“And thankful we are for it,” the Prior said fervently, and others in the hall took up the refrain, expressing their gratitude in terms so sycophantic that one of the young monks laid his bread down in disgust, his appetite utterly gone.
Brother Thomas was incensed that his Prior should make welcome a blasphemer, a man with such mortal sins upon his soul. The Angevins were ungodly, evil men. Thomas, who had been named after the holy martyr Thomas à Becket, did not doubt that Henry and his sons were burning in Hell. John, too, would feel the flames of perdition. Nothing could save him, for there was no contrition in his heart. When the land was laid under Interdict, he had shamelessly mocked the clergy, men of God, arresting the hearthmates and concubines of village priests, demanding that the priests ransom their illicit loves. He had heaped scorn and contempt upon Stephen Langton, a man of Thomas’s own Lincolnshire and, like Thomas, of Saxon blood. Nor had John mended his ways after making peace with the Holy Father. Thomas had been appalled to hear that John had allowed his soldiers to stable their horses in St Andrew’s priory church during his siege of Rochester Castle. And not three weeks ago he had burned and plundered the Benedictine abbey at Croyland.
No, such a man was damned forever and aye, as surely as if he were a Jew or infidel Saracen, and Thomas cursed his own cowardice, the fear that froze his tongue and kept him from crying out in ringing, clarion tones that liars are loathsome to the Eternal and the wrath of God is fearful to behold.
“I shall have to depart on the morrow, but I’ll leave one of my most trusted captains, Savaric de Mauléon, in Lynn to see to your safety. Not that I expect the rebels to threaten you again,” John added, sounding so cheerful, so confident that Thomas could endure no more.
“You said a number of disloyal lords had returned to their true allegiance, disavowed the French,” he blurted out, half-rising from his seat. “Was one of these lords your brother Salisbury?”
His words seemed to echo endlessly in his own ears. All heads turned in his direction. Those seated beside him drew back so precipitantly that, in other circumstances, their recoil might have been comical. Thomas sat alone, seeing through a blur the shocked and outraged faces of his Prior, the townspeople, aware—as he’d never been aware of anything before—of the sudden and utter stillness of the King.
It seemed forever to those watching before John moved, completed an action frozen in time and space at mention of Will’s name. Bringing his cup up to his mouth, he took a swallow of verney. The sweet white wine burned his throat like vinegar. Setting it down, he glanced toward Thomas, saw only a fearful youngster, beet-red and speechless, as if in belated realization of his gaffe.
“No,” he said, his voice very measured and remote, “the Earl of Salisbury was not amongst them.”
There were relieved murmurings among the people at that. The Prior, who knew Thomas as John did not, gave the errant monk a scorching look that promised retribution at the earliest possible moment, and fumbled for a more suitable topic of conversation. It was John’s old friend and comrade Peter des Roches who came to their rescue. He was not deceived by John’s icy demeanor; he knew the monk had lacerated anew a wound that had yet to show any signs of healing, and he acted now to turn attention away from John and to himself.
“We shall need your help, Prior Wilfrid,” he said swiftly. “We encountered some difficulty in crossing the River Wellstream yesterday. Can you suggest a safer passage?”
“Indeed, my lord Bishop. The safest way is to ford the river at Wisbech, fifteen miles to the south. There is a castle there, so the King’s Grace will have suitable lodgings for the night. But since your baggage train is so much slower and cumbersome, I would suggest you dispatch it by the shorter route, between the villages of Cross Keys and Long Sutton. It’s some four miles across the estuary, but when the tide is out, much of the sand is exposed, and with local guides who know where the quicksands lie, it can be safely forded.”
John had been only half listening to the Prior’s long-winded explanation. He looked up, though, as a man rose and approached the high table.
“My liege, might I have a word with you? I am Roger of the Bail, and I—”
“I know a Lincoln man by that name, Peter of the Bail. At Michaelmas, I appointed him as city bailiff. Are you kin?”
“We are cousins, Your Grace.” Roger beckoned, and two other men brought forward an iron coffer. As he lifted the lid, the torchlight fell upon a multitude of shimmering silver coins. “This is for you, my liege, from your subjects in the township of Lynn. It’s not as much as we could wish—one hundred marks—but we wanted to give you tangible proof of our loyalty. Use it, with God’s blessing, to fight the French invaders and drive them back into the sea.”
John was touched, for that was no small sum for these merchants and fishermen to have raised. “I thank you; your offering shall be well spent.” He gazed about the hall, heartened by sight of so many friendly faces. “In the past I’ve granted many a borough the right to elect a mayor, London and Lincoln amongst them. A while back it pleased me to confer such a privilege upon Lynn.” Rising, he unsheathed his sword, handed it, hilt first, to the young merchant. “Here,” he said when Roger made no move to take it. “Your mayor shall need a ceremonial sword.”
Whatever else he might have said was lost in the sudden explosion of sound, the wave of cheering that engulfed the hall. When John could make himself heard again, he laughed and signaled for silence. “I will drive the French invaders into the sea,” he said, “and then I shall come back to Lynn and celebrate my victory with those who stood by me when my need was greatest.”
The sun rose at 6:20 A.M. on Wednesday, October 12, but heavy mists overhung the marshes, did not begin to burn away until midmorning. John crossed the River Wellstream at Wisbech, turned north along the embankment toward the village of Long Sutton. The cold was damp and penetrating, and the wind whistled eerily through the billowing salt grass. Birds cried mournfully, invisible in the mist, and occasional splashes heralded the passage of unseen animals.
“I hate the fenlands,” John said grimly, “hate these barren, accursed swamps. What man in his right mind would live here of his own free will? Only a water snake could thrive in these stinking bogs.”
He’d been in a vile mood all morning, but his companions understood why. He’d been taken ill the day they left Lynn, had spent a sleepless night at Wisbech. He was still queasy this morning, and at Peter des Roches’s troubled queries, he finally admitted that he felt as if one fox were gnawing at his belly, another at his bowels. But he’d refused to lay over at Wisbech, or even to slow their pace, although he’d twice had to dismount while he vomited into the marsh grass.
“It’s no surprise to me that you’re ailing, John. I’ve been with you these six weeks past, have seen firsthand the way you’ve been abusing yourself. It’s a rare day when you do not cover forty miles; there’ve even been a few fifty-mile days! And then you spend half the night tending to matters of state. You keep burning a candle down to the wick, my friend, and it gets harder and harder to light.”
“How profound,” John said caustically, and spurred his stallion forward to ride beside John Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke’s nephew. They began to trade marshland folklore, arguing whether it was true that men born in the Fens had webbed feet, whether the flickering swamp lights known as will-of-the-wisps were truly the souls of unbaptised babies. Peter des Roches started to urge his mount to catch up with them, but after a few strides he let his horse slacken pace. What good would it do? John was not about to listen.
When they reached the village of Long Sutton, the tide was out and the sands lay naked to a pallid autumn sun. Hungry gulls circled overhead, shrieking. The few houses huddled by the estuary did nothing to lessen the bleak desolation of the scene. There was no sign as yet of John’s baggage train. But the wind was biting, and John’s stomach was churning, and he let Peter des Roches persuade him not to wait, to press ahead toward Swineshead Abbey.
They turned west, and after a few miles John consented to stop for his first food of the day. The little hamlet of Holbeach was no less dismal than Long Sutton. The awestruck villagers shyly offered John shelter and what meagre hospitality they could. But as soon as he stepped inside one of the wattle-and-daub huts, he was assailed again by nausea; the second room of the cottage was used as a stable, and the rank animal odors sent him reeling back into the icy sea air.
One of the peasants produced a blanket, and John’s servants unpacked a basket of wheaten bread and cheese. John could manage just a mouthful, but even though the villagers could offer only ale and goat’s milk, he could not get enough to drink; he was as thirsty, he said bemusedly, as if he’d gorged himself all week on nothing but salted herring.
Sitting back on the blanket, he studied the cottage. “Cruck frame, thatched roof. As hard as it is for me to believe it, my daughter Joanna passed the first five years of her life in a house not much better than that one.” He waved away a preferred chunk of bread. “What were you telling me about the tides, Jack?”
John Marshal took the bread John spurned. “The Prior told me low water is at noon, high water at six. The half-tide comes in about three or so, so they’d have to cross between twelve and two.” He squinted upward, shook his head. “I’ve yet to see enough of the sun to hazard even a blind guess as to the time now. But I see no cause for concern, Your Grace. The local guides know these waters better than the fish do, know where the sinkholes and quicksands lie.”
John yearned to lie back upon the blanket; his body ached for rest. But the wind was blowing sand about with such abandon that it had even begun to encrust the rim of his cup. “I want to go to Nottingham next week to confer with Philip Marc. And when we reach the abbey tonight, I ought to send a courier to Hubert de Burgh.”
“You need not vex yourself over the Dover siege, John.” Peter des Roches had no liking for Hubert de Burgh, who’d replaced him as Justiciar, but his wish to ease John’s mind prevailed over jealousy, and he said, quite truthfully, “I know men call Dover ‘the key to the kingdom.’ But de Burgh has one hundred forty knights and a full garrison at Dover Castle. I’d wager he can hold out against Louis till Judgment Day if need be.”
“My lords!” One of the villagers was pointing. “A rider comes!”
The men were already on their feet, swords half drawn. The rider wore John’s colors, was one of the men left behind to wait for the baggage train. At sight of John, he jerked his lathered stallion to an abrupt halt, spraying sand in all directions.
“I waited and waited, my liege, and then ventured out onto the sands in search of them…” He swung from the saddle, leaned against his horse, sobbing for breath. “They—oh, Jesus, my lord, they’re bogged down! They’re out there in the river, caught in the quicksand, and the serfs say the tide is coming in!”
The villagers of Long Sutton were clustered upon the bank of the Wellstream, kneeling as their priest offered prayers for the souls of the doomed men trapped out in the estuary. They scattered as the horsemen came galloping out of the mist. The priest waved his arms frantically, ran after them, shouting that the incoming tide would turn the sands to quickmire and they’d all drown. John swerved his stallion just in time to avoid trampling the man, but he did not slow down; the horse plunged onto the sands. Most of John’s companions followed.
The sounds reached John first, as the wind carried to him the cries of fear and rage, the shrill neighing of the sumpter horses. But until he saw the trapped wagons and animals, he did not—could not—realize the full extent of the catastrophe. The heavy carts and wagons were hopelessly mired down in midriver; the more the terrified horses struggled, the deeper they sank. John knew at once what had happened. The vanguard had become bogged, but the baggage train was more than two miles long, and those coming up behind were unaware of the disaster until they stumbled onto the lead wagons. And by that time, retreat was made impossible by the rearward. As more and more carts became bogged, men and horses began to panic, and the sight meeting John’s horrified eyes was one of utter and complete chaos.
Rescue was beyond mortal men; the tide was already sweeping in from the north. John could not see it yet, but he heard it, a low, relentless rumble, getting louder. “Cut the traces!” he shouted. “Free the horses!”
John Marshal was beside him now, gesturing. “We’ve got to turn back! Or we’ll drown, too!”
Some of the men had heard John’s shouts, were slashing at the harness traces. Most had abandoned the wagons by now, were floundering in the river. John gave one despairing backward glance and then swung his mount about, followed after John Marshal as they raced the tide for shore.
Their horses were battlefield destriers, bred for stamina; but they were capable of great speed in short bursts, and they were within yards of safety when Peter des Roches’s stallion splashed into quicksand. The horse lurched to its knees, scrambled desperately to free itself as its rider clung helplessly to the saddle pommel. Des Roches had enough presence of mind, however, to wave John away when he saw the other man turning back. “No, John, no! Go on!”
“Jump clear and I’ll pick you up!”
“Your horse cannot carry us both!”
John Marshal had also wheeled his mount about. “Go back, sire! I’ll save him, I swear!”
But by then it was too late; the tide was upon them. John had time only to turn his horse so the water did not strike them sideways. As he was swept downstream, he caught a last glimpse of Peter des Roches. The force of the surging waters had freed the stallion, only to engulf both horse and rider. John saw Peter’s head break the surface, but the current was too swift to fight. His stallion was swimming strongly now, striking out for the embankment; he could do nothing but give the horse its head.
John’s stallion came ashore several miles south of Long Sutton. As he slid from the saddle, John found himself alone in a vast, empty marshland. The ground squished under his boots, his footprints filling with water. He shouted, in vain. Even the swamp birds were suddenly stilled. After a time, he heard a cry, saw a man struggling toward shore. Wading back into the shallows, he helped the man scramble up the embankment. Then they both slumped down upon the muddy ground, too exhausted even for speech. Out in the river, men and horses were drowning, but their death cries were muffled by the tide, muted by the rising wind. An unearthly silence blanketed the Fens.
John Marshal was the first to find them, followed by some of the villagers. John accepted the mantles they offered without comment, ignored their pleas that he come back with them to Long Sutton. But within the quarter hour he saw Peter des Roches limping slowly along the embankment. The elegant Bishop of Winchester was covered with fetid swamp mud and slime; even his hair was matted with it. But he was alive and smiling, and he and John embraced like brothers.
“The Almighty never showed me greater favor, John. I grabbed my horse’s tail, held on so tightly that I could scarcely unclench my fists once we reached the shore!”
He gratefully accepted a wineskin, drank in deep, noisy gulps. “There are some of our men downstream. A few who knew how to swim. A few more who had the wits to clamber up onto loose sumpter horses. They told me those in the rear of the train may have made it back to Cross Keys ere the tide came in. But most of the horses drowned, for certes, and too many men. How many we’ll likely never know; only Christ All-merciful can say where or when their bodies will wash up.”
“What of my treasure?” John said huskily. “Think you that any of it can be recovered at the next low water?”
No one spoke; he had his answer in their averted eyes. The village priest at last said, “Some of it might be salvaged eventually. But most of it is gone, my lord.”
He spoke so matter-of-factly that it was obvious he had no idea what John had just lost. His treasure, jewels, gold plate, coronation regalia and crown, his wardrobe, his chapel, holy relics, tents, furniture, siege weapons, supplies, books, documents of state, written records of his r
eign—all lay buried in the quicksands of the Wellstream. It was as if his very history were blotted out, his past swallowed up by the rising tide that had claimed his ill-fated baggage train.
“John…” Peter des Roches touched his arm, lowered his voice for John’s ears alone. “We’ll leave men here to do what must be done. But we’ve got to get you to shelter, and with no delay. I beg you, do not argue with me on this. You’re soaked through, and half frozen. A night out here in the Fens could be the death of you.”
John was not about to argue, for never had he been so cold. He clenched his jaw until it ached, but even that did not stop his teeth from chattering. The pain in his intestines, constant throughout this day of horrors, was now as piercing as a knife blade, as penetrating as the wind blowing off the marshes. For the first time since he’d been stricken at Lynn, he remembered that his brother Henry had died of such a flux of the bowels, and when Peter suggested that they ride back toward Wisbech Castle, he shook his head, said reluctantly, “I think it best if we head for Swineshead Abbey, Peter. It’s more likely they’ll have a doctor there.”
By the time he reached Swineshead Abbey, John was burning up with fever. He grew steadily worse on Thursday, but insisted, nonetheless, upon continuing the next morning to Sleaford Castle. Hearing that the Abbot of an abbey of White Canons at Croxton was skilled in the arts of healing, Peter des Roches sent urgently for the man, passed some anxious hours until his arrival at Sleaford on Saturday afternoon. He was with John now, while Peter and John Marshal waited in the solar for word.
“If only he’d rest!” Marshal burst out suddenly. “But no, he lies in there, as weak as a mewing kitten, and what is he doing? Dictating letters, giving pardons, acquittances, safe-conducts. Mayhap if you talked to him…”