mother. It’s part of Aquitaine.” He put his foot on the low rung of her stool. “Count Raymond came with Toulouse in his hands and put it into our father’s. He paid homage to Father and then Henry. Last of all, he paid homage to me. I am duke of Aquitaine.”

  “You are too prideful. I’m sure Papa didn’t mean to slight you.”

  His scornful gaze raked her. “You are a cow, sister mine. He slighted our mother. And if you think it was not intentional, you’re a worse fool than I thought.”

  “I’m not a fool!” Both her parents had said she was smart.

  “Prove it. Find out where Father is hiding her. Before something happens to her.”

  Yet it was impossible for Joan to even talk to her father, much less learn secrets. When her ninth birthday passed unnoticed, she realized the king had no interest in his daughter now that he had his sons back.

  The knights hunted, hawked, and gambled. No one but Richard paid her any heed at all.

  Within a few weeks, her father grew restless. He announced that they would soon return to England, to Devizes, so Henry could be reunited with Margaret, but he had other plans for Richard. In southern Aquitaine, many of the lords had taken part in the rebellion. Now Richard must punish them by razing their castles and demanding tribute in the name of the king.

  During Richard’s departure, she hid in her room, playing merels alone on the floor. As soon as Richard was gone, her father came to her. He squatted to talk at her level.

  “Joan, girl, you must forgive your brother.”

  “Forgive him?”

  “He was heartsick you didn’t turn out to kiss him good-bye.”

  “Richard was?” She tasted gall. The filthy, lying—

  “He said not to blame you. He said you had to hate someone for what happened. Joan—”

  “The devil!” She understood what her brother was doing. If she hated Richard, she wouldn’t carry tales to him. At least, that’s what Papa would think.

  “He’s no greater devil than the rest of us. Please. For your old father’s sake?”

  Joan almost burst, trying to contain her frustration. The more she protested, the less her father would believe her. No doubt he’d been watching the way she ran from Richard.

  “He is a worse devil, Papa! I don’t hate him.” Even her own ears recognized how false the contradiction sounded.

  He patted her braids. “You should have kissed him. Hatred will ruin you.”

  It was too late. She’d already been ruined by the people she loved.

  OLD DEVIZES CASTLE WAS MASSIVE, BUT IN A STATE OF DISRE pair. The king’s cortege arrived at the western entrance and passed through battered wooden gates. The west wall had been patched with stone that did not match the original. The knights’ tower, obviously the newest addition, stood apart from the keep as though disdainful of the company. Joan tucked her chin to her chest and sighed, letting the curtains of the wain fall shut. She would not like Devizes.

  The court gathered to greet the party. Margaret met her husband with a restrained smile, though Henry gathered her up and called her his pretty queen. Alice stood back, darting impatient black looks at the king. When he finally noticed, she folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes. Joan thought her indignation was ridiculous. Surely Papa would find her ridiculous, too.

  It pleased her to think he would despise Alice. Maybe he would even send her back to France. Richard wouldn’t mind—he had never liked his fiancée.

  After greeting the king’s cortege, the crowd began to disperse. Lady Anne, the mistress of Devizes Castle, accompanied Joan to a bedchamber, fussing all the way about its comforts. The fire was warm, the chamber aired each day. After the lengthy journey, Joan didn’t care so long as the bed did not move.

  “Queen Margaret will join the young king.” The lady pushed open the door. “So you and Princess Alice will have this to yourselves.”

  In the middle of a tiny, round gray stone room sat a single bed lumped with blankets.

  Scowling, Joan said, “I’d rather share a pen with a sow.”

  Lady Anne sniffed and looked over her head. The hostess might prefer to put them all in with the swine.

  “Never mind.” Joan sat on the bed. “This will do.”

  The lady nodded. “My maids are here to serve.”

  Joan let a girl undress her and slipped between the crisp linen sheets. She said her prayers quickly and buried her head in the pillow, determined to fall sleep before Alice came to the room. In the morning, she was still alone. She twisted the sheet in her hand. Alice must have been with Papa. But she was Richard’s betrothed! What was Papa doing? Why would he want Alice?

  Joan remembered Mama’s advice: To solve a puzzle, start from what you know. Alice was a daughter of France. She was countess of the vast estates of Berry. But what if King Louis found out what Papa was doing? Bad enough if Richard were to lose the dowry, but…

  Joan clapped a hand to her mouth. What if Papa planned to marry Alice himself? Then, not only would he keep Berry, but King Louis would think twice about making war again.

  A hundred objections crowded her mind, but none calmed her. If it were true, it meant Richard was right—their mother was in danger. Papa couldn’t marry Alice unless Mama…

  If men would not tell her things, it was her duty to find out. She had to find out where her father was keeping her mother. Richard needed her help.

  JOAN HAD FREE RUN OF DEVIZES CASTLE AND SOON DISCOV ered niches near the meeting halls where she could conceal herself. But six weeks passed, and she grew discouraged. No one ever spoke of anything important in those halls. Her father held confidential discussions in the anteroom to his chamber, on the second floor of the knights’ tower. Except for the rare instances of the king’s invitation, Joan had no business there.

  Then, one afternoon after she’d nearly given up hope, a score of her father’s adherents arrived to great welcome. Among them were the old and young Sir Walters. In the crowded great hall, Joan found the elder. Remembering his earlier kindness, she decided to approach him.

  “Sir, I’m glad you’re here. It has been so boring.”

  “Don’t tell me you prefer warfare.”

  “Oh, no. We must not mention the war.” She gave him her sweetest smile. “Where have you been? Not with Richard?”

  “No, lady. I’ve been home in Sarum.”

  “What brings you here?”

  His face clouded, then cleared. “Waldo has come for the hunting.”

  She laughed and pulled on his hand. “Will you sit with me at supper? I’m tired of all these women.”

  Just then, she caught sight of the younger Walter drawing near. He wore a blue silk tunic, an extravagance he must have thought made him look grand. He bowed low, then lifted his eyes to hers.

  “Princess.” He reached out his hand as if he would take her fingers. He was treating her with a deference her years did not warrant. “I hope you have forgiven me,” he said.

  “For what, sir?”

  “For Gisors. It was my first assignment after my dubbing. I was green wood and frightened for your safety.” His blue eyes shone.

  She caught her breath. She didn’t know how to answer.

  He said, “No? Then it will be my quest to prove myself to you.”

  She nodded, embarrassed to feel her face flush.

  “Excuse me,” she said, mov
ing away to lose herself in the crowd.

  The meal was typically boisterous. Hunting was fine near Devizes, and several meats, hot from the spit, sizzled on platters. Hounds crawled back and forth under the tables looking for tidbits. A servant heaped Joan’s trencher full of eggs pickled in brine. She ignored the other men, chins well-greased, faces ugly with shouting, and watched only her father. Several times he rose and went to talk to old Sir Walter. The final time, he laid his hand on the knight’s shoulder for a moment before returning to his seat.

  She had to find out why they had come.

  Chewing slowly, barely tasting the food, she considered talking to young Walter but immediately discarded the plan. She would have to eavesdrop on old Sir Walter and Papa.

  She yawned and asked a maid to take her to her room. After undressing her, the girl turned down the bed. Joan dismissed her. She waited a few minutes to find courage. Then she pulled on her gown without bothering with underskirts and laced it as best she could. She slipped from her room, down the darkened hall, and out onto the rain-softened ground of the courtyard. She ran across the mud to the knights’ tower. With a heave, she opened the creaky wooden door. Inside was dark. She stood, shivering, breathing hard.

  She knew the second-floor hallway curved behind her father’s chamber, so the room could be accessed either through the anteroom or through a back door. She could hide in the chamber and sneak out through the back as soon as she heard the conference ending.

  She took a deep breath and started up the spiral stairs to the hallway. In the dark, she felt along the passage, testing each step. Just then the tower door below creaked. Flickering torchlight scuttled up the walls.

  “Father, it is a mark of his favor. Think what it means!”

  She was sure the voice belonged to young Walter. In the stairwell, there was nowhere to hide. Terrified, she bolted up the last of the stairs. Her footfall was quiet. She whirled around the corner and flattened herself into a recess in the wall. Her chest ached from holding her breath.

  Old Sir Walter said, “You put too much stock in the king’s favor.”

  “He trusts you.”

  “I have no wish to be a jailer. It’s not as if he’ll ransom her.”

  “It won’t be forever. And if we make ourselves useful in this—”

  “You aim too high.”

  “Father, you sell our worth too cheap. I can make the girl—”

  Joan strained to hear more, but the voices died away down the hall. She stood, mulling the words. Her heart beat faster. She knew where her mother’s next prison would be.

  Before she could step from her hiding place, she heard the door open once again. This time, a crowd of drunken men climbed the stairs, laughing and arguing. They passed by without noticing her. Supper had ended; more would be returning.

  Her mouth was dry as sand. There was no choice but to run. She flew down the stairs, one hand on the newel. At the bottom, expecting another step, she jarred her ankle and fell against the door. She felt a sharp pain and heard cloth tear as the door bounced ajar, then bumped back against her. A protruding nail had rent the skirt of her gown.

  Shaking, Joan pushed the door open. The courtyard was empty. Exhilarated, she sprinted across the yard. Now it was but a short bolt to her chamber.

  A glimmer of light underlined her door. Hadn’t she blown out the candle? She slid inside.

  Alice sat up in bed. “Where were you, Joan?”

  Joan stammered, “I—I forgot something in the dining hall. I couldn’t find the maid so—”

  “You lie.” Alice climbed from the bed, smirking with satisfaction. She pulled on a cloak and grabbed Joan by the arm. “We’re going to the king.”

  Joan could not bring herself to beg Alice for favor. Instead, she pulled her arm from the other girl’s grip. She curled her lip and said, “It will be your word against mine.”

  “Look at your dress. You were crawling about in the mud.”

  Fear slashed through Joan like a dagger. If she fought the bigger girl, she would lose. She must be calm. What if she confessed? She could say she did not have a chance to hear anything. Her father might even laugh.

  She let Alice drag her to the king’s chamber. He was deep in conversation with Henry. Alice interrupted, talking fast and pointing out Joan’s torn skirt and dirty hems.

  Her father raised his hand, his face purple, his eyes slits. Joan stood stock-still with fear. He slapped her so hard she could not hear his words over the ringing of her ears.

  Henry stepped between them.

  “Father! She’s a child. Think what you’re saying.”

  “She’s your mother’s child—I’d put nothing past her. Girl, who were you with? I’ll have him broken.”

  Papa had hit her! Her cheek felt numb, and blood filled her mouth.

  Her brother protested, “Who would dare touch her?”

  “Damn you, girl. Speak to me.”

  She mumbled, “I was trying to come here. Everyone came back too soon.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why?” Then he said at once, “Never mind.”

  “Father, what harm can she do? She’s a child.”

  “Henry, get out. Take Alice. I need to speak to Joan.”

  Joan watched them leave. Her legs shook—she was afraid he meant to hit her again. When the door closed, he looked at her a long time.

  “Do you want to know where your mother is?” he asked.

  Her head spun. She nodded.

  “Very well. I’ll send you to her.”

  F I V E

  TRAITOROUS SONS COULD BE FORGIVEN, BUT WHAT OF A faithless daughter? Joan didn’t know. Would she be imprisoned for the rest of her life?

  Two unfamiliar knights bore her away from Devizes. She rode with the elder one, wrapped in fur against the cold. In the early hours of the morning, they stopped in a small village where she was entrusted to the wife of a tavern keeper. They waited for three days before moving on, but no one told her why. She wondered what her brother Henry had thought when she disappeared. Would he guess Mama’s destination as she had? Would he send word to Richard?

  Sometime during the fourth night, old Sir Walter joined them. In the morning, the two knights turned back the way they had come. Sir Walter looked unhappy.

  “Are we almost to Sarum?” Joan asked.

  “We’ll be there today. Your mother is there.” Perhaps they had been traveling slowly so he might fetch her first.

  “Yes, I know.”

  He didn’t seem surprised. He loaded her bundle onto his packhorse then lifted her into his saddle. “Lady, I don’t want you to think of yourself as my prisoner. You are my guest.”

  “Can I leave Sarum if I want to?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Can I send a message to Richard?”

  He mounted behind her. “My son is eager for your arrival.”

  “I don’t like Walter.”

  “No? Well, he can be difficult to like.” He dug his heels into the horse’s side and urged it forward, leading the packhorse.

  They were not so far from Sarum. They crossed the Avon on a creaking wooden bridge and left the river’s edge while the weak sun was still high. After traversing scrubby fields, a shallow stream crusted thinly with ice, and then more scrub, she could see a forbidding castle rising in the distance above a high ring of earthworks. The gray stone was almost invisible against the gray sky. Sir Walter let the horses break into a trot as they drew closer.

  They circled around to approach the east gate. The horses’ hooves clattered against the plank bridge spanning the dry ditch. The gatehouse lay before them with the castle keep rising behind on the high point of the hill.

  Joan noticed movement on the stone walls, then the gates opened and a cluster of people spilled out. Three ladies stood with her mother, and six knights, including young Sir Walter.

  “Joan!” Queen Eleanor strode forward without a glance at her captors. No one stayed her. Imprisonment had done nothing to diminish her; J
oan could almost believe she ruled here.

  Old Sir Walter handed Joan into his son’s arms. The young man’s nose wrinkled, and he set her down quickly, as though she had been bedding with rats.

  Her mother swung her up into an embrace. In Occitan, she murmured, “Jeanne, Jeanne. What have you done?” She kissed her cheek several times as she stooped to set her back down.

  Joan closed her eyes to breathe in the familiar lily scent of her mother. It would be all right. Mama was pleased.

  “Papa caught me spying.”

  “Sweetling, I taught you better.” She laughed, sounding delighted. Changing to Norman French, she said, “Come inside. Charisse will faint when she sees your hair.”

  “Charisse is here?”

  “And Amaria.” Eleanor frowned. “He only allowed me two of my own maids.”

  A petite, brown-haired woman close behind them said, “My lady, anything you need—”

  “Yes, yes.” The queen waved off her words. “Joan, this is Lady Penelope. She and Sir Walter have been very kind.”

  Lady Penelope stopped to curtsy, then hurried to catch up. Joan nodded over her shoulder, feeling uncomfortable. How did one behave toward one’s jailer? She would have to mimic Mama.

  After passing through the arched gate, a short walk across the inner bailey brought them to the keep. They had to climb a series of steep, winding steps to reach the door. A narrow passage opened into a second story hall. Joan wished young Walter would move away from her—he stood so close she was afraid she would trip.

  Lady Penelope said, “Princess, we are very pleased to have you here. You may sleep in your mother’s antechamber with her maids.”

  “I’ll take her,” the Queen said. “You can send her things later, although it hardly seems worth the effort. Henry clearly has no idea.…” She turned a critical eye on her daughter. “And send a maid with warm water. Joan, have you washed at all these past two years?”

  “Mama.” She squirmed.

  “Come, Charisse will be glad to see you.”

  Joan followed her mother out of the hall unguarded. Perhaps Sir Walter really would treat them as guests. But as they walked to their chamber, she noted the dark, damp walls, felt a chill wind course through the gallery, and knew she was in prison. There was no need for Sir Walter to guard them as long as they were here.