Her husband nodded slowly. “Mayhap I was overhasty in objecting. Very well, you do have my permission.”
Helweisa, who’d never doubted that for a moment, nonetheless gave him a grateful smile, a dutiful kiss. “I think I know just the one to escort the child, Rob. Simon, our bailiff’s eldest. He’s a likely lad, and can be trusted to keep his wits about him.”
Across the solar, Joanna sat, forgotten, in the window seat. She understood now why her mother had not wanted her, why her uncle and Maud did not want her. There was something shameful in her birth, so much so that her uncle had looked upon her with loathing.
“Joanna?” Lady Helweisa was standing by the window seat, smiling at her. “I do have wondrous news, child. You are to go to Normandy, to go to your lord father.”
Joanna’s breath stopped. She could only stare up at the woman, too stricken for speech, for more than a whispered, “Please, no…” that none heard, or would have heeded.
Joanna’s fear of her father was soon eclipsed by the utter misery of her journey. Perched precariously behind Simon’s saddle, she slowly overcame her panicked conviction that each dip in the road would jar loose her hold on Simon’s belt, send her sprawling into the dirt, to be trampled by the horses of Simon’s escort. But the jouncing soon raised blisters and welts upon her thighs and buttocks. As Simon was under orders to make haste, some days they covered thirty miles, and Joanna’s muscles would be so cramped and sore that she could barely crawl into bed at night. Bed was generally no more than a scratchy woolen blanket, and on those nights when they could find no monastery or inn to take them in, they bedded down in the fields, Joanna huddling against Simon in a futile search for warmth, for it was October now and the nights were chill.
The days blurred, one into the next. They would be on the road at dawn, moving south through ghostly hamlets and silent villages, for plague and famine were abroad in the land. Simon’s men kept swords loose in their scabbards, for all knew that in troubled times the roads abounded with highwaymen and brigands. Joanna’s anxieties were more immediate; too shy to ask Simon to stop when she needed to relieve herself, she suffered agonies of discomfort, and once, the ultimate humiliation, as urine trickled down her legs, stained her skirt. Her world was taking on more and more the aspects of a terrifying dream, one that offered no escape.
They reached London on the tenth day. Joanna had not thought there could be so many people in all of Christendom. The streets were never still. Heavy carts rumbled by; men led overladen pack animals; women rode sidesaddle and in horse litters; the activity never seemed to cease. Nor did the noise. She was glad when, after a night passed in a seedy Cheapside inn, Simon led her toward the wharves.
The docks were crowded with vessels, large galleys manned by oarsmen, smaller esneques rigged with canvas sails. It was one of these that was to convey them across the Channel, and Joanna found herself squeezed into a dark, foul-smelling canvas tent already overflowing with pilgrims, merchants, and mercenaries. Joanna had never even seen the sea, and she became seasick almost at once. Most of the passengers were experiencing the same distress, and the fetid, airless tent soon became unbearable for all entombed within.
It took several days to navigate the River Thames and turn south into the Channel. They reached the Seine estuary on the third day, began the slow passage upriver toward Rouen, not dropping anchor in the harbor until dusk on the following day. It was dark by the time they disembarked. Joanna had long since passed the limits of her endurance. She stumbled after Simon in a daze, clutching his hand as if it were her only lifeline. When he dragged her into a riverside alehouse, she simply sat down on the floor at his feet. Snatches of his conversation drifted to her. “…in Rouen for the wedding of his sister Joanna, the Queen of Sicily, to the Count of Toulouse…bringing his baseborn daughter…” Joanna at once was surrounded by strangers, suddenly the center of attention. She heard someone say, “He is at Le Vieille, at the castle.” That was the last thing she remembered. There on the dirt floor of the tavern, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
When she awakened, she found herself in a large, torchlit chamber, again encircled by strangers. The smoke from the hearth stung her eyes; she rubbed them with the back of her hand, tried to focus on her surroundings.
“I suppose we must take your word that there is a child hidden underneath all that grime. Has she ever, in all her life, had a bath?”
The voice was scornful, belonged to the most beautiful woman Joanna had ever seen, fair-skinned and flaxen-haired, a flesh-and-blood embodiment of ideal womanhood, as extolled in Clemence’s bedtime chansons. But this bewitching creature was looking at her with such distaste that Joanna flushed, pressed back against Simon, who seemed no less flustered. He stammered something about the hardships of the road, and the woman laughed.
“I daresay you never even noticed how she looked. God knows, you’re filthy enough yourself!”
Joanna did not like this woman, not at all. “My mama gave me baths,” she said, and was bewildered when those around her laughed.
But then the door was opening, and two enormous dogs were rushing at her, barking furiously. They towered above Joanna; when one lunged at her, hot breath brushing her face, her nerves gave way and she began to scream, could not stop even after someone had lifted her to safety.
Joanna’s screams soon gave way to choked sobs. Her rescuer let her cry, having silenced the dogs with a one-word command. His tunic seemed wondrously soft to her, fragrant with orris root. She rubbed her cheek against it, felt his hand moving on her hair.
“Do you not like dogs, lass?” he asked, stirring an immediate, indignant denial.
“I love dogs! But they were so big…” Peering down from his arms, she saw that the dogs were not quite so monstrous after all, were merely large, friendly wolfhounds. “I love dogs,” she repeated. “But my mama would never let me have one.”
He laughed, and touched his finger to a smudge on her nose. “Well, you are a surprise package, if a rather bedraggled one. How would you fancy a bath?”
A Pallet had been made up by the bed; they stood looking down at the sleeping child.
“Do you remember the mother at all, John?”
“Yes, I do; does that surprise you? Clemence d’Arcy. A very pretty girl…and a very stupid one.”
Joanna’s clothes lay on the floor by the bathing tub, and John touched them with the toe of his boot. “Have these rags burned, Adele. I assume there is a seamstress in the castle? See that she has enough material, from your own coffers, if need be.”
“But John…it’s nigh on ten; she’s abed for certes.”
“Not for long. I want a new gown for Joanna by morning, something soft, in green or gold.” Reaching for the corner of the blanket, he rubbed gently at Joanna’s wet hair. She stirred, but did not awaken.
“I’m amazed, in truth, that she does not seem to fear me. I rather doubt that Clemence spoke tenderly of me. Until I can engage a suitable nurse, I’ll expect you to care for her,” he added, and Adele’s mouth dropped open.
“Me?”
“Yes, darling—you. Passing strange about the name. Joanna was Clemence’s mother; I recall now. I think I shall tell her that she was named after my sister Joanna. She is my first daughter, Adele; all the others have been sons.”
Adele laughed. “I’ve never seen this side of you before, John. You remind me of nothing so much as a lad with a new toy!”
John raised his head, gave her a long, level look. “I begin to think you might be as stupid as Clemence,” he said, very softly, and Adele paled.
“I did not mean to offend you, my lord.”
“Well, then, you’d best think how to make it up to me, darling,” he said, still softly, and she nodded.
“It shall be my pleasure.”
“Not entirely yours, I hope!” He laughed then, and after a pause, she laughed, too.
Joanna slept till midmorning, awakening, bewildered, in a huge curtained bed as soft as a cloud.
There was a fox-fur coverlet pulled up over her, and at the foot of the bed lay the most beautiful clothes she’d ever seen: a linen chemise, an emerald wool gown, and a bliaut over-tunic of green and gold. But her own gown was nowhere in sight.
Wrapping herself in the fur coverlet, she moved cautiously from the bed, began to search the chamber for her clothes. Never had she been in a room like this. The walls were covered with linen hangings, glowing with color. Thickly laid floor rushes, intermingled with sweet-smelling basil and mint, tickled the soles of her feet. There was a table covered with a clean white cloth, an enormous oaken coffer, even a large brass chamber pot.
Joanna was at a loss. But she was remembering more now, remembered being bathed and put to bed, remembered a man with a reassuring smile, green-gold eyes, and the beautiful, unfriendly woman he called Adele. She remembered, too, how, when she’d awakened in the night, not knowing where she was, he’d taken her into bed with him and Adele; nestled between them, she’d soon slept again, feeling safe for the first time since her mother died.
The door opened; Adele entered. “Well, you’re up at last. John’s awaiting you in the great hall, so hurry and dress.”
“My clothes are gone,” Joanna said reluctantly, suddenly afraid that she’d be blamed for their loss.
“They’re right there on the bed.” Adele pointed impatiently when Joanna merely looked at her, uncomprehending. And only then did Joanna reach out, timidly touch the soft lace edging the chemise, not truly convinced such clothes could be hers until Adele snapped, much as her mother had so often done, “Are you going to tarry all day? Put them on.”
Following Adele down the winding stairwell, Joanna discovered it led to a great hall, much like the one at Middleham. Dogs were rooting in the floor rushes for bones; servants were carrying platters of food; men seated at long trestle tables laughed and joked as they ate, the overall atmosphere one of cheerful chaos. Joanna hesitated, daunted by the sight of so many people, but Adele pushed her forward, into the hall. “Go on in. Would you keep him waiting?”
At the end of the hall a dais had been set up, and Joanna recognized the man who’d been so kind to her the night before. She was gathering up her courage to approach him when he beckoned to her. She came at once, realizing, with a jolt of astonished happiness, that he was as glad to see her as she was to see him. Within moments she found herself seated beside him, being urged to share the food ladled onto his trencher. She was dazzled both by the size of the portions and the amazing variety: roasted venison, lampreys in sauce, a rissole of beef marrow, pea soup, glazed wafers, pancake crisps, and a sweet spiced wine he called hippocras.
John let her sip from his cup, named each food for her—even let her choose for herself which dishes she wanted to try, and by the end of the meal, Joanna was utterly captivated by him. He had a low, pleasant voice, never raised it, and yet was obeyed with celerity. It was obvious to Joanna that he was a man of importance. That made it all the more wondrous that he should take such an interest in her. She watched him closely, eating what he ate, and laughing when he did, so intent she did not at first notice what would normally have claimed all her attention, the small spaniel puppy being led toward the dais.
“You said your mother would allow you no dog, Joanna. Well, I will,” John said, depositing the squirming spaniel in her lap. He heard her catch her breath; she looked up at him with eyes so adoring that he laughed. “I think you shall be cheaper to content than the other women in my life; they yearn for pearls and silks, not puppies.”
“For me? Truly for me?” The puppy was a soft silver grey; it wriggled as Joanna ruffled its fur, swiped at her fingers with its tongue.
“Have you a name in mind, Joanna?” When she shook her head, John smiled. “I’ve one for you, then. Why not call her Avisa?”
Joanna thought that a very pretty name, wondered why so many of the men laughed. One, wearing a priest’s cassock, said, “Despite your differences, the Lady Avisa is still your wife, my lord, in the eyes of both man and God.”
“And precisely because she is, Father, I can say for certes that Avisa is an uncommonly apt name for a bitch,” John said dryly, and again those around the dais laughed.
Joanna did not understand this byplay, but she reached out, shyly stroked John’s sleeve. “I do like Avisa for the puppy,” she said, seeking to please him, saw by his smile that she had.
After the meal was cleared away, the men sat down at one of the tables and unrolled a large map of Normandy. Joanna hovered in the background, playing with her puppy. When her curiosity drew her toward the table, John did not chase her away; instead he sat her on his lap, spent several moments pointing out places on the map, showing her a French town called Gamaches and telling her how he had taken and burnt the town that August past for his brother the King. Joanna did not understand about battles or campaigns; what mattered to her was that he should take the time and trouble to explain.
She was so happy that she went quite willingly when Adele came to fetch her. Back in the bedchamber, she sat docilely upon the coffer while Adele brushed her hair, wondering why Adele, who obviously did not like her, should care if her hair was combed or not. When Adele put the brush away, she went to the window, climbed onto the seat to gaze down into the bailey. And panicked at what she saw.
“Simon!” She’d actually forgotten all about him.
“Who is Simon?”
“He brought me here.” Joanna jerked at the shutters, tugged until she’d blocked Simon from view. “When does he go?”
Adele shrugged. “On the morrow, I expect.”
On the morrow. On the morrow Simon would take her away, to her father.
As soon as Adele departed the chamber, Joanna scrambled from the window seat. Never before had she thought to rebel, but never before had so much been at stake. She quickly settled upon the coffer. Rooting in the hearth for a suitable stick of firewood, she tucked the puppy under her arm, lowered herself into the coffer, and jammed the stick under the lid so she’d not be utterly in the dark. On the morrow Simon would search for her in vain, would have to leave without her.
“Joanna?”
She tensed, heard her name called again. Avisa had begun to whimper. She shivered, kept very still. And then the coffer lid was thrown back, her hiding place exposed.
“Why did you not answer me, Joanna? What foolish game is this?” But at sight of her tearstained face, John’s annoyance ebbed away. Reaching down, he lifted her out, set her beside him on the bed.
“Now, tell me what is wrong.”
“I was hiding from Simon,” she confessed. “So he could not take me to my father.”
There was a silence. She slanted a glance through wet lashes, saw he was watching her, with a very strange look on his face. “Please,” she entreated. “Do not make me go with him.”
Still he said nothing. As hope faded, tears began to streak her face again.
“I thought you understood. Joanna…I am your father.”
He saw her eyes widen, pupils dilate with shock. He started to touch her, stopped himself. “Joanna…what did your mother tell you of me?”
She swallowed. “That you were wicked, that your soul was accursed, that you did not want me.”
The corner of John’s mouth twitched. “She lied to you, lass. I do want you.”
Joanna stared down into her lap. “Mama did not want me,” she whispered.
“Did you love your mother, Joanna?”
She nodded, and then said, almost inaudibly, “I was afraid of Mama sometimes.”
John reached out, tilted her chin up. “Do you fear me?”
She did not answer at once, and he was later to tell Adele that he’d actually been able to see it in her eyes, that moment when loyalty given to a dead woman was given to him.
“No,” she said, and as the wonder of that realization registered with her, she shook her head vehemently. “No, oh, no…”
“You’re flesh of my flesh, Joanna, of my blood. You unde
rstand what that means?”
“That I belong to you?” she ventured, and he smiled.
“Just so, Joanna. Just so.” And then she was in his arms, clinging, and he was laughing, hugging her back.
That was the beginning of the good times for Joanna.
8
Poitiers, Province Of Poitou
January 1199
“So you’ve come. I was not sure you would.”
“Of course I came, Madame. You sent for me, did you not?” John’s smile faded. “What is wrong? Why do you look at me like that?”
“As if you do not know!” Eleanor had stood motionless by the hearth as John crossed the chamber. But as soon as he moved within reach, she took two quick steps forward and struck him across the mouth. “You fool! You utter fool!”
John gasped, grabbed her wrist when she raised her hand as if to strike him again. His face was stinging; her signet ring had scratched his cheek. “Christ Jesus, Mother, what is the matter with you? Why should you be wroth with me?”
“Why, indeed? Betrayal is as natural to you as breathing, is it not? More fool I, for imagining it could ever be otherwise!” Eleanor jerked her wrist free, began to pace. “Five full years without a misstep, five years of fidelity. Besieging Evreux, burning Gamaches, taking the Bishop of Beauvais prisoner—all for one reason only, to win Richard’s favor. And you were more successful than you know. Not that Richard would ever trust you again, in this life or the next, but you had shown him you could do more than intrigue, that you were not as worthless as he once thought. Five years, John, all for naught. Name of God, why?”
“Why what? Just what am I supposed to have done?”
“Oh, enough! We know, you see, know of your latest scheming with the French King. Philip told Richard all when they met on Wednesday last to declare a truce. And how fitting that you should be betrayed to the very one you did mean to betray!”
“And Richard believed this?” John was incredulous. “What joy it must give Philip, that he has only to dangle the bait and Richard invariably lunges for it like a starving trout! But you, Madame, God’s truth, I’d have expected better of you!”