Eleanor’s Majesty crested the swell, dipping precipitously as the torent of freezing rain lashed the fleet. There seemed no difference between sky and sea; dark, grey, undulating, wetness in every direction. The ashen crosses placed on their heads at Portsmouth by Archbishop Langton were long since washed off.
Fawkes lurched up to hands and knees then vomited on the soaked aftcastle deck again.
“Someone drag that useless aurochs off my deck before I hurl him overboard!” Captain Crabbe demanded.
He’s human after all.
Robert would’ve smiled but he was as miserable as the Brute, curled in a shivering, soaked ball in the back left corner. He was clinging to Ralfus de Neville and Fawkes’ clerk Passelewe for warmth.
“Fawkes, get below deck!” King John yelled through the gale and crashing waves.
Is he laughing?
John stood just behind Crabbe manning the wheel, swaying and leaning with the ship’s every move. He was pale and half-frozen like everyone else, the bear cloak drenched and dripping, silver hair matting his head. Yet he wasn’t seasick, far from it. He was eager and enjoying himself.
Over 200 ships set sail below an overcast sky from the Hampshire and Cinque Ports on Ash Wednesday. Queen Isabelle, Prince Rickon, Princess Joan, and several choice hostages were aboard John’s Bounty. Count Ranulf and Earl Ferrers were on their own ships, but most were full of troops from the Crownshires or those who heard the calling clink of coins. Following the Paltry Parliament at Oxford, most of the lords of the realm promised payment of the shield tax, instead of serving overseas. However, there were a score of barons among the host, and some of the high lords sent their sons or trusted knights with small retinues.
Longsword was already in Bruges catherding the Low Country Lords. Warrene still watched Northumbria, and Arundel was keeping an eye out for the Black Monk’s raids from Rochester to Dover. While Marshal supervised England’s defenses as Seneschal of the Realm, Peter held the keys of government as Crownsteward, Justiciar, and Chancellor. Archbishop Langton had care of Prince Hal the heir, and any major decision by Marshal or Peter required his consent. Balancing Langton’s influence over the Church, any substantial decision by the archbishop required the consent of Legate Pandulf.
For better or worse, the Hammer was John’s campaign to win or lose.
“Come on Fawkes,” Oliver grunted as he half guided and half pulled the Brute down the steep wooden stairs.
The Devil’s Brood . . . those Plantagenet’s have bloody kraken’s blood. . . I will never be warm again.
Robert couldn’t stop shaking, felt the cold deep in his bones through two pairs of woolen hose and shirts, fleece lined leather boots, a felt robe and a wool one, a scarf, cap, and cassock hooded over his head. Robert squirmed against the wooden bulkhead, Ralfus, Passelewe, and the bulky greased sacks pressed between them.
Fuzzy lightning flashed the fleet, roiling seas, dark foreboding shadows. Ralfus cringed and muttered a prayer under his breath. Passelewe balanced the prayers with muttering curses to make a whore blush. To take his mind off misery Robert thought of the evening he informed Samwell of John’s decision.
“What do you mean John’s taking you along?” Samwell was horrified, nearly knocked over his ink well onto a pile of letters demanding payment of the shield tax.
“I’m to be his secretary and herald,” Robert explained.
“He can write on his own can’t he?” Samwell countered.
Robert shrugged, “He’s left handed and the gout, well . . . he wants a cleric he can trust.”
“But you’re leaving me here with the Rock,” Samwell shuddered.
“Someone has to herald here while I’m gone.”
“Why don’t you stay and I’ll go.”
Robert shrugged, “Tisn’t my choice to make, Sam.”
Later, on the Portsmouth docks Peter pulled Robert aside.
“John holds you in high regard, Robert. Serve him well, and keep me apprised of everything.” Peter took hold of the lower edge of Robert’s cassock. Pulling him close with one hand, he gave Robert a small journal with the other, “And I do mean everything, especially what he wants you to leave out. No detail can be too trifling. Add a note to the Pipe Rolls you send back. Oh, and don’t forget what to tell my brother should you run into him.”
The Brute is a Babe upon the Sea . . . what will you do with that nugget Peter? Oh God . . .
The spasm worked up his throat too fast for Robert to move, but there was nothing to hurl, so another dry heave convulsed. He thought he heard laughing, looked up and indeed John was enjoying the moment; clapping Crabbe on the shoulder.”
Crabbe was epiphanous, “Land ho!”
As Eleanor’s Majesty slid down another wave, a glowing orb beckoned in the distance.
The Lighthouse of La Rochelle . . . like God’s Eye . . . he’s watching out for us after all. . . even if tis just Hubert de Burgh.
. . .
He couldn’t do it. The journal was just too beautiful; a thick and soft brown leather cover stitched with cloth of gold, two buckle straps, and 100 sheets of tightly bound vellum. Instead of ripping the sheets out, Robert cut up a scroll sheet of vellum sized against the journal. Having finished his first note, Robert read the condesnsed English vulgate of Latin:
March 8, 1214
La Rochelle, Poitou
Lord Peter,
Crossing far more difficult than otherwise indicated. Almost a score ships sunk or beached or lost at sea. Some finding their way into La Rochelle, most remain lost. Bretons have naval squadron operating from Nantes & Captain Crabbe has word some of our ships confiscated there. John was magnificent during storm but paid the price, caught feverflu day we landed, having spent storm on deck. Commander Renier of La Rochelle Temple gave Last Rites, twas that bad. At worst, John raved against mother and brother in Occitan.
Today first John able to dictate official letter provided. He can walk around royal apartments now, still tires very easily. John’s other major task of day was granting Viscounty of Mauleon to Savaric, father having passed without living brothers in Poitevan manner, also granted him sea lordship over five Poitevan ports.
Hammer thus far organized by Hubert & Ranulf, Hubert guiding, Ranulf leading army. Brian Kingsteward, Russell Kingsword, and Ropsley Kingslance keeping everything together. Sir Fawkes, Baron Early, & Lord Forz chasing your brother Guillame east from Cholet, reaving wherever French or rebel Poitevans found. Barons Lacy, Lanvalay, Montfichet, Humphrey Bohun, & Rob de Quincy all proving brave captains assaulting rebel castles ringing La Rochelle. Fat Ferrers adept at situating siege engines & eating mutton. Amusing watching him ride around in chariot.
As requested, I’ve mingled with the Unworthy and to a man they hope to return to the Crown’s good grace enough for titles, priveleges, and properties restored. Lacy wants Pontefract back. Montfichet wants to rebuild his London tower and reclaim Forester of Essex. Lanvalay desires the return of Colchester. Rob de Quincy wants Mountsorrel, Leicester, and Earls’ Third Penny of Leicester Shirecourt back. Humphrey Bohun is keen for Hereford and Lord Constable of the Realm. Forz expects Albermarle as he’s informed any and everyone who ever shared a word with him.
Morale high but Weather wet & cold, light snow yesterday, Hubert says odd late winter. All agree next step taking County Seat of Poitiers, currently held for Philippe by Viscount Aimery Thouars. Queen Isabelle proving useful as Hubert & Ranulf, honey to their vinegar. Viscounts of Rochefort, Cognac, & Parthenay, & a score of Barons pledged oaths of loyalty to her while John abed.
All for now,
R. de London
PS: Letter for Longsword essential to get through. Between Bretons at Nantes & Black Monk in Channel, Crabbe reluctant to send ships straight to Bruges. Most likely will rely on England for contact with Longsword.
PPS: Lord Hubert’s chamberlain is a cleric just out the abbey, Pete de Rivalis. He’s proving helpful as I was sick too, and confided to me that he’s your nephew. He wants to be like you someday. He was clear about that, repeatedly.
Robert poured scribblers sand over the vellum, let it soak up the thick spots of ink and blew the detritus away. He placed the letter atop the strategic map of the region, John’s official letter to the Realm, letters to Peter, Marshal, Langton, and Pandulf; John and Isabelle’s note to Hal, Ranulf’s notes to his sisters Agnes, Mabel, Hawise, and Milecent; and Ferrers’ mutton smudged note to his son. Robert placed them all inside the hard wooden pipe roll and sealed it shut as the wooden hatch at the top of the steep stairs slid open.
Buxom Lady Beatrice de Warrene, wife of Lord Hubert, stepped downward carefully. She was wiping her hands on the apron over a modest cerulean linen tunic, long daisy blonde hair pulled back in a plaited braid. Maiden Alicia de Peche followed, carrying a wooden tray. The girl dawning on womanhood was wearing a spring green tunic, with three auburn braids twined into one thick one dangling down the middle of her back, freckles spotting across cheeks and nose.
Takes after her father, God rest his soul.
“How’s the king?” Robert cracked his knuckles.
“Gobbled down the chicken stew, he did, and a healthy peck o’ cheese.” Beatrice grinned with contentment, “Thanks be to the Good Lord and Commander Renier for the Lenten dispensation.”
“His majesty really likes the pepper, doesn’t he Auntie?”
“That he does, hun,” Beatrice agreed, her contentment beaming.
As traumatic as sailing across a roiling sea was for them all, Alicia had been especially miserable; long convinced she was returning home with her mum after the Christmas Court, completely unfamiliar with Poitou or Lady Beatrice de Warren, to whom she would be handmaiden. Uncle Fitzwalter paid the 1,200 Mark ransom with a Temple note, but when John pressed for the baron’s shield tax he balked. Fitzwalter promised to pay by Michaelmass at the beginning of September but John kept Alicia as surety once more. Bringing her to Poitou seemed intentionally cruel, but Beatrice was cousin to Fitzwalter’s wife Gannora, and always wanted a daughter.
Auntie Bea earned Alicia’s trust right quick.
She’s more concerned for John’s health than Queen Isabelle. Tis one thing to avoid a man sick with feverflu, though Beatrice did not, tis another to discuss potential new husbands with your ladies-in-waiting. I suppose I should’ve told Peter.
“Oooh my!” Beatrice stepped back as the door opened while she reached for it.
She bumped into Alicia, who dropped the tray.
“Sorry! Sorry, Auntie Bea!” Alicia cried.
“Tis alright, hun,” Beatrice glared down at Count Ranulf as he walked in. “Ever heard of knocking, m’lord?”
Oliver stood outside with Russell the Kingsword, both staring in curiously. Ranulf didn’t acknowledge the women, stared at Robert.
“Baron Early sent a messenger, is the king about?”
“Just finished supping,” Robert glanced at Alicia putting the half eaten bread bowl and silver spoon back on the tray.
“Tis urgent,” Ranulf made for the stairs.
Robert followed the Count of Cheshire up into John’s bedchamber. It was the top room of the inner harbor tower of Vauclair Castle, built by John’s father in the last years of his reign. The room was spacious, especially with the conical wood tiled roof. Johnathan Dunkeld was tending the hearth fire and several braziers glowed warmth. The floor was covered in plush fleece rugs, windows covered with thick felt red curtains to absorb the fever. Crosses and angels were painted on the angled ceiling. The king’s personal wardrobe, cupboard, and chests were dispersed throughout the room.
John lay in a massive four post bed covered in a red felt awning, the sides tied to posts. He was propped up by a host of pillows, covered in the poodle cloak Lusignans Folly and reading a gilt edged book in his lap. Ralfus was sitting against the wall, noting marginalia in the Chamberbook.
“I’m full Bea, I swear to almighty God, m’lady.”
“My lord,” The Count cleared his throat, crossing the room quickly.
“Ranulf,” John smiled, pleased to see the short lord with the determined face.
“I have news from Early. They’re reaving north of Poitiers.”
“Should I be impressed?” John shrugged.
He was pale, the dark sacks under his eyes as bruised as ever, but there was light in his eyes again, and the trembling stilled.
“T’aint the news, just his locale,” Ranulf eased a cheek and leg onto the high bed, the toe tips of his right shoe just barely rubbing the rug so long as he stretched his ankle.
“Well, out with it man,” John closed the book.
Chretien de Troye’s ‘Perceval & the Grail’, Duke Hendrik’s Christmas gift . . .
Ranulf allowed a sliver of a grin, “King Philippe’s at Angers with Prince Louis, his cousin Bishop Phelps d’ Dreux, and Lord Guillame Roches.”
“Tis the news,” John chuckled a cough, “or just his locale?”
John reached out and patted Ranulf’s hand, “Good, he’s heard our hammer’s clang.”
“Guillame’s pulling his forces back into Anjou,” Ranulf got up as John inched towards the edge of the bed. “And Aimery Thouars invites you to Poitiers. He wishes to renew his oath of fealty.”
“Bloody traitors,” John muttered. “Rotting in Corfe is too good for him and Guillame.”
Aimery and Guillame were Poitevan barons who served Lionheart loyally, then continued serving John as Seneschals of Poitou and Anjou respectively. However, when Philippe invaded a decade ago, John fled to England with Guillame’s younger brother and a nubile queen, the two offered their services freely to the Frog King. They kept their offices under a different crown, earning John’s eternal spite.
“He does hold the keys to Poitiers, next stop on the way to Paris.”
“And the Lusignans?”
Ranulf shook his head mutely. John dangled his toes over the bed then eased himself upright. He squinted and winced as his weight and silk night shirt shifted.
“Spread the word,” John glanced at Ranulf, “We ride at dawn.”
“My lord,” Ranulf sounded concerned as John held onto the count’s shoulder, taking a tentative step. “Are you certain you’re well enough?”
John grunted, “If I can lie abed, I can sit a horse. Ralfus, see that Brian sets the Kingshouse in motion. Robert get the big map.”
“For certes, your majesty.”
. . .
Savaric was strumming his lute and singing, “Ohhhhhhhh, a reaving we will go, a reaving we will go, off to rape and kill and sow, a reaving we will go. The virgin hides her purse, the merchant hides his too, it doesn’t matter what you do, we’re going to plow you true.”
His men chorused, “Ohhhhhhhh, a reaving we will go, a reaving we will go, off to rape and kill and sow, a reaving we will go.”
Savaric kept on, “The cottar runs to wood, the burgher runs to ground . . .”
His men bellowed, “We don’t care where you hide, the reavers hunt with fire. . .Ohhhhhhh . . .”
Rob de Quincy and his Leicestermen joined in.
The wind was biting cold.
Robert’s cheeks and ears were red and burning, nose running, throat raw, lungs sore. The gold Plantagenet seal hammered against his heart with every hoof fall. Spinster kept shaking the wet snow flakes off her head and shivered despite the wool caparison covering most of her. The walls of Poitier loomed ahead, suburban sprawl surrounding Robert, Savaric Mauleon, and their mixed company.
The Old City was situated on a promontory surrounded on three sides by the curling Clain River. The seat of a bishopric and the ancient counts of Poitou, Poitiers was Eleanor of Aquitaine’s favorite residence. While Queen of the Plantagenet Realm she spent heavily on beautifying and fortifying the strategically important city. With Roman roads leading west to La Rochelle and the sea, northwest through Angers to Brittany and Normandy, northeast through Tours to Paris, south through Angouleme to Aquitaine, and southeast through Limoges to Tolouse, Poitiers was a key crossroads.
The outlying cottages and small farms were burned to the ground and vacant, fields littered with animal & human corpses. Gibbets on either side of the road greeted their entry to the suburbs, ripe with the newly strangled. Many of the two story shops and manors had fire damage or were ransacked. The inhabitants stood silent and still as the horsemen clopped through the muddy street, singing their lusty song.
English troops held every corner, gambesons or cloaks adorned with red griffons, red lions, or silver clams. They nodded, clapped, and sang along to ‘Reaver’s Promise’. Baron Early, Lord Marshal’s man, stood outside the chapel with several of his knights as they arrived. Fawkes the Brute and Lord Forz were across the street, outside the brothel. A small mound of hands and feet piled in the mud between Fawkes’ knights, Edmond and Eldrich.
Savaric strummed dramatically, lifting his hand to the snowy sky. A woolen cap covered his head. A thick felt verge mantle piled with raw wool about the shoulders covered his snow white surcoat, exposing the crowned and rampant cherry lion on his chest and blackened chain mail sleeves of his hauberk. Brown leather pants with small loops of mail stitched to them were tucked into high brown riding boots.
Behind Robert, Falmouth hummed the melody along with Rapscallion’s triplet knights: Beauregard, Beaudelair, and Rambeau.
Savaric smiled at the two captains outside the brothel, “Well, the Brute and the Earl Without Albemarle. My lords, how goes the reaving?”
“Where’s the king?” Gill Forz grunted while Fawkes stared at Savaric with rabid hate.
“About,” Savaric smiled even wider.
Rob de Quincy spoke up, his braided beard a black squid clinging to his chin, “If Lord Aimery pulls his head out his arse, make haste up Tours Road and reave the Valley de Vienne as far west as Chinon. Then turn ‘round, follow the Vienne to Chauvigny then back to Poitiers.”
Forz’s scarlet surcoat with three silver clams was just visible under a thick woolen black cloak, the shoulders of which were covered in ginger fox fur. Rubies pierced the man’s ears and a necklace of pearls collared his neck. Fawkes wore the same mail stitched gambeson of his griffons, a rat pelt hood couched around his thick neck, and he wore a necklace of fresh cut ears over it. The long tendrils of his moustache tickled the ears as the wind blew.
“Show me the order,” Forz demanded as Fawkes spat.
Savaric hummed his tune and plucked the melody.
“Rapscallion, I’m not in the mood.” Forz warned.
Rob de Quincy raised a righteous finger, his mouth mawing to argue.
“Our king is not in the habit of writing orders during campaign, my lord,” Robert’s voice scratched out his throat. “You know this . . . just do as you’re told.”
Forz raised fists to hips and shot arrow eyes at the herald, “The cock crows proudly does he?”
Robert shrugged, “Do as you will, King John will have his way with you either way.”
“So the king is on his way then?” Baron Early assailed from across the street. He’d tossed a crimson felt cloak trimmed with chestnut marten fur over the shoulders of his forest and sunlight surcoat. A floppy hat weighed down his brow while gloved hands rested on broadsword and falchion.
Robert swiveled his head, “He’s on the march.”
The herald squeezed Spinster’s sides with his legs and she continued forward, “I’m going to deal with Lord Aimery Thouars.”
“A reafing we wih go, a reafing we wih go,” Falmouth chanted, giving Sputterbutt a sharp spur. “Offda rape n’ kih n’ sow, a reafing we wih go.”
“This should be entertaining,” Savaric spurred Celestion.
Their company followed.
Poitier’s barbican was two round towers with a fortified drawbridge between them. Philippe’s golden fleur de lis flapped from a pole on one tower, and Aimery’s host of blue fleur de lis with a garnet upper quadrant waved from the other. The moat was half full, hedgehogged with stakes, choked with weeds, and rank with waste. The drawbridge was up, but there were observers in the windows of the wooden gallery built onto the wall between the round towers. In both directions, round towers extended to the river every fifty paces. Long wooden galleries with shuttered windows and hatches for attacking assaulters covered the tops of the city wall.
“Falmouth, white flag,” Robert muttered.
Falmouth raised the banneret with the prowling crowned Plantangenet lion and a white triangular flag beneath it.
“The trapper sets his snare. . .” Savaric plucked.
“Tha hunner baiths the bear . . .” Falmouth warbled.
“Shut your bloody traps!” Robert barked, wincing at the thorns clawing his throat. He lifted his right hand, rubbing at his throat, caressing the stab scar.
Escape the English chill, he says, winter in Poitou is an English autumn. . . fie that!
Stopping short of the moat, Robert removed a horn filled with honeyed wine and took a long swig.
“Ahoy there!” Robert yelled in his best Norman French. “King John’s herald wishes to speak with Viscount Aimery Thouars, Constable of Poitiers.”
“You mean the Seneschal of Poitou?” One of the men peering out the gallery window shouted back. He had long scraggly white hair, pale splotchy skin, an eyepatch over his left eye, and black teeth.
“Call him the Second Christ for all I care,” Robert muttered and Savaric chuckled. “I have a message from his true liege lord, John Plantagenet, King of England and Count of Poitou!”
The younger man with the greasy face chatted with the old crank.
“You’ll have to wait!” The one eyed old man called, “He’s taking a shit!”
“Must’ve had the lamprey stew,” Robert mumbled after they’d waited in the frigid wind and falling snow a good long while.
“Lamprey stew?” Savaric wondered. He’d grown tired of strumming and singing.
Robert shrugged, “Friend of mine doesn’t recommend it.”
Savaric made a wretching face. “Ahoy! L’Crank!”
The one eyed crank appeared momentarily, “Rapscallion?”
“If Aimery thinks to wait for John,” Savaric bellowed, “tell him the king will be happy to greet Poitiers with ram and ladder, trebuchet and mangonel, sword and fire!”
“Why don’t I go wipe his ass for him!” L’Crank cackled.
“You could lick it if he’d prefer!” Robert shouted, holding his throat at the scratch.
Savaric gave Robert a sly grin, “A quick study, I see.”
“Some Occitan twould be nice,” Robert winked.
“Ont sons la comun?” Savaric asked.
“Something about shite, mayhap?” Robert shrugged.
Savaric grinned, “Where’s the shitter?”
Robert chuckled, “Only Aimery knows, for certes.”
Savaric chuckled too, “Calquecop le pa que be quand las denses s’en anandos. Sometimes the bread arrives after the teeth have gone.”
Robert parroted Savaric and had it on the third try.
Heavily vulgated Latin mixed with mashed French without the Norman Viking blend. Shouldn’t be too difficult.
“Bona, good, you’re a quick study indeed.”
“I prefer to learn from the best,” Robert winked then coughed.
“Savaric de Mauleon! Le Rapscallion! Tis been too long, you lute plucking goat fucker!” Aimery appeared at the wide window with the shutters propped up. He was olive skinned, with dark tangled hair, malicious eyes, and a malevolent grin snarling under a thick horned moustache. He was wrapped in a brown felt cloak shouldered with two wolf heads.
“Oh Aimery, you always say such nice things about your sister!” Savaric replied.
“She fucks pretty good,” Aimery agreed. “Is your pa a maggot nest yet?”
“Oce,” Savaric confirmed, “He won’t be plowing your ma no more. I greet you as the new Viscount Mauleon.”
“Ah, then fuck you very much!” Aimery laughed. “I look forward to raping your villages and pillaging your peasants!”
“For certes, I’ll leave a goat out for your pleasure!” Savaric taunted back, then whistled ‘Reaver’s Promise.’
They were speaking in Occitan, mostly lost on Robert.
“When’s Softsword getting here? I’ve kept his banner ready for just the right moment.”
“Tis best you raise it now and come with us,” Savaric recommended.
“He’s not on his way then? Already headed back home?”
“Ask him yourself or sit on your sword, whichever you like!” Savaric optioned.
“Tis all the same to you, goat fucker, I’ll wait right here for his Softness! He knows where to find me!”
Savaric smirked at Robert, “Aimery’s content to wait for John. He also called you a goat fucking whoreson.”
Robert growled and rubbed his throat, “Falmouth, bring up our new crownguards.”
“Pwathefans duh tha fron!” Falmouth shouted.
“Robert, there’s something you should know about Aimery,” Savaric warned.
Three sergeants wrapped in snow soaked cloaks and low brimmed iron bonnets clod up on horses, the first wedging between Savaric and Robert, the second and third beside Falmouth and behind Savaric.
“Aimery’s known as Wolfheart,” Savaric tugged Celestion leftward, so the sergeant behind him wasn’t completely obstructed.
“My Lord Aimery!” Robert shouted in his best Norman French, squinting and grimacing at the infernal tearing inside his throat. “Savaric tells me you wish to wait for John, despite our warning as to how he’ll greet you!”
“Whose the lickspittle scribbler?” Aimery asked Savaric in Occitan.
“He’s Master Robert de London!” Savaric waved at Robert magnamously, “John’s herald!”
“He’s been licking a lot of spittle by the sound of it!” Aimery laughed.
Robert knew whatever Aimery was saying wasn’t complimentary, so he removed the bonnet from the sergeant beside him.
“My Lord Aimery, I’d like to introduce you to the new Viscount Thouars, your brother Hue. If you don’t come with us and pledge fealty to King John, you will be declared a traitor of the Realm. Your Honour and titles will forfeit to Hue, as is custom in Poitou.”
“Hue, they catch you fucking goats again?” Aimery bellowed, disappeared in the shadows of the gallery then reappeared.
“Hunting, good brother,” Hue sneered. He swished his cloak to reveal iron chains around his wrists. “They surrounded us at Fairy Hollow.”
“You’re so predictable.” Aimery shook his head.
“Falmouth, the others,” Robert barked.
“Robert, tisn’t the best way to deal with Wolfheart,” Savaric warned.
Behind Robert, Falmouth revealed Aimery’s younger brother Raymaunt and Hue’s son Gus.
“For certes, if you don’t bend the knee, one of them will,” Robert’s voice was roaring itself out.
“You stupid goat fucker.” Hue spat at Robert, switching his Poitevan accent from Occitan to French.
“What a shame!” Aimery shouted.
There was a buzzing blur, a wet thwack, Hue grunted and fell off the horse with a crossbolt in his shoulder. Another slammed into his son’s chest. Gus made an awkward cough then slumped on his horse’s neck. Raymaunt’s mount reared up, taking a bolt in the leg, and he rolled off its haunch; landing badly on the back of his head and neck.
“Shigh!” Falmouth cursed.
Sputterbutt dropped a load, vaulting Falmouth away.
“I warned you!” Savaric wheeled his horse around, and Celestion whirled as a bolt whirred by Savaric’s head.
Die English dog!
A bolt stung deep into Spinster’s neck, she quivered and gargled, panicked, tried to run, then her knees warbled and she crumpled. Robert tried to jump free, but his right ankle popped and bent wrong as Spinster flopped over. He landed hard in the cold, snowy, mud; bumping his head.
“Ahhhhhhhhrrrrrgggg!” Robert hissed and grabbed at his leg as stars hammered his skull.
What just happened? He shot his own brothers! They call him Wolfheart! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
He tried dragging his leg out from under Spinster as she shook and coughed blood, tried rolling up. She managed to push up on her fore legs, determined to stand and Robert finally dragged himself free. She pushed her back legs up. They wouldn’t hold as blood streamed down her neck, dripped off her chest, and choked from her mouth. She looked at Robert with confused sad eyes, as he lay there holding his leg and wincing in pain. Spinster clumped down, lowered her head into the mud and coughed a last spew of life.
A gust of wind blew melting snow in Robert’s face and he lay back in the mud, staring up at grey clouds, wet flakes.
So dizzy, might get sick.
He heard Hue grunting, cursing, calling for his son Gus. There was a strange and deep laughter he’d never heard before.
The Devil’s laughing at me . . . or is it God?
The sky grated, metal on stone with wood creaking, then the ground rumbled with a loud smack. Falmouth was over him with two sergeants, pulling him out of the road. Hue was stumbling towards his son laying face down in the mud. Raymaunt was sitting up, dazed and confused, holding his neck and looking sick. Savaric was astride Celestion, waving his lute and shouting angrily in Occitan.
His rapscallions were forming a line on the road, with de Quincy and the Leicestermen beside them. Some of Fawkes’ griffons were joining to either side. The Brute appeared on Slutbucket, resting the pole of Smashface against his shoulder, Talon curled jover the ear necklace around his neck. Fawkes was laughing with deep and utter contentment. Forz rode up beside him, a hunting spear held ready to throw.
Robert looked to the barbican, finally realizing the drawbridge was down and crossbowmen were running across it. They formed a wall, with the first line on their knees and the next standing boldly. The Poitevan crossbowmen parted as Aimery rode between them. A wolf skull was mounted on his horse’s head and a thick silver chain held a bronzed wolf heart upon his chest. He joked with the greasy faced crossbowmen to his right then pulled up a spiked mace and slammed it down.
The man’s head burst open, eyes and teeth flying.
Wolfheart bashed another in the face and his horse stomped a third into the bridge planking. His horse toppled two more over the bridge onto stakes below. Two younger men with the same malicious faces and a wolf head upon opposite shoulders, burst into the other corssbowmen with sword and morning star, backed by knights and sergeants. A crossbowman tried running away, towards Savaric and Fawkes. Alberd Hoodrat bolted him in the crotch and he doubled over.
I don’t understand . . .hurts to think, vision fuzzy, sounds blurry . . .ankle screaming . . .
Aimery rode passed Robert as Falmouth pulled him to his feet. Wolfheart didn’t spare the herald a glance. It seemed everyone was yelling through thickly stuffed pillows on the other side of a locked door at the end of the hall. On the barbican, King Philippe’s Fleur de Lis had wilted and the Plantagenet Lion was prowling up the pole. Aimery slipped off his horse, patted his brother Raymaunt on the shoulder, then bowed before Savaric. He offered Savaric his gory mace. Bleeding Hue was holding his dead son, staring at his brother, cursing and frothing.
You stupid goat fucker . . .
Wolfheart’s left hand rested readily on a dirk tucked on the back of his belt.
. . .
Robert eased against his chest, cushioned by his extra robe. He clenched and unclenched his scarred palm, circled the scar spot on his neck with his other. The room was packed with John’s baggage, the candle light dim, hay rushes flee ridden, Ralfus and Jonathan Dunkeld piled atop chests and snoring. The brazier was glowing warm though, and Robert finally had a mug of honeyed willow and elderberry tea. He pulled the journal from his satchel, dipped a fresh quill into the ink pot he’d warmed over a candle, and started writing:
March 15, 1214
Angouleme
Not How I Wanted to Begin This, but I can Bear it No Longer. May God have Mercy Upon my Soul! I Killed the boy Gus, son of Baron Hue de Thouars. I may not have loosed the Bolt, but I offered him up for Sacrifice like an Ignorant Abraham to Lucifer. The Sailor at the Serpent’s Eye, twas Defense, though the feel of his Throat crushing in my Hand lingers and Haunts. Non. I killed Gus out of Stupid Bravado. How was I to Know? Savaric’s Inept Warning? Too Little too Late! John told me to take Hostages & show them off. Did He Know? I Know not the Wolfheart but John & Savaric do! I may not bear Sole Burden, yet my Soul is Burdened, the Guilt makes this Golden Lion ever Heavier.
A sore turned ankle and aching head are Meager Penance.
God! Is this what I was Chosen for? Herald of Death & Misery!
I have seen my King tender to wife & children, indulgent with his Chosen. Is that enough? Must a King be an Iron Serpent, Hard & Venemous? Does the King make the Man or Man make the King? I can tell not. We arrived here before the Royal Host somehow, saw the Splendid Arrival with Queen Isabelle leading the way. Oh, how Angouleme love their Beautiful Countess! She may be Fairest Fawn in England but she is Eve in Eden here! Such a Feast I have Never Seen, a Shame I have no Appettite.
Then Husband John turned to King John, refusing her Advice for a new Seneschal. Oh, how Isabelle raved. ‘Tis my County, Husband, have I no Say how tis Ruled?’ ‘Non!’ Says John. “I am Husband, Lord, & King!’ She cursed the day an Innocent Girl Woman let the Letcher King tickle her Little Purse and Steal her Away!
Astounding! Have Never Seen John so Wroth! He Struck her Hard in the Face, Blamed Isabelle for Hurting his Gouty Hand. All done in full View of: Prince Rickon & Princess Joan, Count Ranulf, Earl Ferrers & Lady Mabel, Lord Hubert & Lady Beatrice, Bastard Boy, Ellen of Brittany, Jonathan D & Alicia F, etc. Now King & Queen ‘Sleep’ in different Towers. John above me, grunting over some Chambermaid. Whispers of a Handsome Young Angouleme Knight Consoling Queen. Her Homecoming Indeed.
None but John Know what we do Next. Does He even Know?
Philippe stalks Us, a Wary Hunter in the Wood Across the River. Are we Fleeing or Luring him to the Lion’s Den? I’m a Hound on the Leash. I Bey and Obey. Nothing More. There Must Be More.
God Helps Those Who Help Themselves!
. . .
“Shall we?” Sir Humphrey Bohun, heir to the Earl of Hereford, grinned at his wife.
“We shall!” Lady Mahault de Lusignan swung her leg over the saddle to straddle Evaguard.
Neither Robert nor Savaric could help admiring the leggy curves of the tight sky blue woolen hose and the enviable shadows beneath the slit of her silver and salmon tunic. Fleece lined doeskin gloves reached up to Mahault’s elbows, a sky blue woolen shirt covered her arms and folded up her neck from the tunic. Boots to match her gloves and a felt lined, rabbit fur mantle kept the wind from cutting too deep. Her cheeks were palest rose, eyes ice blue, and skin as smooth as almond cream. A midnight lock curled provocatively down forehead and cheek to dangle in her lap, the rest pulled back in four braids over loose hair plunging down to Evaguard’s back.
Husband and wife spurred horses down the frozen road, laughing and jesting, whipping the horses with willow branches.
Savaric sighed, “No heat burns as hot as young love.”
Robert’s gaze followed the dirt road down the rolling hill to La Souterraine, the first fortified town within La Marche. It was an overgrown village, a cluster of snow topped manors and shops around a church; a score of wood cottages surrounding them helter skelter, all ringed by a stone wall. White fields surrounded the town and snow blanketed rolling wooded hills in every direction. La Marche, the ancient frontier between Occitaine and France, was still a wilderness spotted with small fortified towns, isolated cattle manors, and craggy castles.
“Do you think they mean to fight?” Robert’s eyes anchored on the host lined across the road and fields before La Souterraine.
A military camp curled around the town’s walls, extending to the lone tower perched on a mound further back. The baronial levies of La Marche waited among their tents.
Rapscallion tut tutted, “There is no love lost between the Lusignans and John, yet I think they strike the pose out of pride rather than bloodlust.”
More vassal enemies, when do they end? When does the snow end?
Savaric nodded at the columns of foot and horse soldiers to the left of the road, “Do you see the lone red bar among the blue and silver stripes of those banners?”
“For certes,” Robert agreed.
“That’s Viscount Raoul d’ Acre’s retinue and as staunch as they look, tis been a long march from his Eu on the eastern march of Normandy, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed.”
The length of England I’d wager . . . If Adam were here.
“Now the men under the banner with just the Lusignan stripes are Barons Poxy Joffroi & Handsome Valens. They’ve only come from the Lusignan viscounty south and west of Poitiers, but they’re worried about whom they left behind I’d say.”
“So the central troops are Count Hugh’s, the crowned crimson lion over the Lusignan stripes.”
Savaric grinned, “Old Sourowl himself.”
“Tis true King John had them tortured after the Miracle at Mirebeau?”
“Don’t call it that within earshot of a Lusignan,” Savaric laughed. “They were among those captured alongside Duke Arthur, but John was smart enough to treat Hugh and Raoul with care.”
“As were you,” Robert added, having heard Lord Peter’s stories when deep in his cups.
Savaric slid Robert a Devil’s grin.
“You led the Revolt at Corfe did you not?” Robert prodded further.
“Twenty two of us John sent to Corfe, but it seems the Rock has been telling tales so you already know what happened.”
“You entertained your captors with songs and tales, earning their trust so they put you in a tower room. Then one night you got your guards thoroughly drunk, stormed into the constable’s room and subdued him afore he was even awake. Then freed your mates and held the castle hostage until John negotiated a right favorable deal with you.”
“Close enough for a song,” Savaric chuckled.
Robert gazed at the Lusignan line again.
“What of Joffroi and Valens, did John treat them with care?”
“Not so much,” Savaric sighed, “I found them in the dungeon and believe me, compared to those I found in the Forgotten Hole they were the lucky ones.”
Robert shuddered at the memory of what he’d seen down there.
“Probably a good thing Isabelle stayed behind in Angouleme then. Twill be hard enough for the Lusignan’s to bow before John.”
Savaric’s sandy brows arched, “Do you know whose Hugh’s lady wife?”
“Non,” Robert admitted.
Savaric whistled the chorus of ‘Ode to Softsword’ then winked at Robert. “His first wife was my cousin, and they loved one another truly. Mayhap tis why I’m in the van today. Anyhow, the Church frowned on their union . . . consanguinity and all that. This is where it gets thorny, though. After John stole Isabelle from him but before the Miracle at Mirebeau, Hugh demanded another bride from House Tallifier and wed Hilde de Angouleme, Isabelle’s cousin.”
Robert thought on that, “Both fathers are dead? Nary another sibling or cousin?”
Savaric was tuning his lute and whistling a fast paced melody Robert hadn’t heard before. Rapscallion’s sly grin was enough. Robert watched Mahault ride up to Raoul d’ Acre, who hugged her so tight he pulled her off Evaguard and onto his lap. She was giddy with laughter and playfully smacked her father’s chest, reached back to whip him but he pulled the willow strapling from her hand, pecking kisses on her cheek and neck. Humphrey offered an awkward salute as he fished for Evaguard’s reins.
“According to Aquitanian law then, when Isabelle dies . . . Hugh can claim Angouleme through Hilde.”
Savaric picked the lively melody, letting the last note ring long, then strummed chords as he sang each stanza in Occitan and French, “Lucifer wandered through Lusignan, he was looking for a soul to take, he came across Hugh a hunting, and there made his first mistake. Why hello there a huntsman, Lucifer said to he, I’ve got a lance of gold against your soul, I can slay a bigger stag than thee. Well good morn there a stranger, I’m Hugh de Lusignan, and I’ll wager my soul against your own, even if it be sin.”
As the song continued, the hunters sealed the wager with a bloody handshake then Hugh rode into the woods with Lucifer, trading jests and boasts while their bloodhounds sniffed deer. Hugh noticed with each hoof fall the stranger’s mount left ash, his dogs sparked the brush they rubbed against, and the stifling summer heat smelled of brimstone. Even so, Hugh’s beasts flushed first and he loosed dyrehounds to course the twelve tyned stag. Pinning the beast midway across a stream, the dyrehounds let go at the sound of a whistle.
Savaric abruptly dampened the strings, glanced at Robert and whistled the exotic riff.
It hurt Robert’s head when he laughed, then Rapscallion strummed and sang again.
Hugh threw his spear fair and true and the stag fell in the stream. Lucifer paid him compliment, then flushed a thirteen pointer on the outskirts of the wood. The buck was swift and the demon dogs couldn’t catch him till they came upon the crossroads to Poitier. Lucifer laughed and threw his spear with sinful grace. As the fiery javelin descended for the stag’s heart, Lucifer demanded his prize, but then Lusignan whistled.
Again, the pregnant pause.
Savaric whistled the riff.
Robert covered his mouth, stymying laughter as he twisted in the saddle of his sturdy sorrel, Packhorse. Behind them stretched the royal host: Humphrey’s retinue and Savaric’s, Forz’ and Lanvalay’s, Montfichet’s and de Quincy’s, the barons of Limousin and Angouleme, Ranulf’s Cheshiremen and Ferrer’s Derbymen, Wolfheart and the loyal barons of Poitou.
The kingsmen, crowntroops, and routiers haven’t even crested the hill. I don’t think this dale’s big enough to hold us all.
Savaric continued the song.
Hugh’s poodle burst from behind a nearby menhir, soared through the air and clenched the spear in his teeth. As the poodle burst into flames, Hugh loosed an arrow straight into the stag’s eye, which fell dead in the center of the crossroads. Lucifer complained he’d been cheated. Hugh laughed and raised a blood red hand.
The Lusignans waited before the opened gates of the squat barbican. Willow, ash, and chestnut branches covered the road, for it was Palm Sunday. They were close enough to see a wall of faces underneath helmets, armor, weaponry, and banners.
Joffroi looked eager to murder, hideously covered in pox scars from neck to bald dome, an upside down cross branded on his forehead. Valens was tragically handsome with an eyepatch and brand on his forehead. Mahault was waving her hand in rhythm with the song, seductively harmonizing with Rapscallion. Raoul laughed hysterically, buried his head in Mahault’s hair, and tickled her. Hugh, ninth namesake of the Lusignan in the song, sat his horse in the center of the road; watching and listening sternly.
“As a fiery spear in his hand appeared, the Huntsman Hugh did cheer, you may be the Prince of Darkness and I am just a man, but today you’ve learned against me you’ll burn, for I am a Lusignan!”
Savaric picked the riff, slowing with each note as the name faded across the wind. Everyone looked to Count Hugh, covered in a cloak of grey wolf heads. He raised a cobalt gloved hand. The fiery furred poodle trimmed to resemble a lion, and tethered to his master’s saddle, stood to attention. Across the column archers, crossbowmen, sergeants, and knights readied their weapons. Humphrey was still as a deer scenting wolf.
Robert’s hands tightened on Packhorse’s reins.
I shall have no fear as I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death . . .Die English dog. . . you stupid goatfucker . . .Please not another Wolfheart . . .
Hugh started to clap.
Raoul cheered gustily and Mahault squeeled like the giddy little girl she’d been a few short years ago. A cacophonous roar erupted from the troops. Humphrey sighed relief. Poxy Joffroi smirked a trembling sneer.
“Only you, Savaric, only le Rapscallion,” Hugh proclaimed in Occitan.
“Shakespear sit!” Savaric ordered.
The lion poodle sat, tail wagging, apologetic eyes staring up at Hugh.
. . .
John walked stiffly and carefully up the urine slicked steps of the Church de St. Jehan, Father Martine having finished the Palm Sunday Prayer and recounting of the torturous Passion of Christ. Behind the king were: Lord Hubert, Count Ranulf, Earl Ferrers and Lady Mabel, Baron de Quincy and Lady Hawise, Barons Lanvalay and Montfichet, Sir Oliver Bastard Boy, Rapscallion, Wolfheart, the Viscounts of Cognac, Rochefort, and Parthenay, the Count of Limousin, Seneschal Bartolome of Angouleme, Commander Renier of the La Rochelle Temple, various squires and handmaidens, scribes, chaplains, and Robert. Above him stood the Lusignan entourage: Count Hugh, his twenty something heir Hugo, the young man’s step mother Lady Hilde de Angouleme and budding half sister Agathe; Viscount Raoul d’ Acre, his son Rollo, daughter Mahault, & ring son Humphrey; Poxy Joffroi and Handsome Valens, other trusted barons of Lusignan, Eu, and La Marche; Father Martine of St. Jehans, and Preceptor Talevar of the La Marche Hospital.
“Fitting, we meet at a church named for my saint,” King John spoke in Poitevan French as he stopped two steps short.
“They way I heard it,” Hugh croaked in Poitevan Occitan, “Your mother the queen couldn’t be bothered to give you a family name, so a nursemaid chose the closest one at hand; twas the Feast of Saint Jehan after all.”
John’s face contorted as if swallowing bile.
His eyes broke from Hugh’s, dropped to the count’s feet then returned. Above the wolfheads snarling from shoulder to ankle, Hugh’s swarthy face was chiseled by decades of plotting. Brown eyes flecked with green sparks hated John above a bulbous nose with a gnarly haired mole. His long charcoal hair and goatee silvered long before Robert’s birth, but he kept the façade vigorously.
“I’d bend the knee, my liege, but the dogs . . .” Hugh’s gloved hand escaped the wolves momentarily. Underneath the cloak, a steel breast plate was stamped with a rampant lion painted crimson and wearing a gilded crown; armor fit for a king.
He offers obeisance and feigns it at the same time . . .
Robert read the gesture, recognizing the Occitan word for liege from Savaric’s tutoring.
John’s eyes narrowed, catching the irony as well. His bear cloak bustled in the wind. The three gilded lions on his own breast plate stared with ruby eyes. The king shook grey bangs from his eyes.
“All in due time,” John acquiesced in Occitan.
“My lord,” Father Martine stooped and stepped down, nearly slipping and falling on John.
The king reached out to steady him, hissing at the fiery pins in ankle, elbow, and wrists.
“I beg pardon,” The old man shook, “Please, welcome . . . welcome to our Church de St. Jehan.”
“We’ve prepared a feast in your honor,” Hugh announced loudly but without joy.
Half of John’s entourage stared at him with blank faces.
Raoul d’ Acre pointed to the double line of carts, a score of them stretching around the church; all filled with three wheels of waxed cheese, two kegs of wine, and a freshly butchered side of beef.
“We’ve even provided a Palm Sunday feast for your host, my lord.” The Count of Eu proclaimed in Poitevan French for all to understand.
“They will appreciate it greatly, for certes.” John nodded approvingly as the drovers whipped their workhorses.
No need to reave this day!
“Please, my lord, come inside!” Father Martine genuflected again.
The Lusignan’s turned round and John’s retinue followed. Braziers, torches, candelabras, and exotic oil lamps warmed and lit the church. Blue curtains of thick velvet and tapestries depicting hunting scenes, Lusignan Castle, and the Kingdom of Cyprus hung over shuttered windows. The altar held large barrel kegs of different wines and brandies. An enormous trestle table stood in the center of the church, covered in bone white linen trimmed with silver silk.
Servants in fine wool and linen bustled about, continuing to lay out the fanciful bounty. There were mounds of dried grapes, figs, apricots, cherries, and even dates from Outremer; the Holy Land Beyond the Sea. Heaps of black, rye, and honeyed wheat bread bowls, as well as curious stacks of flat breads piled next to clay bowls of pear and cinnamon, apple and cloves, and peppered plum sauces; honeyed mustard, black peppered mustard, peppered radish mustard, garlic butter, lavender butter, and rosemary butter. Silver bowls held onion, vegetable, spiced chicken, and sausage in almond cream soups. Gilded trays held steamed carrots, grilled asparagus, chilled broccoli, even a bright mound of thawed oranges. Silver plates held chickens basted in duck fat, roast duck stuffed with basil and chives, bacon wrapped venison, several links of spiced sausages, cashew crusted pork chops, almond crusted lamb chops, beaf steaks saturated in wine sauce, lemon and oregano marinated pike, and grilled sturgeon. There were bowls of a fragrant, strange food called rice; a luxurious pile of salt for seasoning, and exotic smelling spices in every shade of yellow and red. Sweet meats, candied fruits, sugared dumplings, almond tortes, and hot cross buns were laid out for desserts.
My appetite’s back!
A Saracen slave wrapped in white robes and a turban removed Hugh’s wolf cloak and another fit a sable mantle onto the count. Hugh spread his arms wide and bowed exquisitely before King John.
“My lord, I hope you may find something to your taste.”
One of the Saracens translated into oddly accented French for the benefit of those who didn’t speak Occitan.
“We are pleased,” John grinned as a pretty serving girl offered him a gilded bowl with fresh water for washing off the grime of the march. His eyes delighted across the young girl’s unfastened hair, honey gold and hanging to rounding hips. “Eminently pleased.”
Ferrer’s slapped his bloated belly and smacked his lips, a walking pavilion his tunic was so large. “A hundred Marks says I can eat one of everything on the table! Who’ll stake me for it?”
Raoul d’Acre jiggled Ferrer’s belly.
“Gladly!” Raoul chuckled, “But only if you eat a handful of each finger food and keep it all down before you finish.”
Raoul was a few years younger than his brother, Hugh, but allowed the silver to mingle amongst his straight ink hair. He kept a close cropped beard and the popular fringed bowl cut, and though his nose was hooked like Hugh’s, his complexion was neither as swarthy as his brother’s nor pale as Mahault’s. Raoul was more fit than his older brother, his chest more pronounced than his paunch. Whereas his daughter’s eyes were pale blue, Raoul’s were summer sky blue with flecks of jade.
“Stake claimed!” Ferrer’s licked his lips, stretched sausage fingers, and shambled towards the feast. He picked up a whole duck, squeezed the greasy juice all over his lime green tunic and bit into it as if he’d been fasting for forty days.
Lady Mabel sighed as her husband glutted himself. Her sister Hawise and brother Ranulf called her to join them and Rob de Quincy. Fat Ferrers demanded she pour a handful of each dried fruit into a breadbowl and mix it with the apple cinnamon sauce, dribbling duck and herbs over his belly as he did so.
Aimery’s two sons delved into animated conversation with Hugh and Raoul’s sons. Wolfheart and Rapscallion were jesting pointedly with Poxy Joffroi and Handsome Valens. Willum Lanvalay and his wife Tilly Peche congregated with Rob Quincy, Rikard Montfichet, his comely young sister Valery, and her new husband Gill Forz. Robert hunted along the table, passing polite conversation with Ralfus. Commander Renier and Preceptor Talevar carefully orbited the table, avoiding eye contact at all cost. As the lords and ladies mingled, Lady Hilde de Angeloume insinuated herself by Hugh’s side, pulling their daughter along.
“How is my dear sweet cousin, Queen Isabelle, my lord?” Hilde asked John with perfect etiquette, though her tone was pure sarcasm. She was a taller, skinnier, somehow more plain vision of Isabelle; still pretty if not for the large birthmark stretching across her right cheek and neck. Their daughter had father’s hair and nose, but mother’s long limbs and eyes.
“She is well, m’lady, resting in Angouleme,” John replied smoothly. “The long winter has been rough on her.”
“So we hear,” Hugh agreed tautly.
Robert and Ralfus sidled up to Pete de Rivalis.
“Hey l’Rock’s nephew,” Ralfus jested.
“Hey Neville’s nephew,” Pete japed.
Robert smirked since they both looked far too much like their uncles merely to be nephews.
“Truce, the both of you,” Robert whispered, “Pete, we need you to translate.”
Robert looked to king and count and Pete grinned.
“My tongue is at your service,” Pete replied in Occitan then Poitevan French.
“Now that’s more like it,” Ralfus huddled closer.
Ferrer’s rumbled a burp echoing through the room, then double fisted a steak shank and asparagus. “Maybear, dump the soups in another trencher and throw in the broccoli.”
“How is your nephew, the King of Cyprus?” John deflected.
“Expecting his first child with Queen Alice de Jerusalem, my lord,” Hugh informed curtly.
“May they be blessed with a son,” John gladly accepted a chalice, watched as the count’s cup bearer poured into both the king and count’s cups, then smelled the rich aroma. “Tisn’t Eager Bride, no hint of cherries, curious.”
John took a sip, “Quite sweet, is that sugar mulled into it?”
Hugh nodded a brow slighltly, “And ginger and coriander.”
“Pixie Sweat?” John ventured one of his favorite blends of hippocras.
“Maidenhead,” Lusignan commented, “A new blend from Cyprus.”
“What does young King Hugues think of Pope Innocent’s call for a new crusade?” Lord Hubert joined John’s side, the bone of a lamb chop pressed between his fingers.
“I dare say he’ll support it,” Lusignan paused to sip his own Maidenhead, “Once the Twenty Year Truce ends.”
There was a commotion of cursing on the far side of the table, a goblet crashed and spilled wine lay on the stone floor covered in pine needles.
“Watch it!” Ferrer’s belched as he drizzled radish mustard over bacon wrapped venison piled on flat bread and rice. “there’s a lot at stake here!”
Handsome Valens was pushing Poxy Joffroi back towards the wine, shaking his head and murmuring at his raging half-brother. Joffroi seemed ready to leap over his half-brother, vengeful eyes honed in on John, hand tightly gripping a chicken leg as if it were a mace. Savaric hid a smile with his hand.
“My affliction is your curse Softsword!” Joffroi shouted in Poitevan French, ensuring the widest audience. As his face flushed crabby red, Joffroi’ss pox scars remained pale but the upside down cross darkened rageful. “Do you hear me! You did this to me! I damn you! I damn you to a miserable, pathetic death!”
“Tell him Poxy!” Wolfheart laughed, his bronzed wolf heart bouncing against his chest. “That’ll fix everything!”
“Come, brother, lets go flog a stable boy.” Handsome Valens recommended.
“Tisn’t a party till something gets spilled!” Raoul d’Acre announced as the two departed through a side door, then looked to Savaric. “Rapscallion, give us entertainment if you would!”
“I have just the song!” Savaric swung his lute around, “I picked it up from a minstrel by the name of Joey Cocksure when I was last in England. Tis called ‘The Wife of Bath’!”
Robert winced at Savaric, sent pleading eyes to Hubert, who nodded.
“Mayhap, we should retire to the chapel for a more intimate discussion, my lords?”
Hugh and John stared at one another, wolves circling a carcass.
“Oce,” Hugh agreed.
“For certes,” John nodded.
Another disgusting burp stank the air.
“Venison on the floor!” Raoul pointed victoriously, “100 Marks to Lusignan!”
. . .
March 31, 1214
Angouleme, Aquitaine
Lord Peter,
All not as well as otherwise indicated. Isabelle only sees John when commanded or public ceremony such as yesterday’s Easter Mass. Her affair with Seigneur Arqueblanque l’ Angel Knight of Angouleme an open secret. Rapscallion igniting sparks everywhere. Don’t trust Wolfheart. Fat Ferrers crippled with gout. Lusignans divided. Hugh refusing to fight & making Marshal’s argument, John his liege as Duke but Philippe his overlord as King. Raoul open to inducements, as wroth with Black Monk’s raids as John, which may influence Hugh. Joffroi & Valens lost cause. No word from Longsword vexing John as well. What is happening in Flanders? Where is Kaiser Otto? John’s silver more convincing than his Crown, but half the wagon loads already dispensed. John has sent for a certain Lionsblood & his Magnificient Bastards. He’s eager for their swords but worried for the cost. Is Lionsblood truly who Rapscallion says he is? Fawkes, Early, & Forz holding Poitiers but reaving making John no friends in eastern Poitou. Your brother reaving through Thouars and Mauleon viscounties in western Poitou. John silent on intentions, but sending Savaric, Montfichet, & Lanvalay after your brother, sending Hubert & Ranulf round Poitiers with supplies to replenish reaving. Says still too early to face Philippe. If there’s good news, send right away!
R. de London
PS: Pete de Rivalis proving a Godsend as Ralfus & I are grinding through quills.