LIII

As it happened, the Duke did break in. Well, break is not the word. He or his marshal had twisted the arm (probably literally) of one of the little laundrymaids who came from the town every day to do the castle washing.

She didn’t go home that night but hid away in the pantry cupboard, crept out at dawn and used the cook’s best knife to cut the thick ropes holding up the drawbridge. Down it crashed with a bang that shook the very foundations of the castle, and woke us all to the imminence of disaster. May her treacherous little soul never be washed clean!

Henry and his men were waiting for it. They stormed across the bridge and were soon in possession of the castle. Not in total possession of course, not immediately anyway. There were still certain staircases and concealed doors, and Alice and I made use of one of them. We huddled in the corner of a tiny stairwell that led all the way from the top guard tower to the darkest dungeon down below. There then unfolded for us through the arrow-slit window, a sight that became the stuff of legend.

The beautiful Comtesse de Breteuil, daughter of the King of England and Duke of Normandy, was standing on a ledge above the dark moat, removing her outer garments. Soldiers stopped to look at her from castle windows and from the path on the castle side. They could not understand what she was doing. Then, all at once, she jumped. It seemed to take her a long time to hit the water. Her long shift acted as a kind of cushion for air, billowing up and holding her as she fell, exposing for all of us to see, her beautiful body with the long legs and the perfect firm and rounded bottom, and as she turned, that lovely little V of golden hair between the legs. We followed the vision down as the water opened round her like a glass flower and she disappeared into the depths. There was a profound silence, and then a great cheer. It was meant to be very shaming for a lady to show her buttocks, but it seemed to have done her no harm with the men; even the Duke’s men cheered. Only the old Chaplain looked worried, and crossed himself.

I must say my heart was in my mouth as I feared that she would drown or the weeds would wind round her long legs and drag her down to the depths where frogs would couch between her thighs as she settled into the mud. I was glad for her that she had not used that part of the moat which received the deposits from the garderobes but, even so, the water was murky. Doubtless it was also very cold. We watched and watched for the next act of the drama. And then we saw her. She was out, scrambling up the side of the moat and running across the bailey to the marshalsea where her palfrey was kept and her groom had had the instructions to be prepared.

A voice, that I recognised as belonging to the Duke’s marshal, rang out.

‘She’s getting away. Stop her, you fools.’

All was instant activity. Men were running downstairs, clattering across the drawbridge, haring across the keep, waving and shouting. But they were too late. Juliana was away, hair streaming in the wind, a veritable goddess of the chase. Through the open gatehouse she went with guards scattering as she rode through them. They would never catch her.

‘That’s no palfrey. That’s an Arab,’ said Alice. ‘One of her little secrets. She usually keeps it in the town. Had it brought round yesterday.’

‘Time for us to get going too…’

‘Swims well, doesn’t she?’ said Alice.

I knew Juliana could swim. We had swum together and made love in a secret pool in the woods last summer. I was hit by a dart of sadness.

‘We may have to too if the boat’s not there …’ I said.

I did mention that first we had to get out, but there was no point in alarming her further.