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AND SO IT was that the vicomte of Limoges rode among a subdued party of troubadours, lordlings, knights, and stray sons, hardly any of the mismatched travelers having much in common but all of them possessed of a fixed goal, that of witnessing history unfold.
After a march of several days, they met up not unexpectedly with Richard, by the grace of God duke of Aquitaine, whose far-reaching duchy included the many and diverse comtés and vicomtés of La Marche, Auvergne, Périgord, Agenais, Quercy, Saintonge, Armagnac, Béarn, Ventadorn, Comborn, Turenne, Angoulême, and Limoges, disregarding when one or the other was in rebellion or under siege. On his way back from the southern territories, the duke had been duly intercepted by courier, as ordered by Drake and agreed to by Aimery, who had little choice in coming face to face with the overlord he had repeatedly betrayed.
In greeting, twilight spread its elongated shadows and brought the separate parties into safe harbor, the bailey of Châteauneuf. Since the castle had been spectacularly captured in ’76 by Richard after a fortnight’s siege, old grievances were bound to be resurrected. But what Richard did not yet know was that he had been waylaid here, fourteen years later, to assuage the feelings of the Angoumois and Limousin nobility and, by way, to put an end to the trials of Drake and Stephen fitzAlan.
After acknowledging the vicomte of Limoges and his half-brother the comte of Angoulême as if no bad blood flowed between them, Richard greeted Drake and Stephen with brash hugs and fierce kisses. He looked them over top to bottom, commenting on their various states of disability. “It’s a good thing,” he said to Drake, “you did not break your sword arm.”
A different man than the one who left England those many months ago, Drake said in a droll and bitter manner, “Truly, it does not matter which arm is broken, so long as they both serve the king.” And presented Richard with his departing back.
Evensong found Richard sitting down with Ademar and Aimery. To put them in their proper places, he berated them with a heated discourse having to do with loyalty, fidelity, and allegiance. And lectured them against treasonous acts carried out on their overlord and their overlord’s knights. And went on to threaten all manner of destruction and ruination by altogether unpleasant means.
In the end, he made certain compromises.
Restoration of a slew of castles surrendered to Duke Richard and King Henry more than a decade ago was rejected out of hand. Widomar was to remain under the comte of Blois’ protection until he took the cross and sailed for the Holy Land. The proposed marriage of Matilda of Angoulême to Drake fitzAlan was not withdrawn.
But since his son would serve God’s holy mission, the vicomte of Limoges was formally restored his title. And should Widomar conduct himself valiantly on the battlefield, he would be allowed possession of the familial home of Limoges upon his return and all rights of inheritance. The biggest prize, the comté of Angoulême, was formally granted to Ademar, irrespective of the forthcoming nuptials of his niece. Drake, it seemed, was not destined to become a comte in his own right, which did not disappoint him in the least.
Afterwards, and for the most part satisfied, the half-brothers sought out the elder fitzAlan brother who brought the concessions to pass. They were clearly pleased with the outcome but not so pleased as to gloat, though it seemed prudent to welcome the knight into their family. In no mood to receive gratitude in whatever form, Drake also showed the comte and vicomte his petulant back.
The officially recognized comte of Angoulême graciously extended hospitality to Richard and his mighty entourage numbering nearly fifty, and also to the brothers fitzAlan and his mélange of troubadours, vagabonds, and men-at-arms.
Trestles were arranged in the great hall and laid out with linens, candlesticks, and assorted flower arrangements. The forthcoming meal was slaughtered, gathered from the fish weir or brought up from the cellar, and roasted and cooked and boiled with precious spices, tasty creams, and succulent sauces. Bacchus was consulted, and flagons of Moissac wine, brewed ale, and spiced mead were provided. The comte’s gracious and charming wife proudly introduced their cranky infant daughter, Isabella, who was quickly spirited away amidst wailing shrieks.
The smell of good cooking tumbled hungry bellies. Guiraut, Gaucelm, and Alamanda, along with Bertran de Born who voiced his pleasure in finding the brothers fitzAlan hale if not hardy, provided abundant entertainment as did the brothers d’Ussel, who contributed merriment of their own especial qualities. Accompanied by splendor, the food platters arrived.
Drake ate in moderation. The ale was passable and the mead more than tolerable, but the wine was splendid and became tastier as the evening progressed. The only sounds escaping his otherwise occupied throat were unintelligible grunts and curt affirmations or denials. At one point, he gave out a hopeful, though as it turned out lone, request for the saltcellar, and barely noticed the disappointed sighs pouring out from his table companions.
Richard’s voice overtook the chatter and music as peals of thunder overtake a storm. Drake heard his name spoken with something more than a whisper. Only after the tables had hushed did he look up to hear his name repeated as a curse. “Drake fitzAlan is a gadfly in my soup. He is overly sullen and given to staring at his trencher.” The godlike voice reverberated from the king’s high table to Drake’s mindfully chosen perch at the far end of a sideboard.
“Drake fitzAlan,” said Drake, “begs milord’s pardon.” He did not have to raise his voice for its petulance to resonate throughout the hall. With controlled care, he lay his table knife down on the snowy table linens and beside it, his useable hand, which matched the other resting on the opposite side of the trencher, fingers trapped in their wrappings.
“Where is the gaiety? You have returned the conquering hero. Yet you surround yourself with jongleurs and minstrels, whereas your brother, sitting here at the high table, collects knights and lordlings. A disparity lies there, symbolic of something, as to what I am asunder.”
Drake inhaled sharply. “But you have formed an opinion.”
“Oui, I have formed an opinion. So why not live up to it? Or rather down to it?”
“Because ... whatever your opinion regarding jongleurs and minstrels ... they saved my life more than once. I am indebted to them.”
An eating knife thrown in pique took wing in the direction of Drake’s head but failed to reach him. Gui d’Ussel, with agile finesse, gathered it up from its landing position in the rushes, wiped it clean with his elbow, and sidestepping the dogs, quietly approached the dais, there to deposit it pristinely before the king. By now, no one was eating, even though the blancmange had arrived.
The king had not finished. “Have I said they oughtn’t be praise? They deserve all my praise and more, and shall have it. But you set yourself apart and lick your wounds in solitary company. Your brother here has gathered as many scars as you. He does not stick his nose in his cups and mope for all to pity.”
Drake said levelly, “Truth be known, my brother has gathered many more scars, scars that cannot be seen.” He continued to stare downward, not daring to show Richard his face, nor seeking to look into the wide eyes of those surrounding him. “Kings demand too much from those who serve them. Take Louis of Blois. His one uncle is the king of France. His other, the king of England. Which is he to play true?”
Richard scraped back his chair. “But you serve only one king.”
Drake said levelly, “Tell me that you did not intend to draw the brothers fitzAlan into your web as a spider draws a slug, and I shall believe you.”
The king was on the move.
Drake raised his voice. “Tell me you did not know from the beginning who was behind the assassination attempts, and I shall believe you.”
Richard drew inevitably closer.
With an even louder voice, Drake said, “Tell me you placed the virginal Matilda of Angoulême on a platter, thinking only of my welfare, and I shall believe you.”
Richard was standing on the other side of the trestle, fire licking his eyes, turbulence tumbling his hair, and temper raising his hackles.
“Tell me,” Drake said, nearly shouting, “that you did not intend to lure one or the other of your brothers into the same web with me and Stephen, and I shall believe you.”
Bracing fists on hips, Richard thrust his beard forward. His face colored with rage. His nostrils flared like a bull on the attack. His jaw macerated uneaten gristle.
Close to a whisper, a king’s knight finished his indictment, “Tell me that you did not mean to expose all your enemies, near and far, so you could put yokes about their throats, and I shall believe you.”
With a broad arm, Richard swept everything within reach off the trestle. Cups, platters, utensils, and candlesticks crashed to the floor while diners scrambled for safety.
“And still you will not say!” Drake had not budged but kept to the table, the palms of both hands flat on the surface but the knuckles white with tension.
“Do you always stand up for your brother?” Richard swept an arm toward Stephen while staring down at Drake. “Cannot he speak for himself? Is he not a man as you are a man?”
Stephen stood. “He can speak for himself.”
“Now that the mouth has opened, what does it have to say?” Richard took in both brothers with cutting eyes.
“That when you consult one, you should consult both. But in truth, you consulted neither.”
“Your accusations dishonor me. Both of you!”
“It would do well for my king to be informed,” Stephen said, “his enemies do not make distinction between knights. Or pawns, as it were. One is like the other. In this case, one is exactly like the other.”
“You swore an oath of fealty!” The king’s fist pounded the table, upsetting the remaining wine goblets, which toppled and stained the linen. “Do you take your oaths so lightly?”
Drake continued to stare at his hands, trembling with unspent fury. More than anything, he wanted to punch out both hands, broken arm or not, traitorous action or not, and beat his king to a bloody pulp. Wiser caution prevailed since he would have wound up in a dungeon deeper than the one Stephen had occupied, there forgotten for all time.
Richard was on the move. Drake watched him warily but miscalculated his intent. On a sudden thrust, he reached across the table, grabbed Drake by the arm, the good one, heaved him over the trestle, hauled him across the floor, and flung him against the wall. His cheek pressed to the chill of the limestone, Drake suffered a twisting agony that brought him to tears. He lashed out his bad arm but with little effect. Richard increased the pressure on his good arm. “Do I need to break the other arm to teach you respect!”
Crippled beyond pain, Drake barely had breath enough to speak. Speak he did, his voice forced through bellows of agony. “Better a cripple! Than a pawn to your caprices!”
“Caprices, you say! Pawn, you say!”
Fury bent the twisted arm farther. Drake sank to his knees and sobbed. He had nothing to fight with except reproach. “Break it and have done with it! At least then our enemies will have a marker to tell the fitzAlan brothers apart.”
“One a knight and the other a coward, you mean?”
Drake smelled the putridness of fear: his own. “You call me a coward!”
“No!” And then more calmly, as if he were speaking to himself, “No. You are anything but. Either of you. You have sacrificed yourselves ten times over. But either you are with me or you are not. Go! I don’t need you!” Richard released his grip.
“I intend to.” With a groan, Drake painfully untangled himself and crawled into a corner in which to cower. Hunched over lamed arms, one throbbing and the other aching, he rocked back and forth.
Richard prowled the planking beside his groveling knight. “Where would you go? Hmm? What would you do? Run away to a monastery and hide in a cloister like your brother secretly craves? Or travel the countryside and sing songs of unrequited love like your minstrel friends? When you care for nothing and love no one.”
“I love,” Drake said.
“Who? Jezebels? Catamites? Or ...?”
“No!”
“Then yourself? Because only a selfish ingrate would speak to his king the way you speak to me.”
Drake gazed up through the sweat-soaked fringe of his hair and met the eyes of his king. “Stephen. My father. And you, damn you to Hell! You!”
The pacing halted.
Like a conch, Drake twisted more tightly into his protective carapace. Speaking from beneath sheltering arms, he said, “The next time you send Stephen and me on a king’s mission, do us the courtesy of informing us. At least then we can look over our shoulders.” The disquieting hush in the hall was broken only by the crackling of the hearthfire.
Richard offered a helping hand. “Come. I didn’t break it.”
Drake gazed up, his eyes burning with the fatigue of spent anger. He was probably as white as the coruscated rock at his back. When he didn’t offer up either arm, Richard squatted beside him, there on the greasy rushes, and drew him against his chest, his arm resting heavily across Drake’s shoulders. Stephen approached.
“I sometimes forget,” Richard said, gazing up. “You are no longer squires. You are men. And king’s knights.”
Seventy and more faces were drawn to the drama in the corner. The knife-edged ridge of the king’s nose sliced the air. “Eat! Even if the morsels stick in your gullet. The drama is over.”
Reluctantly, everyone obeyed.
The eagle talons dug deeper into Drake’s shoulders. “I was wrong.”
Drake swallowed derisive laughter but not the crooked smile that accompanied it. “A king? Fallible?”
“And tractable. A vow,” he said, including Stephen. “I will treat you as the men you are and not as pawns on a chessboard.”
Drake nodded and suppressed a gulp. The tears were there, ready to spring. But dear God, not in front of the king.
The king stood, bringing Drake dizzyingly with him. He clapped his other arm around Stephen. “What you need is a woman.”
Drake said, “The last thing of which I need is a woman.”
Richard turned his head. “Stephen then. For weeks he has been locked up in a hellhole with nothing to keep him company but his hands.” Gathering the men against his broad shoulders, the king embraced them as boys, and neither brother knew whether to laugh or cry.
Later, everyone seated around the hall, the comte and comtesse of Angoulême joined their guests for an evening of revelry, replete with jongleurs and minstrels.
Alamanda and Guiraut sang a duet, their voices playful, she playing the part of her mistress’s maid while he was speaking to her of his desire for her mistress.
If I seek your advice, pretty friend Alamanda,
don’t make things hard for me, for I’m a banished man.
For that’s what your deceitful mistress told me,
that now I’ve been expelled from her command:
and what she gave me she retracts now and reclaims.
What should I do?
I’m so angry that my body’s
all but bursting into flame.
Drake and Stephen were given seats of honor, stools propping their feet, pillows cushioning their backs, and nothing too good for either. Fresh drink, poured repeatedly into their cups, vanished without delay.
In God’s name, Guiraut, a lover’s wishes
count for nothing here, for if one partner fails
the other should keep up appearances
so that their trouble doesn’t spread or grow.
If she tells you that a high peak is a plain,
believe her,
and accept the good and bad she sends:
thus shall you be loved.
Warm and weary, Drake more than consumed the words of a man who wanted to capture the heart of a noblewoman while the servant wanted to capture his heart, and neither was destined to capture the hearts of anyone.
Now don’t start prattling, young girl,
for she lied to me first, more than five times.
Do you think I can put up with this much more?
I’d be taken for an ignoramus.
I have a mind to ask about another friendship
if you don’t stop talking;
I got much better counsel from Berengaria
than I ever got from you.
Laughter broke out. Richard stood behind the brothers, his fingers digging into their shoulders.
Seigneur Guiraut, I didn’t want your love to end,
but she says she has a right to be enraged,
because you’re courting someone else in front of everyone
who next to her is worth nothing, clothed or nude.
If she didn’t throw you off she’d be acting weak,
since you’re courting someone else.
But I’ll speak well of you to her ... I always have ...
if you promise not to keep on doing that.
The singing trailed off ...
Beauty, for God’s sake, if she has your trust,
promise her for me.
And ended with Alamanda’s final advice ...
I’ll gladly do so, but when she’s given you her love again,
don’t take yours back.
The hearthfire and the wine had done their work. The hall spun lazily. Like his brother, Drake descended into a pleasant torpor, listening to idle talk and intermittent tunes, none of the words strictly intelligible. Someone suggested the women put the nestlings to bed before they fell off their chairs.
The Comtesse Alys led the way, a taper lighting the wheel staircase, while Alamanda brought along her charges, boyish in charm and submissive in manner. The women tittered. Smiles played upon the brothers’ lips. Alys discreetly abandoned the guest chamber while Alamanda remained to do the honors. She removed the boots of both men with a certain expertise, and soon had them stripped, discommoded, and at her bidding.
“And does the king pay for your services?”
“My dear Grendel of Poitiers. No man, king, or commoner pays for my services. They come gratis or not at all.” Her eyes roved to Stephen. “Is he as much a gentil-homme as his brother?”
Drake answered for him, “More. Except he snores.”
“That’s a filthy lie,” said Stephen.
Nimble fingers worked the knots of her girdle. She let the intertwined braids of gold and leather drop to the floor.
“It seems Gui was wrong,” Drake said. “You do take doubles into your skirts.”
“But never triples.”
“My arms,” Drake said, reminding her, “tonight they are both disabled.”
“Except for bringing drink to mouth.” Dainty fingers practiced at stroking the strings of a lute undid the laces of her kirtle.
“The pain was worth all.” To watch a woman undress was a sublime ceremony, and worth watching as many times as possible.
Her smile was honey sweet. “The pain can be worth all again. But I relent. We switch places. You,” she said, taking in both brothers, “shall be my flowers and I shall be your honeybee. That is, if Stephen so agrees.”
“Stephen,” said Stephen, “so agrees.”
The neckline of her gown separated, revealing rosy depths beneath. A man could smother himself in those malleable distractions and forget his troubles. “What kind of man am I?”
Drake had said it more to himself than to Alamanda, but she answered, “Like others. No worse and no better.”
“I thought that you and Guiraut―”
“You thought wrongly.” She undid the side laces.
“Ah,” Stephen said, his tongue thick with fatigue, “that is why women have so many laces and such.”
“The better to unwrap the package.” The gown ebbed to the floor, quickly followed by her silk chemise.
The lit tallow washed over the contours of her skin in shades of sepia. The effect, Drake decided, was well worth the torment of Tantalus. “I am a poor excuse for a lover.”
“I am mistress of the gentler arts. You won’t have to do a thing.”
“Except for―”
She shushed him with a finger. “Forgetfulness, said the wise man, is the opiate of love.”
