She was hoping for some sort of assurance from her grandmother, an expression of faith that all would go well for John. But Eleanor was turning away, frowning at the woman standing in the antechamber doorway.

"Your Grace, Sir Aubrey is without, requests an urgent word with you."

Joanna sat up on the pallet, pulling the sheet up to her chin. Aubrey252 de Mara was the captain of her grandmother's guards, but Joanna had never known him to seek Eleanor out at such an hour. She watched uneasily as he entered the chamber, knelt before the Queen.

"Madame, forgive me, but a courier has ridden in, sent by your son The King's Grace wants you to leave Fontevrault on the morrow, t0 withdraw with all speed into your own lands in Poitou."

"Arthur and the de Lusignans?"

"They've been encamped at Tours, not forty miles to the north, ate now known to be on the road south. The King has left Queen Isabelle in Rouen, is heading for Le Mans. But he fears for you, Madame, as well he should. You'd be a most tempting prize, in truth."

Eleanor nodded slowly. "My son is right. We depart for Poitiers at first light. See to it, Sir Aubrey."

THEIR journey south proved to be a slow, arduous one. The road was rutted and rock-strewn, the soil cracked and seared by weeks of burning sun, and their horses churned up clouds of thick red dust. Jolted from side to side in her swaying horse litter, Eleanor at last called for a halt. As her servants began to set up a tent so that the Queen might shelter a while from the heat of high noon, Joanna slid from her mare, hastened to join Eleanor in the shade of several elms. In addition to his midnight message for her grandmother, her father's courier had carried two letters for her, a brief dispatch from John instructing her to accompany Eleanor south for safety's sake, and a longer communication from her brother Richard. Clutching this letter, she settled herself in the grass next to Eleanor.

"Shall I fan you, Madame? I've a letter from my brother; may I read it to you?

Richard is serving as squire to the eldest son of Lord de Braose, is with his household in South Wales. He says there is trouble between the de Braose sons and a Welsh Prince, Gwenwynwyn of Powys, that Gwenwynwynwhat queer names the Welsh haveis set upon war."

"I'd say, rather, that the de Braoses are the ones set upon war." Eleanor leaned back against the tree, closed her eyes. "Your father did grant them the right to any Welsh lands they could gain by conquest And they know that there has been a shift in our Welsh policy, that John has decided it is more to his advantage to back Gwenwynwyn's chie' rival, Llewelyn, Prince of Gwynedd."

"Richard makes mention of him, too . . . Prince Llewelyn. He says Fulk Fitz Warm is still in rebellion against Papa, that he has taken refug6 at this Llewelyn's court. He says, too, that Llewelyn has been pulling r 253.

nors. The familyde Hodnet, they're calleddid hold land of the rbets, and Robert Corbet, as overlord, refused to recognize the younde Hodnet's claim.

Richard says all do know the Corbets were acting ^ Llewelyn's behest, he being kin."

Joanna frowned. "I met Lord Corbet once, when we were at Worester two years past. Papa granted him the right to hold a weekly market at Caus. I do not think he should be so quick to do a Welsh Prince's bidding, not when that Prince is aiding men outlawed, men who are papa's sworn enemies."

Getting no response, she glanced up, saw that Eleanor was no longer listening.

Sweat was glistening at her temples; her face was bleached of color, as white as the linen wimple that hid her hair. "Two years ago," she said, bitterly amused, "I did ride a mule across the Pyrenees, and in the dead of winter, too. But who'd believe that, seeing me now . . ."

"Madame!" Aubrey was coming toward them at a run. "Madame, our scouts report a large armed force on our trail. I'd wager my life it is the Duke of Brittany and the de Lusignans, that you are the prey."

Joanna was amazed to see how rapidly her grandmother seemed to shake off her fatigue. She at once held out her hand for Aubrey's assistance, came quickly to her feet. "If my memory serves," she said coolly, "we are but a few leagues distant from Mirebeau. It's not much of a refuge, but beggars, as they say,cannot be choosers."

Aubrey nodded grimly. "Madame, can you ride astride?" "I shall have to, shan't I?" Some of her servants were struggling now to dismantle the tent they'd just erected, and Eleanor said impatiently, "For Jesti's sake, let it be!" Seeing Joanna still standing immobile, she gave the girl a push. "Go on, child, make haste to mount. Sir Aubrey . . . which of your men do you most trust?"

Aubrey did not hesitate, beckoned to a slight bandy youth, one who looked to have been born in the saddle. "Edmund, take my stallion. Kill him if you have to, but get to Le Mans, get to the King."

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 strings in Shropshire on behalf of the rebels, that he did prevent a youn- catch a glimpse of the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine. Aubrey at once ger brother of one of Fitz Warm's vassals from laying claim to his father s set about conscripting men to guard the walls, gave orders to bar the154 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 t0 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 kept155 nspicuously to the shadows, watching as her grandmother and ^ urey sought a viable plan of defense.

It was very late when Aubrey rose, sent a man to the kitchens for 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 w'ne 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 a'ter 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?"156 "They want the Queen . . . only the Queen. They might let my me go ... or they might put them to the sword." Aubrey was slurring K' words like one drunk, yet he still thought to add, "But not you, not 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 solat 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 naive 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 bastardborn 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 gate" house, 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 had257 go sure of victory were these men that they'd already begun to 1 brate their triumph, for they, no less than those trapped within, Ce vi there could be but one outcome. The only question as yet un- wered was how many men would die in the capture of the aging Oueen.

Footsteps sounded behind Joanna, and she turned as her grandother 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 pon 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. Ihe 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 fran-158 tically as soldiers staggered, bewildered and bleary-eyed, from t^ buildings ranged along the curtain walls; a riderless horse galloped j panicked circles, adding immeasurably to the confusion. The more vvi