The Champion (45 page)

‘But I thought that he had a child,’ Monday queried. ‘I remember hearing at court that he had laid claim to a son and called him Philip.’

‘Begotten on a whore who used to dress up as a young squire and would bend over backwards for him, if you take my meaning,’ John said, the savage grin still on his face. ‘If he begot a child on her, it was a mistake. In the heat of the moment he chose the wrong hole. What’s wrong, sweetheart, have I shocked you?’

Valiantly, Monday shook her head, knowing full well that an admission would only goad him into further outrageous sallies. ‘I know your brother’s preferences,’ she said. ‘Someone of my acquaintance once took his eye.’

‘If Richard’s eye was all he took, then he escaped lightly,’ John retorted.

Not wanting to pursue that particular course, Monday steered the subject back to its original ground. ‘So are you and your brother at odds, or have you made peace?’

John shrugged. ‘Peace of a sort,’ he replied with a frown. ‘Philip hasn’t driven a large enough wedge between us to make us enemies, but I don’t much fancy Richard’s company at the moment.’ He sucked his cheeks. ‘I thought I would pay a visit to my nephew Arthur in Brittany, see how much of a man the little turd is making.’

Monday nodded. Arthur was the son of John’s deceased elder brother Geoffrey, and as such, also had a claim on the Angevin inheritance, some said a better claim than John. But he was only twelve years old to John’s thirty-three, and rumour had it that he displayed little of the Angevin acumen and glamour. Richard kept him as a possible successor in order to goad John and ensure his loyalty. But John could only be goaded so far. ‘Is that where you are bound now?’

‘’Well, yes, in the morning.’

Monday did not enquire if she was to travel with him too, did not even remind him of the possibility that she was now available to do so, being well recovered from the baby’s birth. If she went with John, he would expect her to give up her children, farm them out on nurses and servants so that she had no distractions from pleasing him.

He tapped the cradle with his toe. ‘Summon his nurse,’ he commanded. ‘He’s a fine boy, but it is his mother I have come to visit. Hurry,’ he added, draining the wine and reaching to the ornate belt on his long tunic. ‘Tonight, I haven’t the patience in my bones to wait.’

The mild spring weather in Rouen had hastened the trees into leaf, tender and rustling on the branches. Fruit blossom appeared overnight in delicate tints of pink and white. The meadows to the south of the city were a riot of colour, the yellow of cowslips and coltsfoot complimented by the dusky pink of clover and the first showing of tall white dog daisies. Along the riverside, the wharfs were hectic with cargoes being loaded on to and disgorged from a bewildering array of vessels, ranging from the smallest two-oared rowing boat, to the largest deep-ocean cog. And because Rouen was a port of such size and importance, every product conceivable was available in the markets – from a silk purse to a sow’s ear.

Monday moved through the throng with her maid Ursula in tow, and an escort of a broad-shouldered serjeant with a quarterstaff. Florian clutched her hand and stared around with delighted eyes. At three years old, he considered himself quite grown up, and even swaggered a little, showing off the short wooden sword thrust through his leather belt. His mood was sunny because he had his mother to himself. A nurse was looking after his baby brother John, who was too young to join in this visit to the booths and stalls. Florian did not mind bringing John home a soft leather ball or a rattle on a stick, indeed, he quite looked forward to choosing a gift. What mattered was the fact that the baby was at home, and he was abroad in the world.

At a confectioner’s booth Monday bought gingerbread for everyone to eat as they walked, and a box of sugared plums for later. Florian pounced upon the gingerbread as if he had been starved for a sennight. She smiled indulgently, and nibbled at her own, enjoying the spicy, honeyed flavour. It was good to be out in the sunshine among the market crowds, with the security of coins in her pouch and the knowledge that as the mistress of the Count of Mortain, and the mother of his child, she could purchase whatever she wanted.

The initial heat of lust between herself and John might have cooled, but it had still burned brightly enough to bring him to her bed on his way to visit his nephew Arthur. In the morning before he left, he had given her a gold ring, and a mirror in a small, exquisite ivory case. He had kissed her softly and he had kissed her hard, his beard chafing her tender skin, and he had promised to return from Brittany by way of Rouen.

At the cordwainers shop, she paused to order some new shoes for herself, and to collect a pair of small calfskin ankle boots that the craftsman had fashioned for Florian. The little boy was captivated when he tried them on to make sure of the fit, for they were fastened with red glass toggles, attached to drawstrings of tablet-woven green silk. He performed a little dance, and posed with his wooden sword, showing off to the passers-by.

Laughing at his antics, Monday turned to the counter to choose a style herself from the samples that the cordwainer had to offer, finally settling for a comfortable ankle shoe, the plain shape enlivened by a latticework pattern of cut-out stars.

Coins changed hands. As the cordwainer stowed the money in his pouch, he gave her a speculative glance. ‘Have you heard the news going about this morning, mistress?’

She shook her head, and tucked Florian’s old shoes under her arm. They were too small for him now and scuffed, but there was still enough wear left for them to be useful to a child less fortunate.

‘I heard that Richard Coeur de Lion has been injured besieging a castle down in the Limousin – it’s a shoulder wound, and festering.’

‘Who told you?’

‘I heard it from a family friend who is a servant at the tower of Rouen. He says that William Marshal has newly arrived from Vaudreuil with the Archbishop and they have personal instructions from the lord Richard to take command of the treasury. Now, I’m a simple craftsman, my lady, but I am not stupid. An order like that to such great men can only mean that the wound is a serious one.’

Monday made the sign of the cross on her breast and murmured an automatic response, while her mind flew. If what the cordwainer said was true – and rumours always had to be treated with caution – then Richard was likely dying, which meant that either John or Arthur would be the next ruler of the vast Angevin empire. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Only of what I have been told, mistress, not of whether it be true or not,’ he replied with caution. ‘I thought you might have heard something yourself.’

‘No, nothing,’ she said distractedly, and turned away from the booth, grabbing Florian’s hand in her free one. If the news had only just reached Rouen, it was impossible that John would be aware of his brother’s injury. And it could be nothing more than wild rumour.

A group of riders trotted past her, travelling from the dockside in the direction of the tower. Florian leaped up and down, imitating the pace of the horses. ‘Look, Mama, a real sword,’ he said, pointing to the embellished scabbard of the last man in the line, who rode a glossy black stallion. A cloak of rich, dark-blue wool was pinned at one shoulder, and a Phrygian cap decorated with braid was tilted at a jaunty angle on his dark hair. A squire followed behind, leading a laden baggage horse.

‘Yes, a real sword,’ Monday murmured without really noticing. There was something familiar about the rider, but she was too busy mulling over what the cordwainer had said to pay much attention.

The horsemen were swallowed up by the market crowds. ‘When can I have one?’ Florian demanded wistfully.

‘When you’re older,’ Monday answered, ruffling his hair, and gave his hand to her maid. ‘Ursula, let Florian choose something for John and something for himself – not a sword, unless it be of wood! I have to go to the tower and find out if what we heard is true.’

‘Yes, madam.’ The maid looked slightly surprised, but quickly rallied, taking the old shoes that Monday thrust at her, and the handful of silver coins.

Her manservant in tow, more for reasons of propriety than any need for protection, Monday hurried towards the tower of Rouen standing tall and solid near the banks of the Seine. If William Marshal was in residence, then at the least she would be able to see one of his representatives and have the news either confirmed or denied.

The guards on duty challenged her briefly and then passed her through. She had been a guest at the tower sufficiently often for her face to be known, her relationship with Prince John common knowledge to the soldiers.

The courtyard was crowded with knights and serjeants, many of them wearing the Marshal green and yellow on their linen surcoats. She sent her manservant to ask among them for news, and went herself to the great hall.

On the threshold, she halted and stared around. There was no sign of William Marshal, but several of his officials were present. Recognising John of Erley and Henry FitzGerold, two of his closest knights, Monday started forward, but was jerked to an abrupt halt by a sudden tug on the hem of her gown. She turned in surprise and indignation. And then her eyes widened and the colour drained from her face.

‘Your pardon, my lady, I was not looking where … Holy Christ, Monday!’

She and Alexander stared at each other in mutual shock. The accomplished knight and the lady in her fine gown, the stuff of which dreams had once been made and lives torn apart to obtain.

‘Alexander,’ she said in a faint voice. Her legs were weak, and her stomach queasy. She knew that she was not physically capable of flight. The most she could do was hold her ground.

‘It is you!’ he said, as if he could not believe the evidence of his own eyes. They flickered over her, from the embroidered wimple held in place by a silver circlet to the dainty shoes peeping out from beneath the hem of the gown he had just trodden upon. And then they returned to her face. ‘God on the cross, tell me I am not dreaming!’ He touched her silk sleeve as if to make sure she was real. ‘Where did you go, where have you been?’

She shook her head and averted her eyes. ‘I found somewhere safe,’ she murmured.

‘I would have looked after you.’ There was pain in his voice. ‘Couldn’t you have said it to my face instead of leaving that note?’

She forced herself to meet his stare. ‘I could, but you would have found a way of making me stay, and we would have finished by hating each other. Don’t you see?’

‘I see that while Hervi and I were worrying our consciences bare, you were doing very well for yourself.’

‘Oh yes, you don’t know how well!’ she snapped, matching him tone for tone, and was appalled to find herself on the verge of tears. ‘You only had your conscience to worry about, fortunate for you!’ She swallowed in a vain attempt to remove the lump that was tightening in her throat. ‘I have to go,’ she said, and sidestepped.

He sidestepped with her. ‘No, don’t run away again, at least not without an explanation.’

She looked down at her sleeve, where his touch had now become a grip. ‘I can do whatever I please,’ she said.

‘Jesu, Monday, I …’ She saw his own throat work and swallow. ‘Then, if it please you, I ask you to stay.’

A courtier’s words, but they were not a courtier’s eyes that looked at her and turned her legs and her will to water. She stopped resisting him, and let him draw her to a bench at the side of the hall. People eyed their progress, and there were several raised brows, including those of John of Erley and Henry FitzGerold.

Alexander dug his hands through his hair in a gesture that was all Hervi. ‘I have a report to make to Lord William, but I promise to be as swift as I can.’ He searched the room and pointed towards a fair-haired young man standing with a group of retainers near the door. ‘My squire, Huw, if you should have need of anything.’

‘I have not said that I will stay.’

‘Then, will you?’

Her first instinct was to refuse, but she checked the impulse. She was no longer a simple tourney wench to vanish without trace. She was the mother of two children, with a high position in society, albeit an ambiguous one. Alexander could discover her occupation and her dwelling-place by the simplest of enquiries. So instead, she nodded, and said huskily, ‘If you are quick, before I change my mind.’

‘I’ll try.’ He hesitated. ‘You do not know how many times I have wished that night undone,’ he said. ‘For what it is worth, I am sorry.’

‘You should know what you are responsible for before you apologise,’ Monday said, and gestured him away.

He frowned at that, but obeyed her gesture, and with a sidelong step and many glances over his shoulder, headed for the tower stairs.

Monday sat on the bench, her mind numb, her hands clammy. What was she going to tell him about Florian? How would he react to discovering that he had a small son, the knowledge of whose existence had been denied to him? What would he say when she told him the source of her fine garments and the reason for the deference and speculation in men’s eyes?

‘Mary mother,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Holy mother, help me.’ At one point she sprang to her feet and took several paces across the hall, before she stopped herself, her hands clenching in her fine silk gown. Whether she stayed or left, it would make no difference. She had to face up to the storm. Suddenly the reason she had come here seemed paltry and trivial. Count of Mortain, King of England, ruler of Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine, what did it matter?

Through her agitation, she became aware of a woman pushing her way through the crowd in the hall, elbowing aside the serjeants, the squires and officials as if they were of no consequence. Then she saw that the woman was in fact her maid, and that her face was wild and distraught.

‘Mistress, mistress!’ Ursula cried, wringing her hands. ‘Master Florian’s given me the slip. I’ve searched and searched but I don’t know where he can be!’

‘What?’ Monday stared at her maid in horror.

‘One moment he was holding my hand as good as gold while I spoke to the haberdasher’s wife, the next he had vanished into the crowd!’ She burst into noisy, hysterical sobbing.