She loves"

"Get outnow!" John's voice cracked. He spun around, fighting for control. When he turned back, Richard, too, had gone.

There were two large clay flagons on the table. He reached for the closer one, pulled it toward him. It was filled with a strongly spiced red wine; he drank directly from the spout, until he choked and tears burned his eyes. Picking up the second flagon, he hurled it toward the door. It shattered against the wood, sprayed dark wine all over the wall, the floor. He drank again, cleared the table with a wild sweep of his arm.

The rain had ended before dawn, and sunlight was pouring in from every window.

He moved from one to the other, pausing to drink from the flagon as he jerked the shutters into place, as the room darkened.

The floor was littered with debris, with books and documents and broken clay fragments. He stumbled over a brass candelabra, sank to his knees midst the wreckage of his morning's work. The flagon was half empty by now; his head was spinning.

"Why, Will?" he whispered. "Name of God, why?"

Johnny.

He froze, the flagon halfway to his mouth.

Thank God you've come, Johnny. Thank God.

He could not see into the shadows. "Papa?" he said softly. "Papa?"

Stay with me, Johnny. The pain is always worse at night. Stay with me.

He grabbed for the flagon, drank deeply, spilling as much as he swallowed. "I did not understand, Papa." His voice echoed strangely in his own ears, sounded muffled, indistinct. "I was but one and twenty. At that age, we think we'll live forever ..." He set the flagon down, waited. But no one answered him. His voices were silent, his ghosts in retreat.

He was never to know how long he knelt there on the floor of his bedchamber, alone in the dark. When at last he lurched to his feet, he moved unsteadily toward the windows, fumbled with the shutters until the room was once more awash in sunlight.

A book lay open, almost at his feet. He reached down, picked it up He took an uncommon enjoyment in reading, always carried books w him, even on campaigns.

This was one of his favorites, a French trans a tion of the Welsh legend of King Arthur; but several pages were tornthe cover smeared with ink. He blotted the ink as best he could with sleeve, replaced the book upon the table.

"Damn you, Will! I trusted you. More fool I, but I trulv trusted yu'483 You think I'm beaten. You think Louis has won. Well, not yet. As Christ is my witness, not yet."

41.

CIRENCESTER, ENGLAND.

September 1216 "I.

L UNDERSTAND you will not be staying with us after all, Madame?"

Isabelle did not enjoy the company of clerics. Too often she found them dour and disapproving, for if women were all daughters of Eve, born to lead men astray, a woman as worldly as Isabelle must be the very incarnation of Jezebel. But Alexander Neckam was no unlettered village priest. He was Abbot of the prosperous Augustinian abbey of St Mary, a man erudite and cultured, a man entitled to royal courtesy, and she found a smile for him.

"No, I regret not. My lord husband the King has decided it is too dangerous for me to accompany him any farther, and my son and I will be returning to Corfe whilst he goes to raise the siege of Windsor Castle."

"We heard the King spent part "of the summer along the Marches. Was he able to win over the Welsh?"

"He did hire some Welsh men-at-arms, but he had no luck with the "elsh Princes, with Llewelyn or Maelgwn. Nor with Reginald de Braose."

Neckam seemed to sense her preoccupation, for he made no at*jmpt to prolong their conversation, but murmured, instead, of duties sewhere. She was not long alone, however; Richard was coming up Pathway. Falling into step beside her, he followed her into the abbey gardens.

. aome yards to their right, John was walking with his son. When ar"

started toward them, Isabelle laid a restraining hand on his arm."No," she said. "Give them time to say their farewells. And wh'l still alone, tell me the truth. Can John win?" ' st We're "Had you asked me that in June, I'd have said no. Now not so sure. There are straws in the wind, a growing discontent ^'m French. Some of the rebel barons are belatedly beginning to r '^e realitythat should Louis prevail, they'll have a French King a p^nKe court. Already they're seeing what that would mean; each tim f^ has taken a castle, he's given it to one of his French followers L i*"5 know no man more dangerous to underestimate than my father "

Isabelle nodded. "When I'm with John, I cannot but believe th will prevail against his enemies, that all will be well for us. But wh * we're apart, I...

I lose faith. I think of what could happen to us sho IH evil befall John, and I become so frightened, Richard, so"

"Mama!" Henry was running toward them. "Papa says he's eom to give me one of his falcons! Papa, you'll not forget?"

John, following at a more sedate pace, smiled and shook his head "I'll give the order tonight, Henry. Richard . . . I've decided I do not want you to come with me. I'd rather you escort Isabelle and Henry back to Corfe, then return to Wallingford Castle, hold it for me till further notice."

"If that is truly your wish, Papa."

Turning, then, toward the child, John smiled again at his son "Henry, stay here and talk to your brother. I want a few words alone with your lady mother ere you depart."

Taking Isabelle aside, John led her toward a trellised arbor As soon as they were within, Isabelle moved into his arms. The air was sunwarmed, fragrant with honeysuckle; she could almost convince herself that summer was not dying.

"I'm so glad I had these ten days with you But. . . but when will we see each other again?"

"I do not know," John admitted. "Louis has been besieging Dover Castle for some six weeks now, but to no avail. Windsor, Lincoln, and Barnard castles are also under siege. If they can hold out for me Isabelle shivered. "You must promise me, promise you'll take care John, I...

I'd be lost without you!"

Her fear was more than disheartening, it was contagious. Jo " tightened his arms around her, kissed her on the mouth, the throa . ^ clung to him, but without passion, and when he kissed her againtasted her tears. j S.

"Papa!" The voice was Henry's, high-pitched, excited. John an ^ abelle moved apart, moved back into the sun. Henry was sp ^ toward the arbor, gesturing. "A courier, Papa, with urgent ne the North!"

One of the black-garbed Augustinian canons was standing485 away- "There's a man seeking to talk with you, my liege. He fewr fee ^^ Barnard Castle, from Hugh de Balliol. May we bring savs he u?,, ^"At once."

John had paled. As Isabelle clutched his arm, he said d "If Barnard Castle has fallen ..."

WU A messenger was being ushered into the abbey gardens. He was led and travel-stained, but John saw only his smile, the triumsmile of a man bearing tidings sure to please. "The Scots King and ^ rmy assaulted the castle, my lord, but we drove them off." "Thank God!"

"In truth, my liege. Shooting down from the battlements, one of bowmen loosed an arrow at Eustace de Vesci. The Almighty guided h aim lord. It struck de Vesci in the head; he was dead ere he tumbled from the saddle."

John caught his breath. And then he began to laugh. "I want the name of the bowman. That arrow of his is worth its weight in gold to me1" As he swung around, back toward Isabelle and Richard, they saw that his eyes were ablaze with light. "What better omen than this? I think my luck is about to change for the betterat long last!"

THE Wash was a wide bay of the turbulent North Sea, fed by four rivers, extending more than twenty miles inland into the counties of Lincoln and Norfolk. The seaport of Lynn had grown up where the River Great Ouse emptied into The Wash. In early October its citizens were alarmed when they got word of an advancing rebel force. But by then John had reached Lincolnshire. He swung south again, detoured toward Lynn, and the rebels fled at his approach.

On Sunday, October 9, the grateful townspeople of Lynn welcomed their King, and on the following day a feast was given in John's honor at the Benedictine priory of St Mary Magdalene, St Margaret, and All Virgin Saints.

However boundless their goodwill, their resources were limited; ' ey could not hope to equal the exotic fare that had been set before John J happier days.

But they did what they could with what they had, and , ' whose expectations were minimal, was pleasantly surprised. Am. e PIn8s of stewed pomegranates and pears were served, to much row"8' fr aU knew such fruits were aphrodisiacs.

Tarts filled with marPeac S^ar/ and 8rour>d pork were offered next, followed by a roasted skinn *e Cks had labored nours to strut the bones and refit the beenas? feathers so as to give the illusion of life everlasting. A pig had egg.yola,Ughtered and cut in half, the hindquarters stuffed with suet and and f0 "read crumbs, then carefully sewn together with the head Part of a capon, thus creating a wondrous beast to delight bothJi^^,486 the appetite and the eye. But what amused John the most was th tlety, a sensual mermaid sculptured of marzipan, tail dyed gr 6 ^ parsley juice, her flowing hair a spill of saffron. Wl'h As entertainment, there was an acrobatic act and an alarrni ept juggler who seemed continually in danger of stabbing himself ^ "" his own knives. But for the townspeople, the true attraction of th ning was the presence of their King, and they listened, spellbound rare firsthand account of the momentous happenings in the world KJ* yond the marshy Fens, beyond Lynn.

"Upon reaching Windsor, I found I did not have enough men f direct attack, but I was able to end the siege by acting as bait. As I moved north out of the Thames Valley, the French abandoned the siege and out in pursuit. Rather halfheartedly, since they soon gave up and re turned to London. Which surprised me not in the least; Louis seems willing to fight to the last Englishman."

As John had expected, that drew laughter. "I continued north, for we knew that the Scots King had come to Dover to do homage to Louis It was my hope that I could intercept him on his way back into Scotland. Unfortunately he managed to elude our scouts, but we were able to wreak havoc upon the lands of our enemies in the shires of Cambridge and Lincoln."

Swallowing the last of his wine, John pushed aside the stale trencher that had served as his plate. "Does your almoner save these for the poor?"

"Yes, sire."

Glancing about at his men dining at the lower tables, John said loudly, "Let no one throw his trencher to the dogs," and signaled for more wine before resuming. "On the Thursday ere Michaelmas, we entered the city of Lincoln. I know there were those who thought Nicholaa de la Haye no fit castellan for Lincoln Castle, but she has shown herself to be as steadfast, as stalwart as any man in holding the castle for the crown. The townspeople had not her courage, however, and yielded the city to the rebels. They had no stomach for fighting, though, fled even as we approached. We pursued them north, and then headed back when we heard you were in need."

"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 ophantic that one of the young monks laid his bread down in disgu his appetite utterly gone. a Brother Thomas was incensed that his Prior should make we ^^ blasphemer, a man with such mortal sins upon his soul. The A g ^ were ungodly, evil men. Thomas, who had been named after ^^ martyr Thomas a Becket, did not doubt that Henry and his son487 pjell John, too, would feel the flames of perdition Nothing t,urmn& ^^ ^ there was no contrition in his heart When the land C A under Interdict, he had shamelessly mocked the clergy, men of waS estmg the hearthmates and concubines of village priests, deC' faat the priests ransom their illicit loves He had heaped scorn 111311 tempt upon Stephen Langton, a man of Thomas's own Linan h re and, like Thomas, of Saxon blood Nor had John mended his C nS after making peace with the Holy Father Thomas had been ap" n d to hear that John had allowed his soldiers to stable their horses in P Brew's priory church during his siege of Rochester Castle And not weeks ago he had burned and plundered the Benedictine abbey at Qoyland No such a man was damned forever and aye, as surely as if he were 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, Savanc de Mauleon, 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 Salisbury7"

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 Pnor, the townspeople, awareas he'd never been aware of anything beforeof 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 s ^P UP to his mouth, he took a swallow of verney The sweet white ^ne burned his throat like vinegar Setting it down, he glanced toward mas, saw only a fearful youngster, beet-red and speechless, as if in ated realization of his gaffe Sj^ , ' "e said, his voice very measured and remote, "the Earl of ThJ W3S n0t amon8st them "

Prior ST^ were re'leved murmurings among the people at that The 5cith lcnew Thomas as John did not, gave the errant monk a "lent k *nat promised retribution at the earliest possible mo- '0 >n s old ec^ I0r a more suitable topic of conversation It was nend and comrade Peter des Roches who came to their res-488 T.

489.

cue. 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 wishone hundred marksbut 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 coul "T will make himself heard again, he laughed and signaled for silence.

of sound, the wave ot cheering mat enguneu me ndu. wucu j^-- make himself heard again, he laughed and signaled for silence. "I wl drive the French invaders into the sea," he said, "and then I shall corn back to Lynn and celebrate my victory with those who stood by f1 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 " sands lay naked to a pallid autumn sun. Hungry gulls circled overbad, shrieking. The few houses huddled by the estuary did nothing to essen 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 Burning, 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 hlSfiretr- ,,,._--- lrst food of the day. The little hamlet of Holbeach was no less dismal !_ ^ .. -, . . ...

-.^y lurnea west, ana arter a tew miles John consented to stop for 's first food of the day. The little hamlet of Holbeach was no less dismal a H 8 Sutton. The awestruck villagers shyly offered John shelter tyhat meagre hospitality they could. But as soon as he stepped in- ne of the wattle-and-daub huts, he was assailed again by nausea;490 the second room of the cottage was used as a stable, and the rank ^nim odors sent him reeling back into the icy sea air.

One of the peasants produced a blanket, and John's servarts un packed a basket of wheaten bread and cheese. John could rrlana e just mouthful, but even though the villagers could offer only a e . g0at, milk, he could not get enough to drink; he was as thirsj , e sa . bemusedly, as if he'd gorged himself all week on nothing u . Baited herring.

Sitting back on the blanket, he studied the cottage, "truck frame thatched roof. As hard as it is for me to believe it, my dau&ujp joanna passed the first five years of her life in a house not much better tu^n that one." He waved away a preferred chunk of bread. "What wer-e you telling me about the tides, Jack?"

John Marshal took the bread John spurned. "The Prior ^j^ ~e ]ow water is at noon, high water at six. The half-tide comes in ^bout three or so, so they'd have to cross between twelve and two." He scmintfd UP~ ward, 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 fls^ (JQ )ver Castle. I'd wager he can hold out against Louis till Judgment fW need be."

"My lords!" One of the villagers was pointing. "A rider Comes'

The men were already on their feet, swords half dravn ie fl wore John's colors, was one of the men left behind to wait for tine ^a* gage train. At sight of John, he jerked his lathered stallion t0 an a^ halt, spraying sand in all directions. .

"I waited and waited, my liege, and then ventured out ont'1 5t sands in search of them ..." He swung from the saddle, leaned $ ,$ his horse, sobbing for breath. "Theyoh, Jesus, my lord, ^&, bogged down! They're out there in the river, caught in th^ quick" and the serfs say the tide is coming in!"491 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 m the estuary They scattered as the horsemen came galloping out of the mist The priest waved his arms fran. tically- ran after them, shouting that the incoming tide would turn the sands to quickmire and they'd all drown John swerved his stallion jUst ,n 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 notcould notrealize the full extent of the catastrophe The heavy carts and wagons were hopelessly mired down in midnver, 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 We 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 j>f safety when Peter des Roches's stallion splashed into quicksand The rse Arched to its knees, scrambled desperately to free itself as its rider n8 helplessly to the saddle pommel Des Roches had enough pres- e of mind, however, to wave John away when he saw the other man m;ng back "No, John, no' Go on'" Jump dear and I'll pick you up'" "our horse cannot carry us both'"

John Marshal had also wheeled his mount about "Go back, sire' I'll V I swear'"492 r 493.

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!"