‘The sauce came from the king’s kitchen,’ Mauro reported. ‘I spoke to the prince’s servants and they all said the same thing. It was sent over as a Lammas gift, along with the model ships and the salts. The prince’s head cook said it was an excellent juvert, the best he had ever tasted. Master Clerebaud is a wizard with sauces, he said.’
‘He tasted it? With no ill effects?’
‘None, señor. The sauce was put into four sauce pots and distributed around the dinner tables.’
‘And only one contained traces of wolf’s-bane.’
‘It might not have been intended for Sir Hugh,’ Warin said. ‘With respect, sir, they might have been trying to kill you.’
‘The thought had occurred to me,’ the herald agreed.
They were standing on the bridge outside the west gate of Lisieux, bathed in hot sunlight. The river beneath their feet stank of dung and urine, effluent from the tanneries that lined its banks. Behind them the tile roofs of the town climbed up the hill towards the towers and flying buttresses of the cathedral. From nearer at hand came the sounds of splintering wood and smashing crockery and glass as the troops ransacked the city.
There was still no sign of Tiphaine.
‘Which of the servants handled the sauce?’
‘The head cook decanted it into the sauce pots, señor,’ Mauro said. ‘The scullion who drove the cart from the king’s kitchen helped him. The servants then took the pots directly into the chapel and set them on the tables.’
‘Could one of the servants have slipped the wolf’s-bane into the sauce?’
‘It would have been difficult, señor, as they were in plain view the entire time.’
‘What about this man who drove the cart?’
‘His name was Riccon. The cook did not know him, nor did any of the others.’
‘Riccon Curry. I know who he is. And the cook himself? Could he have done it?’
Mauro looked doubtful. ‘He has been in the prince’s service for eight years, señor, and he values his position very much. It seems unlikely.’
‘Watch him all the same, both of you, and as many of the other servants as you can. Note anything unusual, where they go and who they speak to.’
Nell scrambled up from her milking stool as the herald approached. ‘Please,’ Merrivale said, ‘continue your work. I will not detain you for long.’
Obediently Nell sat down again and leaned forward, taking a firm hold on the cow’s teats and pulling. Milk streamed into the wooden pail. Around them the royal household was making camp in the fields, a safe distance from the city. Most of the population of Lisieux had fled at the English approach, but the bishop and his armed retainers still held the cathedral and its precinct, shooting bolts at any English soldier who came too close.
‘Did Nicodemus call at the kitchens yesterday? At any time before the evening banquet?’
‘Yes, sir. I saw him when I brought in the evening milk. He spoke with Curry, just like before, and then he gave him something. I couldn’t see what it was.’
‘Did he talk to Master Clerebaud as well?’
‘No, sir, but after he left, Curry went to speak to Master Clerebaud. He gave him some money, three nobles. I saw them on the table as I walked past, sir.’
Three gold nobles was twenty shillings; a useful sum of money, but hardly a fortune. Part payment, perhaps? For services rendered, or about to be rendered? Merrivale nodded. ‘Thank you, Mistress Driver. Once again you have been most helpful.’ He smiled. ‘I owe you another piece of cheese.’
He found Coloyne, the yeoman of the kitchen, and asked to speak to Clerebaud. The sauce-maker came, his eyes full of fright, twisting his hands with nerves. Everyone else in the kitchen pavilion paused to watch him. ‘You know what happened last night,’ the herald said. ‘How do you explain it?’
‘I swear before God, sir, I do not know.’
‘Did you prepare the sauce yourself? Did anyone help you?’
‘No, sir. I prepared all the ingredients and made the sauce myself, just as I always do.’
‘Do you know where the wolf’s-bane might have come from? Do you keep stocks of it?’
‘No, sir! This is a kitchen! We would never keep anything so deadly here.’ His voice trailed off and he looked down at his hands.
‘Curry gave you money yesterday evening, three nobles,’ Merrivale said. ‘What was it for?’
The hands twisted again. ‘It was money Nicodemus owed me, sir. Curry collected it from him.’ Clerebaud swallowed. ‘It was a gambling debt, sir.’
‘You won three gold nobles at dice? You must have been playing for high stakes.’
‘I had a run of luck, sir. You know how it is sometimes.’
‘Look at me,’ the herald said.
Unwillingly Clerebaud raised his eyes and met the herald’s gaze.
‘Are you speaking the truth?’ Merrivale asked. ‘The money was to settle a gambling debt, nothing else? For example, did Nicodemus want you to perform a service for him?’
The hand-wringing increased. ‘I swear to God, sir! I am innocent of any crime!’
Merrivale watched him for a long time. ‘Then you have nothing to fear,’ he said finally. ‘You may go.’
Riccon Curry was a big, truculent man with shaggy dark hair, missing the last two joints of his left index finger. ‘Did you help Master Clerebaud prepare the juvert sauce last night?’ Merrivale asked him.
‘No.’
‘Did you drive the cart from the royal kitchen over to the prince’s camp?’
‘Yes.’
‘You helped the prince’s cook decant the sauce. What did you do?’
‘Held the pots while he poured the sauce in. Then I left.’
‘How well do you know Nicodemus?’ the herald asked.
One shoulder lifted. ‘A little.’
‘Only a little? You have spoken to him three times in the past week.’
The shoulder lifted again. ‘Commerce,’ said Riccon Curry. ‘We’re in the same trade.’
‘Looting, you mean. Nicodemus gave you something yesterday evening. What was it?’
‘Money,’ said Curry. ‘He owed me for a purchase he made a couple of days ago. And he asked me to pass on some money to that sauce-maker. For settling a debt, he said.’
Well, thought Merrivale as he rode back to the Prince of Wales’s camp, all that proved was that they had arranged their stories beforehand. On the other hand, it seemed impossible that either of them could have introduced the poison into the sauce, given that the prince’s cook had tasted it before it was decanted and the wolf’s-bane was found in only one pot.
Logically, the poison must have been introduced at the prince’s kitchen, and that left two choices: the kitchen servants, or someone who sitting at the table. But Mauro was positive that it was not one of the servants, and he trusted Mauro’s judgement; and the others sitting around them – Mortimer, Despenser, Sully, Edward de Tracey – had been in plain view the whole time. Despite Despenser’s accusation, Merrivale doubted Mortimer hated him enough to want to poison him, and neither Sully nor Tracey had any motive.
Wolf’s-bane was a powerful poison, but it was also rare and expensive. Whoever had procured it had the wealth and the means to do so, and also knew that sauce from the king’s kitchen was due to be served at the prince’s table. Merrivale made his way to Sir Nicholas Courcy’s tent.
The gallowglasses were sprawled on the grass outside the tent, some of them asleep in the sun. The giant Donnchad sat cross-legged, honing the edge of his sword on a whetstone. ‘Is Sir Nicholas here?’ Merrivale asked.
Donnchad motioned silently towards the tent. Merrivale opened the flap and stepped inside. ‘Sir Nicholas? Pardon the intrusion, but I have a question for you—’
A turmoil of heaving, glistening skin on the palliasse in the corner of the tent, two bodies thrashing against each other like flails on the winnowing floor; then a woman’s voice said, ‘Máthair Dé!’ and hands scrambled to snatch blankets from the floor beside the bed. From outside came a sound like two slabs of granite scraping together, which Merrivale realised was Donnchad laughing.
After a moment, Courcy sat up, holding one of the blankets around his waist. ‘Herald,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Tell him to frig off!’ snapped Lady Gráinne, still covering herself.
Merrivale held up a hand. ‘My profuse apologies. I shall wait outside.’ He walked back out into the sunlight, where Donnchad lay flat on his back, still laughing. ‘You did that on purpose,’ the herald said.
‘He understands English, but he doesn’t speak it,’ said Courcy, stepping out of the tent. He had pulled a tunic over his head, and he mopped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘And yes, he did it on purpose, the evil old bastard. How may I help you?’
‘You told me once you were an alchemist.’
‘I wouldn’t go so far. But I have studied the subject.’
‘If you wanted to procure wolf’s-bane, enough to poison someone, how would you go about doing it?’
‘Most apothecaries carry a stock. It is used in preparing certain medicines.’ Courcy considered for a moment. ‘There were apothecary’s shops in Caen, and Saint-Lô.’
‘Someone might have stolen the wolf’s-bane from one of those shops.’
‘They might, but you would really have to know what you were doing. Even touching the stuff can be dangerous. And only an educated man would recognise aconitum for what it is. Like an alchemist,’ he added.
‘Or a priest?’
‘Only if he had studied medicine as well as theology. But that is not unknown at the universities.’ Courcy paused. ‘An educated man who is skilled at looting. Are you thinking of Nicodemus?’
‘Possibly.’
‘I heard what happened last night. Are you investigating this as well as young Bray’s death?’
‘Yes.’ The herald nodded towards the tent. ‘I am pleased to see that you and your wife are reconciled.’
Courcy grinned. ‘Oh, we’re all of that. Ever since we arrived at Lisieux we’ve been reconciling the arse off each other. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I said I wouldn’t be long.’
The red and yellow colours of Tracey were clearly visible in the distance. Beyond them was the camp of the Red Company, neat and orderly amid the haphazard jumble of tents. Tracey’s esquire greeted the herald with an air of polite curiosity. ‘I wish to speak with your master,’ Merrivale said.
Tracey came out of the pavilion at once. ‘Leave us,’ he said curtly to the esquire. The young man walked away and Tracey faced the herald. ‘What?’
‘Tell me more about your archer Nicodemus,’ Merrivale said.
‘Is this about last night?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why do you suspect Nicodemus was involved?’
‘I did not say I did. I asked you to tell me about him.’
‘He came into my service back in ’40,’ Tracey said. ‘I don’t know a great deal about him.’
‘Did you know he was a defrocked priest?’
‘I heard something about that, yes.’
‘And he then worked as clerk to a banker?’
‘Yes. I believe his master was killed when the French attacked Southampton.’
Merrivale nodded. ‘So he is not just an archer. He is also your factor. He buys spoil from the soldiers at cheap prices for ready money, and you transport the goods back to England and sell them at a profit.’
Tracey gazed at him. ‘I take it you disapprove.’
‘It is not my place to approve or disapprove,’ Merrivale said. ‘Nicodemus deals in stolen goods of all kind, and it is conceivable that those goods included aconitum. He has connections with two people in the royal kitchen, including the man who made the sauce, and he visited the kitchen yesterday evening while the feast was being prepared.’
‘And you think one of those men poisoned the sauce? Then have them arrested!’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘The poison was added in the prince’s kitchen or at the banqueting hall, and only to the pot intended for our table.’
‘Then Nicodemus didn’t do it. He returned to my camp before the feast and spent the evening here working on accounts. My esquire was with him the entire time.’
‘I did not accuse him of administering the poison. But he may have procured it.’
‘You are barking up the wrong tree, Merrivale. For God’s sake, I was at that table too! It could have been me they were trying to poison, not Despenser.’
‘All the more reason, surely, to find out if Nicodemus was involved. Perhaps he was intending to betray you.’
‘Nonsense. He has served me faithfully for years.’
‘Money does strange things to a man, Sir Edward, and I imagine this venture of yours involves a great deal of money. Perhaps he got greedy and wanted it all for himself.’
Tracey shook his head in exasperation. ‘My venture has brought in a few hundred pounds, herald, no more. Not a fortune, and certainly not enough to kill a man for.’
That was not the picture Mauro had painted. ‘Really? I have known men to plot murder for far less. If you are shielding him, Sir Edward, I would advise you to be very careful…’
Inquisition into the attempted poisoning of Hugh Despenser, knight, near the village of Léaupartie in Normandy on the Ist day of August in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward III. This report was composed on the IInd day of that month, at the city of Lisieux.
Item, the poison, a form of aconitum known as wolf’s-bane, was introduced into a single pot of sauce. This almost certainly happened at the prince’s kitchen or in the banqueting hall, not the royal kitchen. However, it remains to be seen how this was done.
Item, at no time was his Highness the Prince of Wales in danger.
Item, the source of the wolf’s-bane has not been identified, but I have lines of enquiry to pursue.
Simon Merrivale, heraldus
Lamps glowed all around the royal pavilion. In the field outside, trestle tables were being unloaded from carts and set up, with benches arranged around them. Candles flickered like fireflies in the falling dusk.
The king read the brief report, the rings on his fingers glittering in the candlelight before handing the parchment to Northburgh. Lord Rowton watched him in silence. ‘This was not an attempt on my son’s life’, the king said.
‘I do not believe so, sire,’ Merrivale said.
Lord Rowton shook his head. ‘Perhaps Despenser put the poison there himself so he could accuse Mortimer and continue their feud.’
‘That is possible, my lord,’ the herald acknowledged.
The king growled under his breath. ‘When will these damned fools stop raking up the past? For Christ’s sake, we have a war to fight.’
‘A point made by your son with admirable clarity, sire,’ Merrivale said. ‘He commanded Mortimer and Despenser to apologise to each other.’
‘Good. Keep an eye on this Nicodemus.’
‘You wish me to continue my inquisition, sire, alongside the investigation into Bray’s death?’
‘No, you can drop that. Time to make an end, I think.’
‘Sire?’ said Merrivale. He looked at Northburgh, who avoided his gaze. ‘May I ask why?’
‘You said at Saint-Vaast that you would find the killer quickly,’ the king said. ‘That was more than two weeks ago. What progress have you made?’ Merrivale said nothing. ‘Make an end,’ the king repeated. ‘We have matters of greater moment. Did you hear that we have received an embassy?’
‘No, sire. From the adversary?’
‘From the pope, but that amounts to the same thing. Étienne Aubert is their leader. We are preparing a banquet to welcome him.’
The herald stared at him. ‘The Cardinal of Ostia? He is here?’
‘Along with another cardinal, Ceccano from Naples,’ Rowton said. ‘They come bearing an offer of peace, or so they say. They arrived an hour ago.’
‘Aubert knows you,’ the king said to Merrivale. ‘Clarenceux will handle the formalities, but I want you at the banquet too. Talk to his staff and tell me what you learn. They claim to want peace, but why are they really here?’
‘They are here at the behest of the adversary,’ the herald said. ‘While you halt and engage in peace talks, he wins more time to prepare and assemble his army at Rouen.’
‘Obviously,’ the king said impatiently. ‘But they may have another purpose as well. Aubert is close to the Queen of Navarre, remember. And I want to meet with her. I have been sending messages to her home in Évreux since before we sailed from Portchester, but there has been no reply.’
‘You are still determined to start a new Norman revolt, sire? With her Grace and the Count of Eu as leaders?’
‘Of course. If we can set Normandy alight, we can squeeze that bastard Philip between the jaws of a vice. But we need Jeanne of Navarre. Try to find out where she is and what she is doing. There is something going on deep below the surface here, and I want to know what it is.’
There are powerful forces at work, Thomas Holland had said, and now the king had said something similar. Merrivale wondered how much His Grace already knew. Impatient, arrogant and bellicose though he often was, Edward III was no one’s fool; unlike his son, he was an accomplished gambler and adept at the long game, and he had many sources of intelligence.
Merrivale stood behind the Prince of Wales as the latter was presented to the distinguished guests. Étienne Aubert’s cold eye fell on him. A tall man with black hair streaked with grey, wearing red robes that blazed with embroidery, the Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia spoke with a nasal accent and clipped vowels suggesting his mother tongue had been Occitan rather than French. ‘Simon Merrivale, in a herald’s tabard. How times have changed.’
‘They have indeed, your Eminence,’ said the herald, bowing. The other cardinal, Ceccano, looked at him suspiciously as if he suspected him of insolence. Aubert waved an airy hand, his seal ring flashing red fire, dismissing the herald as being of no account. But he had taken note of Merrivale’s presence all the same, and it was no coincidence that Merrivale found himself placed at dinner next to Aubert’s secretary, Raimon Vidal, a rotund tonsured man in the brown habit of a Franciscan friar.
‘Well met, my friend,’ Vidal said cheerfully. ‘I see fortune’s wheel has turned in your favour.’
At the high table, the king and the cardinals were seated, and the rest of the company pulled out their benches and sat also. Stars gleamed high overhead; in the distance they could see lamps burning in the towers of the cathedral, where the bishop and his men kept watch.
‘And you also,’ Merrivale said. ‘You have landed a good post. His Eminence will be the next pope, they say, when Clement receives his reward in heaven.’
‘Heaven? If you say so. Most of us in Avignon assume the Holy Father will travel in the opposite direction. How fare you, my friend? I have not seen you since Savoy. Geoffrey of Maldon was there too, of course. How is the good brother? Is he here tonight?’
‘No.’ Briefly Merrivale told Vidal what had happened in Caen. ‘I don’t suppose you could persuade his Eminence to secure his release.’
Vidal looked amused. ‘Secure the release of Geoffrey of Maldon? You do remember what happened in Savoy, don’t you?’
‘Regardless of the past, Brother Geoffrey is a cleric who went to Caen as an ambassador. It was dishonourable of Bishop Bertrand to arrest him.’
‘So it was. I shall speak to his Eminence and see if something can be arranged.’
Dishes were set before them: cod with peas, stockfish with sauces made from verjuice, minced chicken decorated with thick sauces brilliant with colour and tasting of almonds; it was Wednesday, a fast day, so no meat was served. Wine splashed into their cups. Merrivale and Vidal added water to theirs. ‘You would never know there was a war being fought,’ the Franciscan said.
Merrivale looked at the watchful lights on the distant cathedral. ‘Some people would,’ he said. ‘Did you have a good journey?’
‘Atrocious,’ said Vidal, carving a duck leg with his knife. ‘As if the discomforts of the road were not bad enough, on approaching the town we were set upon by some of your barbarian archers and robbed of our horses and baggage. I trust his Grace will see them returned.’
‘I am certain he will. But why come all this way and endure such hardship?’
‘Do you not know?’ Vidal looked at him guilelessly. ‘The Holy Father desires most earnestly that the kings of England and France be reconciled with each other. He has instructed the Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia and the Cardinal-Archbishop of Naples to do their utmost to make peace. So we have come to open talks.’
‘Have you a peace proposal?’
‘Yes, but it is not one your king will want to hear. Restoration of the position ante bellum. Everyone gets their lands back and we pretend the last nine years never happened.’
‘Reset the pieces,’ the herald said. ‘And start the game again.’
‘Precisely. Edward will never agree, and everyone knows it. But,’ the Franciscan shrugged, ‘those are the Holy Father’s wishes.’
‘You mean they are King Philip’s wishes,’ Merrivale said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Oh, come, Raimon. It is a distinction without a difference. The Holy Father lives in luxurious imprisonment in Avignon, surrounded by French cardinals like your master who spy on his every move. When King Philip orders him to jump, he does not question the order but merely asks how high the bar is set. We have both been in this game long enough, my friend, to know what this visit is really about.’
Vidal smiled, lifting his wine glass. ‘Perspicacious as ever. The spy still lurks beneath the herald’s tabard.’
‘I was a messenger, not a spy.’
Vidal’s smile grew broader. ‘It is a distinction without a difference.’
‘Every hour we are delayed, more French troops arrive in Rouen and Philip grows stronger,’ Merrivale said. ‘But surely he has strength enough already. His army is far more powerful than ours. Why does he delay?’
‘Who knows what goes on in the minds of kings?’
‘Oh, come now.’ Merrivale helped himself to a piece of fish, considered adding sauce and changed his mind. ‘I think we can do better than that, Raimon. Philip is afraid of conspiracies, he always has been. He sees them at every turn. Only this time, he is right. This time, someone really is conspiring against him.’
It was a shot in the dark, but he saw Vidal’s eyes flicker. ‘Why do you say that?’
The real conspiracy is close to the French king, Tiphaine had said, right at the heart of power. ‘I have my own sources.’
‘I am certain you do. And who are the leaders of this conspiracy, I wonder?’
‘I think you know perfectly well who they are,’ Merrivale said.
‘Do you? You credit me with far too much wit.’
Up at the head table, Aubert was talking gravely with the king, both resplendent in red. Beside them Ceccano sat stuffing himself with chicken, almond sauce dripping from his ringed hands. The prince looked openly bored. He will need to work on that, Merrivale thought. He watched Vidal for a moment, and said, ‘I wonder where the Queen of Navarre is right now.’
‘Safely at home in Évreux, I should imagine. Hoping the barbarian English do not despoil her lands.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘She is King Edward’s cousin. Her lands will be safe.’
Vidal lowered his voice a little, resting his knife on his plate. ‘Especially if King Edward still desires to win the allegiance of the Normans.’
‘Precisely,’ said Merrivale.
‘Hmm. Alone, the Normans are no threat to King Philippe. He has already shown he can deal with them. Your conspiracy will need to be stronger than that.’
‘I agree,’ Merrivale said. ‘But you asked who the leaders are. There are plenty of other candidates, are there not? Philip’s own nobles, who grow impatient with his failure to crush England. His brother, Charles of Alençon, arrogant and ambitious. The papacy, chafing in its Babylonian captivity and, like the Normans, desiring freedom. Jeanne of Navarre could ally with any or all of them.’
Vidal smiled. ‘You have an active imagination, my friend. But then you always did. It was what made you such a dangerous enemy,’ he added softly.
Merrivale nodded towards the high table. ‘What is Ceccano’s role? To secure the allegiance of the Italian commanders, Doria and Grimaldi?’
Vidal snapped his fingers. ‘Of course, you know them both, don’t you? You are right. The cardinal is here to hold them to their promises and ensure they remain loyal to France.’
‘That is not what I meant,’ Merrivale said.
‘I know precisely what you meant.’ Vidal picked up his knife again. ‘Will you try the duck? It is quite delicious, beautifully cooked. I had not realised English cooks were so skilful.’
‘You do not deny there is a conspiracy,’ Merrivale said.
‘My friend, there are always conspiracies. Even the cats and dogs are plotting, each seeking to overthrow the other. But I am only a humble Franciscan friar, and the secular world does not concern me. Now, I really do urge you to try the duck.’
‘Welcome,’ said the man from the north. ‘I must apologise for the humble surroundings. This is about the only building the peasants have not yet burned.’
While the king and cardinals feasted, the archers had scoured the countryside around Lisieux. A stiff east wind had blown most of the smoke away, and the embers of burnt-out buildings flickered like corpse candles in the moonlight. The farmhouse in which they stood was built of timber and cob, with a low-beamed roof, furnished only with a wooden table and benches beside the hearth. There were five of them in the room, four men in black cloaks and a woman with a hood concealing her face.
‘It does not matter,’ said Étienne Aubert. ‘Why have you summoned us here?’
‘To advise you that there has been a change in plan,’ said the West Country man. ‘We intended to confine Edward to western Normandy until the French royal army could arrive, but as you know, he defeated the French at Caen.’
‘Thanks to the Count of Eu’s treachery,’ said the woman with the hood.
‘That may yet work in our favour,’ said the man from the north. ‘Now Edward has broken out and is advancing towards Rouen, with the intention of challenging Philip to battle.’
‘Then he is a fool,’ said Cardinal Ceccano, picking his teeth. ‘Philip is mustering forty thousand men, with allies coming from all over Europe. Edward will be crushed.’
The man from the north nodded. ‘Precisely, monsignor. That is the new plan. Edward will be defeated, but not just yet. His army will reach Rouen in a few days’ time. When it does, Philip must refuse to give battle.’ He looked at Aubert. ‘We rely on you, your Eminence, to ensure that he does so.’
‘That will not be difficult. What is he to do instead?’
‘Block the crossings of the River Seine, all of them. Break down every bridge between Rouen and Paris, or else man the fortifications so that they are impregnable. Edward must not be allowed to cross the river.’
‘Ah,’ said the woman in the hood, thoughtfully. ‘I begin to see.’
‘I do not,’ said Ceccano. ‘Explain.’
‘If Edward cannot cross at Rouen, he will advance upriver looking for a bridge. Within a few days he will arrive at Paris. Philip can cross the river himself, trap Edward against the walls of Paris and destroy his army. The king and the prince will be killed or captured, and England’s power will be broken.’
‘And Philippe?’ asked the woman.
‘He will not enjoy his triumph for long. The damage the English will do as they advance on Paris will be laid at his door. Also, letters will be published in the city bearing the king’s personal seal. They will make it clear that Philip’s failure to give battle was due to the treachery of his councillors and his own vacillation and cowardice. His reputation will suffer and the people will begin to murmur against him. That is where you come in, your Eminences, and your Grace.’
Queen Jeanne of Navarre threw back her hood. Candlelight gleamed off fair hair and a long Norman nose. ‘These letters will be forgeries, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘And the royal seal? How did you get it?’
The man from the north hesitated.
‘Do you desire that we trust you?’ the queen asked. ‘Then you will need to demonstrate that you trust us also. The seal, I assume, is a copy. Who procured it for you?’
‘John of Hainault, Lord of Beaumont, was my father’s faithful friend for many years,’ said the man from the north. ‘Now he is mine.’
The other three looked at each other, and Ceccano snorted with sudden laughter. ‘The treachery of his own councillors,’ he said. ‘Well. It appears at least one of Philippe’s councillors really is a traitor. I am impressed.’
‘You see now how far our power extends,’ said the man from the West Country.
‘Indeed,’ said the Queen of Navarre. ‘And so, what do you offer me?’
‘Normandy, as a free and independent principality,’ said the West Country man. ‘Normandy allied with Navarre will be a force to be reckoned with, especially with England and France laid low. The balance of power will shift towards you.’
Jeanne said nothing.
‘And what do I stand to gain?’ asked Aubert.
‘A great deal of money,’ said the West Country man. ‘Which you will need, I am sure, to launch your campaign for the papacy when Pope Clement finally departs this life. How are the Holy Father’s kidney stones?’
‘Somewhat improved, I am sorry to say.’
‘It need not be kidney stones that kill him,’ the man from the north said. ‘And of course, when you do sit on the throne of Saint Peter, our friend Cardinal Ceccano will be at your right hand.’
‘Of course,’ said Ceccano. He rubbed his hands. ‘What do you want us to do?’
‘Her Grace should gather her forces quietly, in Navarre and here in Normandy. Monsignor Aubert, your task is to make sure Philippe adheres to our plan. Monsignor Ceccano, you control the Genoese mercenary captains in French service, Grimaldi and Doria.’
Ceccano shook his head. ‘Grimaldi, yes. Doria, I am not so sure. He takes his loyalties seriously.’
‘Then offer him more money,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘As much as he wants. But make sure he does our bidding. When the time comes, we want the Genoese on our side.’
Ceccano shrugged.
‘What about you?’ Queen Jeanne asked the two Englishmen. ‘What do you stand to gain from this?’
‘What everyone wants,’ said the man from the north. ‘Power, influence and wealth. We shall show the rest of Europe that we can bend events to our will. A new game is beginning, and we are its masters. Kings and emperors will see our power and respect it. And we shall grow very, very rich.’
There was a pause. ‘I spoke earlier of trust,’ the queen said. ‘Can we trust you?’
‘You have no choice,’ said the man from the north. ‘We can make you powerful, your Grace. But if you turn against us, we will break you.’
Riding east, the Queen of Navarre and her escort reached the Benedictine abbey at Bernay just before dawn. ‘We will rest here for a few hours,’ she told her captain. ‘Then we will return to Évreux.’
Jeanne had inherited the mountain kingdom of Navarre from her father, but she rarely visited it. Her power and wealth came from her wide lands in eastern Normandy, including Bernay. She climbed the steps to the guest lodgings wearily, thinking about the conversation the previous evening and pondering its implications. The Englishmen had been right: the power of Normandy and Navarre combined would be formidable. And she knew Étienne Aubert well. She could work with him.
The sleepy monk who guided her stopped before the door of the chamber, fumbling with his keys. It is, after all, a family quarrel, Jeanne thought. Edward of England, Philippe of France and myself; cousins, grandchildren of Philippe le Bel. Perhaps instead of fighting each other, we should band together, unite in the face of the enemies that conspire against us. But that will never happen. We are united only by our hatred of each other.
Well; that is not quite true. Edward and I agree that Philippe is a usurper. Both of us have better claims to the throne, Edward through his mother, I through my father. But the law in France says that a woman cannot inherit the throne. The law is nonsense, of course, but men use it to protect their power.
The door opened and the monk stepped back, bowing. Jeanne walked into the room, followed by her tirewoman. A single candle burned in a bronze candlestick on the table. Beyond it stood a figure in ragged tunic and hose, with rough-shorn red hair. Just for a moment Jeanne knew fear, but then she saw the figure was alone and carried no weapon. Despite its garb, it was also unmistakably a woman. She set her lips in a thin line and snapped, ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘I am Tiphaine, the Demoiselle de Tesson, your Grace. The daughter of the Sire de la Roche Tesson. I would speak with you alone, if I may.’
Jeanne turned to her tirewoman. ‘Go. Tell the monk to give you the keys and send him away. Stand watch over the door.’
The door closed behind the servant. ‘You escaped from prison in Carentan and joined the English,’ Jeanne said. ‘Did you know there is a price on your head?’
‘It does not matter. Your Grace, I am here to warn you.’
‘Against what?’
‘King Edward has sent messengers to find you. He wants you to join him and lead a new Norman revolt against King Philippe. Your Grace, you must not do so. Not yet.’
Jeanne took her time about answering. ‘I am a loyal subject of France. I have no intention of rebelling against my king.’
‘Of course not, your Grace,’ Tiphaine said. ‘But King Edward will continue to press you. The time may come when you must choose between England and France.’
‘Indeed. It would seem you have already made your choice. Like Godefroi d’Harcourt and Raoul of Eu, you have opted for England.’
‘No,’ Tiphaine said. ‘I have not. My heart and my soul belong to Normandy, and always will. I will do whatever it takes to free my country from the French yoke.’
Silence fell for a moment. Jeanne took off her riding gloves and dropped them on the table, flexing her long fingers. ‘You say this, but then you advise me against rebellion. Why?’
‘Because the time is not right, and because Edward of England is an unreliable ally. He is domesticating the Norman lords. Harcourt is his already. He will turn Eu into his servant as well, and desires to do the same to you. His intention is that the three of you will rule Normandy as English puppets, exchanging one master for another. But without you, his plan will fall apart.’
‘And we will go merrily on as before,’ Jeanne said. ‘Normandy is ruled by Philippe and his idiot son and their corrupt councillors and huissiers and greffiers, who rob and plunder us at will. What I said earlier was wrong. I think I might prefer Edward as my master.’
‘But if you fight France now, you will be betrayed,’ Tiphaine said emphatically. ‘Just like Harcourt. The French received word of his intentions months ago. Did Jean de Fierville work for you?’
‘…Yes.’
‘Fierville was also reporting to Robert Bertrand. Now Harcourt’s friends are dead and his power is broken. He can remain as Edward’s lapdog, or he can return and make his peace with Philippe; those are his only choices. Eu tried to make a secret deal with England, abandoning Caen and allowing himself to be captured. But the enemy know about this too, or they will very soon. Someone is working to undermine us, and has been for years. If you rebel now, death or exile will be your fate.’
Jeanne stared at the ragged figure before her. ‘You know a great deal, for one so young.’
‘I learned much while I was in prison, and more since I have been with the English army. There are many plots and conspiracies, your Grace. Against us, against King Philippe and against King Edward. They are all connected and guided by a single hand. Is Rollond de Brus still in your service?’
In the back of Jeanne’s mind an alarm bell began to ring. ‘What do you know about Brus?’
‘I used to know him well,’ Tiphaine said. ‘He was your servitor then, or pretended to be. Where is he now?’
‘He is in Rouen,’ Jeanne said. ‘He has taken service with the king’s brother, the Count of Alençon.’
Tiphaine’s eyes opened wide. ‘Of course. Alençon is conspiring to overthrow the king, and Brus is your link to him.’ Jeanne said nothing. ‘If you join them, they will betray you,’ Tiphaine went on. ‘Alençon has no more intention of allowing a free Normandy than the king has. This is the season of danger, your Grace. Your best hope is to lie low and let it pass.’
The Queen of Navarre stood for a long time staring at the candle flame, lost in thought. ‘Your father was a wise man,’ she said eventually. ‘I see he bred some of his wisdom into his daughter.’
Tiphaine’s mouth twisted. ‘His wisdom did not prevent him from being killed. Or mine from following in his footsteps.’
‘What do you intend to do?’
‘Philippe must not succeed,’ said Tiphaine. ‘But neither must the conspirators. I intend to stop them both. Then it will be your time. Then is the moment to come out of hiding and strike.’