Edmund did not even pause to acknowledge the command. Vaulting up onto Aubrey’s roan, he set off across the fields at a dead run, and within moments was lost from view.
Mirebeau was a walled town in the marches between Anjou and Poitou, having sprung up around a small border castle. It was little more than a village, and the sudden arrival of the Queen created a sensation. Men and women abandoned their daily labors, crowded into the street to catch a glimpse of the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine. Aubrey at once set about conscripting men to guard the walls, gave orders to bar the town gates as the Queen and her party passed on into the castle bailey. There the exhausted Eleanor was assisted from her mare, up into the keep.
Relief at having reached Mirebeau was not long in giving way to dismay. Even to Joanna’s untrained eye, it was all too clear that the castle was in a ruinous state. The moat was clogged with debris and weeds, silted and foul-smelling. The outer curtain walls were constructed of aging timbers, looked likely to tumble down in a stiff wind. The keep itself was a stone-and-mortar tower, but it, too, showed the effects of long neglect. Aubrey, assuming command in the name of the Queen, put the small garrison to work shoring up the walls as best they could, sent men into the town to appropriate food supplies. The women did what they could to convert the solar into a suitable bedchamber for the Queen. And then they waited for the inevitable to occur, waited to be found by the pursuing army, an army led by Eleanor’s own grandson.
They appeared before the town gates as summer twilight slowly darkened the Poitevin countryside, flying high the banners of Arthur, Duke of Brittany, Hugh de Lusignan, Count of La Marche, and his uncle Geoffrey, Lord of Vouvant. A peremptory demand for surrender was rejected with equal dispatch by Aubrey. Negotiations dragged on for a futile time under a perfect crescent moon, and then both sides settled down to pass the night.
Soon after sunrise the next day, the negotiations resumed. Arthur and the de Lusignans wanted Eleanor alive, and she exploited that, her only advantage, to the fullest, feigning belief in their goodwill, playing desperately for time. They, in their turn, promised whatever they thought likely to lure her out, swore she could continue unmolested on her journey, that she need only agree to cede Poitou to Arthur. Back and forth the lies flew, until Hugh de Lusignan lost patience and gave the command to assault the town walls. The townsmen, unwillingly impressed into a quarrel not of their making, put up only feeble resistance, and by day’s end Mirebeau was in enemy hands. The ancient castle alone held out, ripe for the taking.
The keep was stifling, its shuttered windows barring entry to cooler night air. Joanna huddled on a bench in the great hall, a plate of food untouched upon her lap. It was quiet now, but her ears still echoed with the cries of the wounded and dying, the screams of the women claimed as spoils of war by Arthur’s jubilant soldiers. When the assault was first launched, she’d climbed with Eleanor up to the battlements atop the keep, had watched as the town’s defenders sought to push aside the scaling ladders, as men plunged screaming to their deaths. Hours later, the horror of it was still very much with her; unable to sleep, she kept inconspicuously to the shadows, watching as her grandmother and Aubrey sought a viable plan of defense.
It was very late when Aubrey rose, sent a man to the kitchens for his first food of the day. Joanna slipped from the bench, crossed to Eleanor.
“Madame…what will happen on the morrow?”
“They shall assault the castle.”
“Can we hold?”
“No, child, we cannot, not for long.”
Joanna swallowed, sought to emulate her grandmother’s composure. “But…might not Papa come in time?”
“No, Joanna. I’d not give you false hope. We cannot be sure my courier made it to John’s camp. And even if he did, Le Mans is well over eighty miles away. John could not reach us before Friday, Thursday night at the earliest…and by then it shall be too late.”
Joanna knelt on the floor by Eleanor’s chair. “Aubrey is a brave knight. Surely God will not favor Arthur over Aubrey, Madame?”
Eleanor did not reply.
Wednesday dawned hot and overcast. The sky was leaden, and for a time it did seem as if God meant to favor Aubrey. A rainstorm swept in from the east, denying the attacking army the potent weapon of fire. Aubrey’s outmanned force struggled to keep the enemy off the walls, casting down boiling water and stones from the curtain battlements. The de Lusignans responded with mangonel bombardments, set about filling in the overgrown moat so they could make use of a battering ram.
In the top floor of the keep, Eleanor stood at an arrow loop, watching as Aubrey waged a gallant, futile battle below. His courage was contagious, and his men offered up their lives with desperate abandon, until overwhelmed at the last by the sheer numbers of their attackers. Forced off the walls, they fell back toward the keep. Eleanor, hastening down into the great hall, signaled the guards to stand ready. As Aubrey and the surviving defenders plunged into the hall, they torched the stairs, bolted the door.
The great hall was overflowing with exhausted men. They lay sprawled in the rushes, some seeking sleep while they could, others clutching wine flagons close. There was little eating, less talking. In the corner, one youth sat alone, softly strumming a gittern. Aubrey, grey-faced with fatigue, was slumped in the window seat. He raised his head only after Joanna plucked repeatedly at his sleeve, regarding her with bloodshot blue eyes.
“Sir Aubrey, when they take the keep, what will they do to us?”
“They want the Queen…only the Queen. They might let my men go…or they might put them to the sword.” Aubrey was slurring his words like one drunk, yet he still thought to add, “But not you, not a little lass like you…” He leaned forward, cradled his head in his arms, and Joanna backed away.
Taking a candle, she groped her way up the stairwell. The solar door was ajar, but as she reached for the latch, she heard her grandmother’s voice.
“The de Lusignans must not know that Joanna is John’s daughter. I’ve already discussed this with Aubrey, mean to claim her as a niece of the Abbess Matilda.”
“But Madame, might it not be a greater protection for her…that she is the King’s daughter?”
“Are you truly as naïve as that, Cecily? I should not think I’d need to remind you that Hugh de Lusignan is not a man of honor. They do need me; I shall not be harmed. But they might well see John’s bastard-born child as…fair game, shall we say? And that is a risk I am not prepared to take.”
Joanna sank down upon the stairs. She sat there for a long time, alone in the dark, not wanting them to know she wept.
Joanna awoke in her grandmother’s bed, with only a vague memory of how she got there. Had she fallen asleep upon the stairs? She still wore her chemise, but someone had removed her gown and bliaut, folded them over the foot of the bed. She reached for the gown, pulled it over her head. As she did, she saw the light filtering through the unshuttered solar window. For a moment, her breath stopped. They’d lost the night, their last shield. Even now, men might be gathering below, preparing for the final assault upon the keep.
All around her, her grandmother’s ladies slept on makeshift pallets. Threading her way between their bodies, she reached the window, climbed up onto the seat. Although to the west a few stars still glimmered, the sky was slowly and inexorably paling, taking on the dull pearl color of coming dawn. The bailey was enveloped in an eerie quiet, men just beginning to stir, to crawl, groaning, from their bedrolls. A few castle dogs prowled about. A sleepy soldier relieved himself against the chapel wall, provoking curses from some of the blanket-clad forms downwind. Up on the curtain wall, guards dozed by empty wine flasks. The aroma of roasting pigeon wafted across the bailey from the gatehouse, where Arthur and the de Lusignans had set up their command post. The scene below her resembled not so much a siege as the morning after a drunken carouse, and that, Joanna knew, was what the night had been. So sure of victory were these men that they’d already begun to celebrate their triumph,
for they, no less than those trapped within, knew there could be but one outcome. The only question as yet unanswered was how many men would die in the capture of the aging Queen.
Footsteps sounded behind Joanna, and she turned as her grandmother and Aubrey de Mara entered the solar, joined her at the window. The soldier who’d just urinated glanced up, saw them standing there, and raised his voice in a mocking shout. “We’ve been wagering upon the hour when the keep falls. Think you that you can try to hold out till noon? If so, you’ll win me a right fair sum!”
The window was faced with an iron grille, but Joanna shrank back, grateful when Aubrey reached out, jerked the shutters into place. “I’ve set men to bringing up water buckets from the cellar well, Madame. I expect they shall seek to fire the outer door, so I had it well soaked. I had additional bolts attached, too, but the wood is so warped and rotted that I do not doubt even the little lass here could force it.”
As Joanna watched, marveling at the lack of emotion in his voice, he walked over to the solar door, tested the bolt’s strength. “You’d best barricade yourself here within the solar, Madame. We’ll hold them as long as we can below.”
Eleanor nodded. “I expect we’ve a few hours’ wait. They do not seem in much of a hurry, do they?”
“Why should they be? Does a cat rush in for the kill when it has its prey secure within its paws?” Aubrey’s mouth twisted. “I would to God that—” He broke off abruptly, as a shout echoed down from the battlements. Joanna flinched, started to tremble. Was it to begin as soon as this? They heard now a clatter upon the stairs. Aubrey reached the door just as a man lurched into the solar, all but fell into his arms.
“Under attack…” he gasped. “Hurry…”
Aubrey whirled toward the window, and the soldier caught his arm. “No,” he panted, “not the keep…the town!”
The stairs were in a dangerous state of disrepair, and Eleanor had to lean heavily upon Joanna for support, compelled to caution when they both yearned to run. Emerging at last out onto the battlements, Joanna froze for a moment, grappling with her fear of heights, and then edged along the walkway. The men were leaning recklessly over an embrasure, suddenly heedless of enemy bowmen, gesturing toward the town. The wind was gusting; Joanna found herself blinded by her own hair. Clutching Eleanor’s hand, she nerved herself to look over the battlements, down into the bailey.
Men were stumbling to their feet, shouting groggy questions none could yet answer, groping hastily for weapons. Dogs were barking frantically as soldiers staggered, bewildered and bleary-eyed, from the buildings ranged along the curtain walls; a riderless horse galloped in panicked circles, adding immeasurably to the confusion. The more wide awake were running for the gatehouse, only to encounter comrades retreating from the town, where a wild melee had broken out.
“Could it be des Roches, Madame, and the garrison from Chinon Castle?”
Eleanor, no less bemused than Aubrey, shook her head. “He has not the men to raise a siege. I confess I do not—”
Joanna could wait no longer, tugged at her arm. “It’s Papa, is it not? He’s come for us!”
“I do not see how it could be John,” Eleanor said slowly, “and yet—”
“It is Papa,” Joanna interrupted. “I know it is!”
“She’s right, look at the banner they fly!” Aubrey gestured toward the armed knights now surging into the narrow streets of Mirebeau, cutting off escape into the castle. “Gules, three lions passant guardant in pale or—the Royal Arms of England, Madame!”
Aubrey’s soldiers raised a cheer as the door was unbarred, squabbling good-naturedly over who should lower the ladders, reaching out eager hands to assist the men climbing up into the keep. Joanna squirmed among them, hopelessly hemmed in, until one young soldier swung her up into the air, and she found herself passed from man to man to be deposited, breathless and dizzy, within sight of the door, just as William de Braose scrambled up into the keep.
She almost did not recognize him. De Braose had always prided himself upon his elegance, and this man looked as if he’d not had a bath in months, so grimy and disheveled was he, blond hair matted and dark with dirt, eyes reddened and dust-swollen. But his smile was a dazzle of radiant white, and when he demanded, “Good Christ, give me a drink,” fully a dozen flasks and flagons were thrust at him from all directions.
The next man up was William des Roches, Seneschal of Anjou and Touraine. But then the soldiers surged forward, shoving and pushing, and Joanna could no longer see the door. By the time she’d managed to squeeze through the press, her father had mounted the ladder into the keep. Like de Braose, he was utterly filthy, and like de Braose, too, his smile was blinding. Joanna had meant to curtsy, but John held out his arms to her. The chain links of his hauberk scratched her cheek, and he was holding her so tightly that it hurt, but she made no objections; it was only when she saw the dark wet stain across his surcoat that she recoiled, with a cry of fright.
“Papa, you are bleeding!”
“No, sweetheart, it is not mine,” he said soothingly. “There’s nothing wrong with me that a bath and a week in bed will not cure!”
There was a sudden stir among the men; a path was opening. John set Joanna back on her feet, moved toward his mother. For a long moment, they looked at one another, and then Eleanor said incredulously, “You’re truly here; I know my eyes do not lie. But eighty miles! How in God’s name did you do it, John?”
John laughed. “I daresay that’s what Arthur and the de Lusignans are asking themselves, too, about now! Your man caught up with me late Tuesday, outside Le Mans. We set out at once for Mirebeau, rode day and night, spurred our horses till they foundered, till men reeled in the saddle like drunkards, stopping only at Chinon for William des Roches and fresh mounts.” Someone handed him a flask; he drank deeply, all but choked. “They’d barred all the city gates but one, which they left open for supplies…and for us. By the time their besotted guards awoke, we were in the town. Upwards of two hundred knights captured, none escaping.”
Eleanor had never seen him so elated; there was about him an intense, surging excitement, an intoxication of the senses bordering upon euphoria. “And Arthur? What of Arthur, John?”
John’s eyes showed suddenly gold. “Arthur and Hugh and Geoffrey de Lusignan, all taken. They were breakfasting on pigeon pie, had not even time to draw their swords. And their faces…” He laughed again. “Ah, Madame, to see their faces!”
“You have indeed won a great victory,” she said, then put her hand upon his arm. “Come now, sit and I’ll send for food. Do you even remember when you’ve last eaten?”
“No,” he admitted. “Why? Think you that I’m in need of sobering up?” He grinned, let her lead him toward the table, and then stopped without warning, swung about to face her. “Arthur and the de Lusignans were not alone in their disbelief…were they?” he challenged. “You never expected me to come to your defense, never expected me to reach you in time, never expected much of me at all, did you…Mother?”
Eleanor saw now how exhausted he truly was; his voice was slurred, husky with fatigue, his eyes hollowed and feverishly bright, at once triumphant and accusing. “It was not a question of faith, John,” she said carefully. “Do you not realize the extent of your victory? You have done what most men would swear to be impossible, covered some eighty miles as if you’d put wings to your horse, arrived in time to save me from capture, to take the town, all your enemies. That is a feat more than remarkable, it is well nigh miraculous.” She paused, and then said that which she knew he’d waited all his life to hear, what she could at last say in utter sincerity: “Not even Richard could have hoped to equal what you did this day.”
John looked at her, saying nothing for a time. “I should have known that the highest praise you could offer would be a comparison with my sainted brother. Well, that is an honor I think I’ll decline, Madame. I’ve no longer any inclination to compete with a ghost.”
“Ah, Johnny…” Elean
or was suddenly and overwhelmingly aware of her own exhaustion, of the toll these last days had taken. “I am proud of you, I swear it,” she said softly. But she’d waited too long; John had already turned away.
John’s triumph was even more conclusive than he had at first thought, for his nephew Arthur was not the only prize to be taken in Mirebeau. Arthur’s sister had been with him when he joined forces with the de Lusignans, and rather than risk leaving her behind in Tours, he’d chosen to have her accompany him, for safety’s sake. As ill-fated as was his decision to besiege Mirebeau, this was to be an even greater blunder, for he thus delivered into John’s hands both remaining heirs of the Angevin House, the two people with a rival claim to the English crown.
Joanna watched with sympathetic interest as the girl was escorted into the great hall. Ironically named Eleanor after the grandmother Arthur had been seeking to capture, she was slender and blue-eyed, looked to Joanna to be about seventeen or so. She also looked terrified. Approaching the dais, she sank down before John in a deep, submissive curtsy, but he at once raised her up, drew her toward him. He spoke softly and earnestly for several moments, and then smiled at her, pulling from his own finger a topaz ring. Topaz, he murmured, was a known talisman against grief. It would please him greatly if she would accept it, as his niece and kinswoman.
None knew better than Joanna how reassuring her father could be when he so chose, and she was not surprised now to see color coming back into Eleanor’s face, to see that Eleanor’s hands were no longer shaking as she let John slip the ring onto her finger. Pouring a cupful of Madeira from the sideboard, Joanna carried it across the hall, presented it to her father. He already had a cup, but he set it aside, accepting Joanna’s, instead.
“Thank you, lass,” he said, and then smiled at her. “What say you, Joanna? Should you like to meet your cousin Arthur?”