The Autumn Throne (63 page)

Richard didn’t take the fastest horse in the stable even though he was tempted by a rangy black courser with long, thin legs. He needed speed, but it had to be tempered by strength and endurance. He required a horse that could go forever at a swift and steady pace. His grandmother’s grey had the stamina but it was too small for him, and his own mount had already travelled a recent long journey. He eventually took a strong bay palfrey with a fat rump, arched neck and Roman nose that belonged to the constable and was fresh – indeed fresh enough to buck and kick as Richard gained the saddle, but he was a good horseman and drew in the reins and gripped with his thighs.

Leaving the castle at a trot he rode swiftly through the town. He had to force his way through fleeing people with their belongings and livestock, the word having spread that an army was imminently going to fetch up against their walls. Richard’s heart was pounding and his mouth was dry, but he restrained the urge to push the horse because he would need its power later.

Knowing that the enemy would have scouts on the main routes he took to little-used side tracks and worked his way round, using the sun as his compass. He was conscious of the
passage of time but there was no point in rushing headlong into the path of the enemy and risk being injured or caught so he bided his time and ate a quarter chunk of the bread his grandmother had given him, washed down with some wine.

Two hours later he judged it safe to begin working his way back to the main track leading to Le Mans. A distant dust cloud and fresh horse dung in the road revealed that Arthur’s army had recently passed that way. The birds were singing and Richard’s heightened senses detected no danger. Clicking his tongue to the bay, he urged it to a strong pacing trot and set out to eat the miles to Le Mans, hoping he would be in time.

Arthur’s army arrived at Mirebeau shortly before the morning sun reached its zenith. The light glittered on mail shirts and harness, on surcoats and silk banners. Arthur, recently knighted, rode near the head of the array on a lively Spanish stallion, decked out in red and gold harness, against the white satin hide.

The constable, Pons de Mirebeau, brought the news to Alienor as she dined in the great hall with Richenza and Belbel as though all was normal.

‘They have a stone thrower with them, madam, and siege ladders,’ he reported. ‘The gates are barred against them, but they will not hold for long.’

‘Then let them hold as long as they may, Messire Pons. Concentrate everything here in the keep.’ She raised her chin. ‘I do not fear them.’ She was filled with iron-cold conviction. No matter what happened, that part at her core was inviolate. ‘Riding
a white horse you say?’ Her lip curled with scornful amusement.

‘Yes, madam, and wearing mail.’

‘Well, we shall see how much of a soldier he is. A stripling comes to lay siege to his own grandmother in her dotage. What a brave and chivalrous young knight he is indeed.’ She took a sip of wine and did not know if its sourness was the state of the wine itself or a taste that was already in her mouth. ‘I pray that my other grandson is more of a man.’

She continued to eat, but had only taken a few bites when a request arrived from the enemy camp that she receive their messenger to discuss terms.

Alienor looked at the piece of parchment on which the request had been written. She was a player on the chess board for probably the final time in her life. Knowing that every minute she delayed made more time for Richard on his road, she left an hour before replying and then had her scribe write that she was unwell and indisposed, but she would discuss the matter in the morning. She made sure that the message was worded in such a way as to offer encouragement, because a blank refusal might precipitate their besiegers into an outright attack now.

Once the message had been sent, she gathered everyone together in the hall and, mustering her reserves, stood before them on the dais, frail but upright and resolute as she addressed them like a battle commander.

‘We are under siege from my grandson Arthur, the Count of Brittany,’ she said. ‘I blame him insofar as he has been misguided by the King of France, who has a serpent’s tongue and a particular talent for misleading the young. The Count of Brittany probably thinks that an old woman and her small escort is easy meat, but never was he more mistaken.’ She paused, drew a deep breath and put increased strength into her voice. ‘This particular old woman has crossed the Alps and the Pyrenees in the thick of winter, and has ridden all the way to Jerusalem and back under attack from arrows, scimitars
and the political games of the Emperor of Constantinople. She is a queen and has borne children who have been and are kings and queens. He has had no time to make anything of his life – has barely left sucking from his wet-nurse’s pap.

‘Yes, he is my grandson, and I acknowledge that bond of kinship, even if he does not. I shall humour his request and parley with him, but in truth I shall never yield even if it means my death, and I hope and pray that all here today who know and love me as their liege lady will stand firm. Help is coming, I promise you, and when it does, our attackers will rue the day they ever drew rein before these walls and dared this calumny. When this is over, I promise that each man shall receive a mark of silver from my own hand!’

Loud acclaim rang through the hall and the atmosphere immediately grew more martial and bristled with energy. Leaving the men to their strategies, Alienor retired to her chamber. They knew what had to be done; she had laid their cause out to them. These walls would not stand long; Arthur’s force would take the keep within a couple of days if not sooner. They had to stand firm for as long as they could.

With brisk authority she ordered servants to bring water up to her chamber and food supplies that would keep for a few days – eggs, cheese, root vegetables, flour and honey. They could make soup and bread. She also commanded materials to be brought upstairs to make barricades. Even if the keep was broached, there were still final defences.

Richenza rolled up her sleeves to help and dove in with enthusiasm. ‘I should have a sword,’ she said as she stacked jars of soap near the door, ready to spill their contents down the twisting turret stairs.

Alienor eyed her with wintry amusement. ‘I have one of Richard’s in my coffer, you can use that.’

‘I mean it,’ Richenza said stoutly.

‘I know you did, and so did I.’

Richenza blotted her forehead on the back of her hand
and tucked a loose curl back under her wimple. ‘He will gain nothing from this save condemnation.’

‘It is war,’ Alienor replied with a shrug. ‘I doubt he cares. I have seen it all before – many times. Too many.’

In the morning, Arthur’s messenger arrived and was admitted to the great hall. Alienor permitted him no further because she knew he would be looking around, assessing everything and reporting back. Her own men had told her that Arthur had assembled his trebuchets and was already shooting experimental rocks and boulders into the town.

Arthur’s man was in his early middle years with a grizzled gold beard and fierce clear blue eyes. He had handed in his sword at the door and wore an ordinary tunic, not mail, to show he came in peace.

‘Madam, the Count of Brittany fears for your safety,’ he said with a Breton lilt in his voice. ‘He asks you to trust to his mercy and yield yourself into his keeping where he will protect you and keep you from harm.’

Alienor offered him wine and when he declined she opened her hand. ‘As you please, but I am going to have some and I must sit down. Richenza, if you please …’

Richenza helped her to the window seat, casting a reproachful look at Arthur’s man, as if to say how could he be part of a host that dared to make war on this fragile old woman? She assisted Alienor to ease down onto the cushioned bench, and then met her sharp and lucid gaze. ‘We may have no time,’ Alienor whispered, ‘but we also have all the time in the world to play with this one.’

As Alienor had suspected, Arthur’s envoy was glancing around with keen eyes, assessing the defences and counting up the number of men in the hall. ‘Now then, sir.’ Alienor raised her voice. ‘Come and tell me again what you just said and speak up, because my hearing is not what it was.’

He had no choice but to approach the window seat and repeat his tale. Alienor absorbed it slowly, often asking him
to go over his words again. She sat back and waited while the wine arrived and was poured. ‘But I already feel safe where I am,’ she said in a perplexed and querulous voice. ‘I have these walls around me and good men for protection. Surely my grandson would not dream of attacking me.’

Although the messenger had refused wine initially, he was presented with some and was forced out of courtesy to take an obligatory swallow. ‘Indeed, madam,’ he answered with determination, ‘and your grandson desires to protect you, but it cannot be done while you are within this keep. You must emerge at some point, so why not now? There need not be any siege. You and the Count of Brittany could enjoy each other’s company and banquet together instead of you lacking all succour and comfort.’

‘So all of this is in order to invite me to a banquet? Dear me, young man.’ Alienor gave him a sweet smile edged with thorns. ‘Well then, tell your lord he is most welcome to partake of our generous rations if he wishes to dine as my grandson and not my opponent. Take that message back to him for I would hear his reply. That is all I have to say for now. And now I need to retire and think the matter over for a while because this is all too exhausting for me.’

Arthur’s messenger had no recourse but to rise and take his leave. All the time he was making his farewell his eyes were busy absorbing every last detail. Alienor remained in the hall and had a footstool brought so that she could put her feet up.

‘He won’t agree,’ she said to Richenza, ‘but he needs to salve his conscience and say that he has tried negotiating. The longer we can draw it out, the better chance we have.’

Arthur’s messenger returned within the hour. Alienor made him wait the time it took a fast pacing horse to go four miles. The man declined the wine fully this time and while courteous was tight-lipped. ‘My lord says that he is only your opponent if you make him so, madam, and he has no desire to be at odds with you. If you will yield the keep, all shall be well.’

Alienor
spent a long time playing with a ring on her right forefinger, and after a long pause – another quarter of a mile – replied, ‘Then if your lord is not my opponent he is welcome to enter my gates. All that I ask is that he arrives without weapons of any kind – as you yourself have come to me – and that he will agree to kneel at my feet and by proxy swear fealty to my son the King.’ Suddenly she straightened up and her gaze was fierce, almost hawkish. ‘Tell him that, sire, and if he agrees, then all indeed shall be well.’

The messenger met her gaze, and she saw realisation dawn in his eyes, and perhaps a glint of respect. ‘Madam, I shall do so, but I do not think he will like it.’

‘That is his decision. I am not responsible for his likes and dislikes. He has his answer, and on his own head be it. Tell him if he does not choose to do as I suggest, it would be better for him to leave, because I expect a visit from my son imminently. If you are sure you will not take some wine?’

‘Thank you, madam, no. I must report to my lord.’ The messenger performed a stiff bow and departed.

There was a brief silence after he had gone. Alienor rose unsteadily to her feet. She was trembling, but with effort and anger, not distress. ‘They will come at us now,’ she told Richenza. ‘Bar the windows, close the shutters, and let us retire and make ready.’

Richard rode into Le Mans a day and a half after setting out. The bay gelding was lame and staggering by the time they arrived at the castle and Richard almost fell out of the saddle as a groom came to take the reins. ‘Look after him,’ Richard said. ‘See he has the best.’

Sweat-mired, filthy with dust and exhausted, Richard stumbled into his father’s chamber on the heels of the startled usher who was announcing him.

John, who had been in conversation with some of his mercenary captains, looked at his son in astonishment.

‘Arthur is besieging Queen Alienor at Mirebeau,’ Richard
gasped. ‘I got out just in time before he arrived with his troops. It won’t hold above a couple of days, and I’ve spent half that time getting to you. You must come!’

Following on from utter astonishment, his father’s expression grew thunderous. ‘What?’ He shot to his feet, strode to Richard and shook him hard. ‘What are you saying?’

Richard swayed. John grabbed the cup that William de Braose was about to drink from and thrust it at him. ‘Here.’

Richard took several deep, desperate gulps and then, spluttering, repeated his information. ‘They won’t hold,’ he reiterated.

‘God’s sweet death! Why in the name of Christ’s nails did she have to leave Fontevraud?’ His father began barking orders in every direction. Horses were to be saddled, rations assembled and soldiers ready to ride within the hour. Messengers were sent in haste with verbal commands for there was no time for written ones. ‘The misbegotten runt,’ John spat between commands. ‘I will put an end to this once and for all. By God he has gone too far.’