The Winter King (17 page)

Caleb was still stuttering his protest. But then Fitzwalter raised his arms and, as if conducting a heavenly choir, roused the great crowd. The rest of Caleb’s attempt to explain himself was drowned in a tumult of clapping, stamping, whistles, yells and catcalls.

Fitzwalter waited, nodding as his eyes roamed round the crowd, then abruptly shouted for quiet. He nudged Caleb forward, and the young monk stumbled on the rickety platform. Fitzwalter, his frustration evident, said something to the Cistercian, who, grim-faced, nodded.

The Cistercian moved to the front of the platform. ‘Brother Caleb is struck with shyness,’ he said, one eyebrow raised ironically, ‘which is readily understandable, he being more used to the solitude of his cell than the company of his fellow men and women.’ There were a few guffaws, and someone made a very imaginative suggestion as to how Caleb probably spent his time in the privacy of his cell, which drew a swift riposte from the other side of the crowd and a lot more laughter. The Cistercian let the ribaldry continue for a few moments, then, with a smile, said loudly, ‘I am Ralph of Odiham, and I am a monk of Beaulieu Abbey.’ He glanced at Caleb, standing red-faced, hanging his head. ‘I have Brother Caleb’s permission to speak on his behalf.’

At that Caleb’s head shot up, and he looked fearfully at Ralph. He appeared to say something, but Ralph ploughed on regardless. ‘Caleb has been granted a vision from God,’ he said dramatically, ‘and he says—’

If, by speaking for Caleb, the Cistercian had hoped to prompt him to speech, the ruse had succeeded. Hastening to stand beside Ralph of Odiham, Caleb cried, ‘I didn’t have a vision, not really! It’s just … I just feel …’ The prominent Adam’s apple bobbed in the thin throat as the young monk swallowed nervously. Then he burst out: ‘It’s a punishment! All this – what we’re suffering – the hunger, never enough to eat, the sickness, the monstrous herd of deer, the red moon – it’s God’s punishment, see, because we’ve been bad!’

In a very obvious prompt, Brother Ralph said, ‘It’s a judgement on how we’re being ruled, isn’t it, Caleb?’ He leaned and whispered in Caleb’s ear. ‘Go on! Tell them!’ he urged.

Perhaps Caleb realized that to comply was the only way to end his agony of embarrassment, and be allowed to get down off the platform. With one last, despairing look at Ralph, he muttered something inaudible.

‘Louder,’ commanded Brother Ralph.

Caleb looked out over the crowd. There were tears in his eyes. Then he opened his mouth wide and shouted, ‘These terrible times we’re having – it’s all a judgement on the king!’

W
hile the attention of every man and woman in the abbey’s forecourt was fixed on the young monk on the platform, Nicholas Fitzwalter had caught the eye of an unremarkable man in a dowdy travelling cloak who stood just behind the ring of guards at the foot of the platform. Unnoticed by anyone except the man himself, Fitzwalter jerked his head infinitesimally in the direction of the infirmary.

Moving slowly and steadily, the man in the dark cloak slid through the crowds and melted away.

His name was Henri de Fougères and, only a short while ago, he had been on the other side of the Channel. In answer to the people who had demanded to know his business there (few in number, for Henri could adopt a forbidding countenance when he felt like it, and there was a sense of strength and danger about him that discouraged idle questions) he had muttered that he was a wool merchant seeking out new markets.

In fact he knew little more than the next man about the wool trade. Together with a small group of trusted companions, also in the guise of merchants, he had been sent out some weeks back to begin his clandestine work. His companions had remained in England, but Henri had been sent to France on a very different mission. With communications from some of the most discontented of England’s barons tucked away inside his tunic, he had sought out those in Paris who had the ear of Philip Augustus, in the hope of thus obtaining news of the French king’s current policy concerning his troublesome fellow monarch on the other side of the narrow seas. Henri of Fougères was subtle, highly intelligent and very patient, and he did not leave France until he had what he came for.

On the way back to the master who had sent him, Henri had put up for the night at a shabby inn in a small Kent village. There he had overheard the ravings of an old woman, and an idea had formed in his ever-active mind. Having proposed the scheme to his master, who had instantly seen its advantages, Henri had returned to collect her.

The suppression of his fury at discovering she was no longer there had caused him such a crippling pain in the right side of his forehead that he had been temporarily blind. But Henri de Fougères was not a man who was easily dissuaded. He had not achieved his current position – deep inside the trust of his ruthless master – by giving up at the first fence.

Now, pulling his soft, wide-brimmed hat forward to conceal his face, he opened the small rear door of the Hawkenlye infirmary just a crack, and slipped inside.

Out in the forecourt, Josse, Meggie and the abbess stood watching a scene of pandemonium. Throughout the crowd, people were turning to each other in amazement.
Did you hear what he said?
Did he really say that? Surely not! He’s either very brave or totally out of his head!

Caleb was still weeping, clutching pathetically at Ralph of Odiham’s white sleeve, and the older monk, slowly shaking his head, was staring at him with an exaggerated expression of horror. Then, as if responding to the crowd’s astounded response, Ralph shook off Caleb’s clenched fingers, stepped to the front of the platform and shouted, ‘Poor Caleb is disturbed, and not himself!’

His deep voice penetrated the first few ranks of the crowd and, seeing he had more to say, people began shushing each other. Ralph waited. When the noise subsided, he said, ‘We are deeply concerned for Brother Caleb. He has just expressed what I must stress is purely his own opinion; one which Lord Nicholas and I do not – indeed, cannot – share.’ He turned and looked pityingly at the young monk, now visibly shaking. There were a few protests and whistles from the braver members of the throng, but Ralph was more than ready for them. ‘I am a man of God!’ he shouted, eyes wide as if to express his innocence. ‘And Lord Nicholas Fitzwalter is a powerful figure!’ It was a timely reminder, and had the effect of silencing the last of the protests. Then, in a calm, carrying voice, Brother Ralph proclaimed, ‘God save and protect our beloved King!’

Josse became aware of Abbess Caliste, fuming beside him with barely controlled fury. ‘They
made
the poor man say that, about … about
him
!’ she hissed. ‘We only heard that Cistercian forcing him to speak out because we were right at the front. Everyone else will believe he said it entirely of his own volition!’ She clenched her hands into tight fists. ‘Then instantly they dissociated themselves from him, leaving him looking like the only person who thinks it! Oh, Sir Josse, how could they be so calculating? So cruel?’

‘Aye, I know,’ Josse said heavily. He had been disgusted by what he had just witnessed. Fitzwalter and the Cistercian were ruthless: wanting to put the dangerous words out in the open yet too clever to risk uttering them themselves, they had used the weak, unworldly and malleable Caleb.

How long, he wondered, would it take for word of this to reach the king? And what would John do? Was there any way that Hawkenlye could offer protection to the poor young monk? It would be hard, if not impossible, given that he seemed to be the protégé of Fitzwalter and the Cistercian, who, Josse was quite sure, hadn’t finished with him yet. There would be other platforms, other places where people would gather to hear the powerful men’s mouthpiece do their work for them, and they …

Oh, dear God.

In a flash, Josse remembered what he had come to the abbey to do. Horror swept through him. Spinning round to the abbess, he said, ‘Lilas!’

‘Oh,
no
!’ Meggie sounded horrified; he knew she was thinking the same. Before Josse could move, she was off.

Even as Abbess Caliste’s hands flew to her mouth, he was grabbing her sleeve, dragging her with him. Ruthlessly he shoved aside men, women, lords, ladies. He lunged for the small rear door of the infirmary, flinging it open. The abbess followed him inside.

‘Where is she?’ he demanded.

‘Follow me,’ she panted.

She ran down the ward, stopping at a curtained-off recess. She flung back the curtain, revealing a narrow cot covered with a couple of blankets, neatly folded. Meggie stood beside it, head bowed.

Other than Meggie, there was nobody there.

A day’s ride away, King John sat in his private quarters in the Tower. He was looking out through a narrow slit of a window at the bright, late-autumn day beyond. The wide waters of the Thames slipped past, the slow, steady movement stilling his ever-busy mind and body, encouraging introspection. He had eaten well, and sampled a new consignment of white Rhine wine, delicately spiced and quite delicious. He was whistling softly to himself, entirely content.

His confidence was riding high, and he was in the sort of bullish mood that made him feel invincible. He was still gloating over that summer’s victory over the rebel Welsh lords. With a private smile, he turned his thoughts back to August, when he had led his army across the Conwy River, penetrated Snowdonia, burned Bangor and, in a glorious finale to his magnificent campaign, succeeded in capturing its bishop.

He wondered if his enemy Llewellyn was still smarting. It had been a sweet moment, when the man had finally accepted the inevitable and agreed to come to terms. Even sweeter was his choice of emissary: Llewellyn had sent his wife Joan, John’s own daughter, to negotiate with the king.

John grinned at the memory. His daughter had clearly been embarrassed, until the ironic humour of the situation had struck her. She’d pointed out that, if John went ahead with his threat to strip Llewellyn of every last possession, then she’d have no option but to turn to her father, and she reminded him that she’d never been satisfied with anything but the best. She wasn’t his daughter for nothing.

In triumphant mood, John had ignored those miserably cautious close advisers who had whispered that the surrender was not all it seemed. That, in the light of all his long experience with Llewellyn ap Iorwerth, the king might do well to consider that, just possibly, the Welsh prince was merely playing for time.
They say he is close with Philip Augustus
, the anxious lords murmured in his ear.
Is it not possible, my Lord King, that Llewellyn plans in secret to negotiate with the French in order to strike back?

King John ignored the doubters. Most of the time, anyway. But he was clever – too clever not to wonder, just occasionally, if there was any basis to the fears. The Welsh lords whom Llewellyn had antagonized, and forced over to John’s side, were mercurial, touchy, easily offended, and basically, John had to admit, unreliable. They were quite capable of deciding they didn’t want to support him after all – they were to a man notoriously unreasonable – upon which they’d all decamp and go straight back to Llewellyn.

I can do nothing for the moment, except watch and wait
, John reflected.

He turned his thoughts over the narrow seas to the homeland of his great enemy. Philip Augustus’s alliance with Pope Innocent was alarming, yes, but then grave problems tended to be the spur that brought about good, strong resolutions. The threat posed by the union of two such formidable enemies had forced John to form an alliance of his own. Extending his hand, he counted on his fingers those he had won over to his side: Renault of Dammartin, who controlled Boulogne; Count Ferdinand of Flanders; Raymond of Toulouse, who was married to John’s sister Joan; and Otto, the Holy Roman Emperor, and son of John’s sister Matilda.

Sisters and daughters, John mused. As well as being decorative, they certainly had their uses.

He stared out at the bright autumn sky. The alliance was not yet complete, for his aim was to form an iron chain that ran through all the lands bordering France, and he was considering how best to win over the princes of Boulogne, Flanders, Lorraine and the Netherlands. Good God, he was even wondering about a temporary liaison with the Duke of Brabant, a man so notoriously devious that they said he was unable to lie straight in bed …

His thoughts sped on.

Presently they turned, as they invariably did, to his struggle with the Pope.

During the previous summer he had permitted the papal legate, Pandulph, to enter England to discuss the Pope’s terms for ending the interdict and excommunication. The terms were brutal and uncompromising: John must accept Pope Innocent’s original candidate, Stephen Langton, as Archbishop of Canterbury, and he must also reinstate all the exiled bishops and return their confiscated property.

John had refused. For the sake of pride – and also for greed, since the latter condition would severely impoverish him – he had had no option.

Pandulph will come again
, he now mused. Either him, or another just like him. In a deep recess of his mind – one he rarely visited – John nursed a secret fear. By no other will than his own, and acting entirely alone, he had slipped from under the dominion of the Pope and the Church. He and he alone ruled England, and the priests had fled. His fear was that he had set the people a poor example: might it not begin to dawn on the brighter and more thoughtful of his subjects that they might similarly throw off the authority of God’s anointed king?

His
authority.

It was one thing to sit on the throne with the full support of mighty Mother Church. It was quite another to do it all by yourself …

Not yet
, he told himself firmly.
All may yet be well
.

Suddenly he’d had enough of inactivity. Thrusting himself away from the narrow window, he jumped down from the deep embrasure and began to pace the room. The bright day outside was calling to him; he was overcome with the desire to go hunting, to chase a lively stag over miles and miles of challenging countryside, preferably with plenty of good cover. The kill was always so much more satisfying when the deer had put up a spirited fight, and, while a fast run over open ground was thrilling, it kept mind and body alert when the quarry had places to hide.