Joanna (41 page)

“Geoffrey FitzWilliam to his dearest wife Joanna,” Geoffrey wrote slowly on the evening of the seventeenth of August. He was not yet sure what he would write. He was not sure he should write at all, but he longed so for the rose-covered hills, for the fresh salt air, for the strong stone walls, for the security and stability that was Roselynde. He could not go. Honor bound him to what he had disliked in the morning, loathed and been sickened by in the afternoon, and pitied in the evening.

Yet something of him had to go to Roselynde. He needed to look into Joanna’s soft gray eyes where reason dwelt. He needed to hear her voice, which did not rave but spoke grave good sense even when fear pressed upon her. He had hidden himself in this small chamber. Perhaps that was wrong. Perhaps he should be out and doing instead of preparing a letter to be sent instead of himself to the place he wished to be. But doing what? He could not endure to join the scrabbling men who were trying to shore up the crumbling monarchy. Certainly, he would not join those who were rushing about snatching at pieces of that monarchy to aggrandize themselves. Nor was he inclined to take advantage of the panic-stricken king who had cried out, “Save yourselves!” at one moment. Some had chosen to assume those words were permission to flee the court and association with the doomed monarch.

“I am in receipt of your letter,” Geoffrey wrote, “but I fear many of those I thought to be my friends are already become my enemies without any doing of any kind on my part.”

At that point he hesitated, but he could not leave so ambiguous and frightening a statement to stand alone. Geoffrey went on then to describe the news from Wales. There he stopped again; however that gave the impression that his next move would be to join the army at Chester and march against the Welsha most false impression. By tomorrow or the next day, there would be no army at Chester. Suddenly a weight of bitterness overcame him. It was true that he had not wanted to fight another war in Wales, but this ending to the project was even less to be desired. It was the kingall the king. If any man other than John had been on the throneGeoffrey was racked alternately by hate and pity until he could no longer act as a silent vessel for the emotions.

“You might think,” he wrote, “that such news would bring us to arms on the moment, but it did not. I do not know even now, nor will I ever know, whether some knowledge of what was to come was already in the king’s mind or whether it was an accident of spite, but John, after sending some of the men off, turned about and, instead of riding to Chester, came to Nottingham. I was much puzzled, having forgotten that the Welsh hostages were held at Nottingham, but I was soon reminded. Before he even sat down to meat, which was ready prepared, the king ordered the hanging of those who were given to us to secure the good behavior of the Welsh princes.”

Geoffrey closed his eyes and bowed his head, swallowing and swallowing again. Among those hostages had been little boys and girls, five, six, and seven years of age. He dropped the quill and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to blot out the image of the terrified children, trying to blot out the image of his father, with tears streaming down his face, pleading on his knees for the lives of the littlest. Geoffrey shuddered. The king had wept also, but he had answeredreasonablythat if they preserved the lives of the little ones, only babes would be given as hostage in the future and they would be worthless because it would be known that no punishment would be wreaked upon them. The reason was good, but what had reason to do with the   life of a tiny, dark-haired fairy of a girl, just five years old, who now swung from a gibbet in the castle bailey.

There was no need to tell Joanna that. Geoffrey took his hands from his face, wiping the wet from his cheeks so that no drop would mark the page. He hoped Joanna would not remember that there were such little ones among the hostages.

“The king then summoned us to meat. I would not go, being somewhat heavy of heart through friendship with the kin of some of those newly dead. Thus I do not know the truth of what next befell, but I have been told it was like unto a play. Hardly were the diners seated when a messenger from William of Scotland craved leave to bring the king letters, these being of so urgent import, he claimed, that they could not wait the ending of the meal. Hard upon his heels, when the king had scarce read what was in that letter, came another messenger, crying the same urgency, this time from the king’s daughter Joan.”

Geoffrey was sorry he had missed the event. Perhaps if he had seen it with his own eyes, he could have guessed whether the messengers were genuine and the time of their arrival a coincidence or whether the letters had come earlier and the scene had been contrived by the king. In fact, each description he had heard had been so colored by the prejudice of the teller that he could not even guess at the truth. One had said that the king was dumbfounded, white, and stricken by shock and fear. A less sympathetic observer commented wryly upon John’s histrionic gestures but remarked that his eyes, rather than perusing the written words, slid slyly from face to face while he held the letters before him.

“What I
do
know,” Geoffrey continued more slowly now thatfrom his point of viewthe worst poison was expelled, “is that the tale told in each letter was the same. Both wrote to warn John that a plot was afoot to destroy him, either by taking him prisoner or by killing him outright and that the army assembled in Chester was to be used for this purpose. I wish I could believe that this was only a device forced by Llewelyn on his wife and told apurpose to William of Scotland so that John would not go into Wales, but from my previous talking with Ian’s vassals I fear, indeed, there is truth in it. Moreover, FitzWalter and de Vesci are fled from court. Some say that they were innocent, as Braose and Pembroke were innocent, but feared the king’s suspicion, though of a truth, from what I have myself seen, I believe they were guilty. Thus, the king wrote on the sixteenth day of this month to dismiss the army. I do not know what will be done in Wales, likely nothing. Certainly we will not go into France this year because”

“What do you here? To whom do you write?”

Geoffrey looked up sharply, startled by the hard, suspicious note in his father’s voice. Another time, perhaps, he would have taken offense that Salisbury would suspect him of dishonorable intent. The times were so mad, however, that no one could be expected to act in a normal way. Besides, he did not doubt that most of his father’s distrust rose from his own sense of horror and revulsion at his brother’s doings. Salisbury was being pushed to the very edge. Perhaps when he heard of the plot he, like Geoffrey, had suffered a momentary flash of disappointment because it had not succeeded. Geoffrey accepted that disappointment as a natural result of his dislike of the king. He suffered no guilt over it, merely needing to remind himself anew that, whatever John was, they would be far worse off without him. Salisbury, however, would be shattered by such a reaction. Aside from his personal feeling that he had betrayed his brother, he would reason that, if he felt that way, doubtless everyone else would feel even more strongly the same.

Therefore, Geoffrey answered his father without heat. “I came hem to be quiet. I write to Joanna.” He pushed the parchment towards Salisbury. “Read it if you will.”

“I beg your pardon, child,” Salisbury sighed, coming forward, but only to drop heavily into a chair. He did not glance at the letter on the table.

“Has worse befallen us?” Geoffrey asked quietly.

“No.” Salisbury stared past his son. “The disclosure of their purposes and means has thrown the rebels into disorder. The two worst are fled. The others will, I think, try only to hide their taintat least for now. We are strong enough while they are shaken with doubt.’’

“How long will that last?” Geoffrey asked, “And what can be done to prolong their doubt and improve our position?”

Pleasure in Geoffrey’s loyalty and in the unshaken practicality of his attitude eased the white, strained look of Salisbury’s face. “The king has taken action,” he said eagerly. “You must not think him a coward for seeming so overset by the news. No, nor was it a device,” he added hastily after a glance at Geoffrey’s face where the mobile lips had thinned with distaste. “John was truly overset, but not by fear. He did not believe that any man hated him so much. It is a shock to discover that men who have eaten at your table and drunk your wine can have carried so much treachery in their hearts.”

Geoffrey rose and walked to the hearth where a small fire burned. Surely his father could no longer believe what he had said. Even he should not be able to hide from himself what his brother was. Geoffrey could not understand it, but it seemed beyond doubt that John took a perverse enjoyment in the hate of his barons. He insulted and taunted them gratuitously, as he had done when Geoffrey came with news of the fire from London. In a kingdom full of willing women and indifferent, complaisant husbands, the king seemed to seek out and soil those women who would have resisted if they could and whose husbands and fathers prized the honor and virtue of their females. When he was offended, the king used the vilest means of punishment, like starving Braose’s wife and child to death.

“What action has the king taken?” Geoffrey asked, more anxious to avoid thinking further along the path his mind had taken than really interested.

“To those whom he thinks least attached to the rebel’s cause or most wavering, he wrote demanding hostages and requiring that they yield to more loyal men the keeps they hold for him.”

Geoffrey was silent. After what had happened to the   Welsh hostages, it would certainly be a sign of good faith or of total indifference to his children in any man who would send a son or a daughter to John. It was sickening to Geoffrey that a king should demand hostages from his own noblemen. From a conquered enemy, it was necessary, of course. Sworn treaties should be sufficient to bind men, but the bitterness of defeat and hatred was not really conducive to the keeping of treaties. A king’s man, on the other hand, should obey his lord from love and respect, knowing he would be punished if he did wrong but not fearing his master beyond reason. Thus, if the king summoned a subject to him owing to doubts of his loyalty, any man who had not actively wronged his lord should be glad to come and explain himself and feel free to complain of his injuries. Geoffrey shrugged. It was far too late for that now. The sad fact was that most of John’s “enemies” hated him far less than his own barons.

“The problem,” Salisbury went on slowly, “is not with them nor with the outright rebels. In the west, the lesser barons will be too busy watching what Llewelyn does to think of challenging the king. In the east, the south, and the mid-lands, we are strong enough so that none will move unless there is already an active and unified rebellion. That can come only from the north where Vesci holds much power and, I fear, has influenced even those who are not his own men.”

Salisbury paused and Geoffrey turned toward him, his color high and his eyes dangerously bright. Did his father think he would betray Ian’s men to the king’s tender mercies? Geoffrey had little doubt that the northern vassals would have joined with Vesci’s rebellion had it come to fruition, but he certainly would not admit that and give John an excuse to act against them. As yet they had done nothing. They were torn between hatred of the king and loyalty to Ian, whom they knew would uphold John for honor’s sake in spite of his own dislike for his master. To threaten those men now would merely push them into the rebel’s camp, making them feel they had nothing to lose. Before Geoffrey could decide how to say this without implying that Ian’s   men already had one foot in that camp, Salisbury spoke again.

“I hope you will not take it amiss, Geoffrey, if I should write to Ian and beg him to come home. It is not that I doubt your loyalty nor your ability, my son. I know the men would follow you in war without a hesitation or a second thought. It is only that you are young, and more weight in a matter of politics is given to the words of a man of wider experience. Moreover, it would be thought that your close tie to me and to your uncle would somewhat obscure”

He stopped because it was obviously needless to continue. The careful blankness of Geoffrey’s expression, which had briefly given way to a flash of rage and resentment, had changed completely. His son was smiling, his eyes sparkling as bright with relief and pleasure as they had previously shone with anger. Salisbury blamed himself again for believing Geoffrey to be enamored of the power of leading Ian’s vassals. On the contrary, it appeared that the task was a burden he would fain to be rid of.

In fact, neither consideration had brought the delight Salisbury saw to Geoffrey’s face. It was, in fact, a purely personal joy that lighted Geoffrey from within. To him Ian’s return meant the termination of his penance with regard to Joanna. With Ian came Lady Alinor and, hard on Lady Alinor’s heels, his wedding. All other considerations, up to and including civil war, were of no account at all to Geoffrey in comparison with that. He was sure that, once married, he could sort out his wife’s emotions. Perhapsoh, joyful thoughtshe flashed hot and cold because she was afraid to love him, afraid that her mother and stepfather were using the betrothal as some political ploy and never intended the marriage to take place.

It would be reasonable for her to withhold her love in that case. Joanna might have this quirk and that, but to the uttermost that she could command herself her husband would always hold her loyalty and devotion. It would be a hard and bitter thing to give that to one man while love for another tore her heart.

She should have known Ian better than that, Geoffrey   thought, and then wondered with a slight tightening of the breast whether Joanna might know more than Ian. Lady Alinor was certainly
not
above such a ploy. It was true that Lady Alinor would never hurt her daughter deliberately, but that only increased the possibility of Joanna’s knowing better than anyone else why betrothal rather than marriage had been settled upon. Had Joanna been trying to warn him that her mother had secret plans when she insisted she could not consummate their relationship before they were actually married? Certainly Lady Alinor would lay no plans that could affect Joanna’s happiness without consulting her. If the betrothal was a ploy, Geoffrey realized, they were both in it together, mother and daughter. There was no sense in trying to convince himself that Joanna obeyed her mother out of fear. He might have deluded himself in that way in the past, but no longer. He knew Joanna a lot better now. There were many facets of her character that he had not understood when they were playmates together, and Joanna’s relationship with Alinor was one.