Joanna (20 page)

Recognized for what it was, the lust could be subdued. Joanna sighed and bent over her writing desk. She described succinctly the quantities of provisions she had sent and the markings used to distinguish them. Then went on, “I must now betake myself to my mother’s other keeps to gather up, a little here and a little there, what will replace the provision sent you. For now, Clyro is so empty that, if summer lambs and vegetables were not to be had, all here would starve. It is needful also to give comfort to the monks and priests on the Church lands adjoining ours. They have been stripped nakeder than Clyro and no restoration is promised them. I am the more earnest to keep their good will as I have heard a legate of the pope is on his way to England. When the king comes to terms with the Church, I wish it to be remembered that I was their faithful daughter even in their adversity.”

Joanna tickled her nose with the end of her quill as she reread what she had written and then “tsked” with irritation. She had forgotten something important.

“I will also gather over and above what is needed here so that you may draw upon the excess if the campaign should continue longer than is now planned. Send to me here at   Clyro, for I will return to this place as speedily as I can.”

That was really all Joanna had to say, but she sat with the quill in her hand, then dipped it and added, “I was most desirous of coming to you myself, only for the pleasure of greeting and the pain of parting, but I knew there would be no place for me in Oswestry. I comfort myself for this loss in meeting with the thought that we may soon have the pleasure of greeting without the pain of parting. God keep you safeand do you not be such a fool as to put Him to extra labor by exposing yourself more than is needful. Written this twenty-fifth day of June by Joanna of Roselynde, your loving and dutiful wife.”

When the letter was handed to Geoffrey by Knud, he barely glanced at it. Finding the information he needed written directly after the greeting, Geoffrey thrust the letter into a safe place with the intention of reading it more carefully when he was at leisure and could enjoy it. However, Geoffrey never was “at leisure” any more. The vassals who served under him had had time to take his full measure. They no longer cared that he was twenty years old, all they cared about was that Geoffrey seemed able, and willing, to solve their problems. Before he woke at dawn, those who had the night watches were waiting to speak to him. More often than not he was on horseback while the others ate their dinners, and, when he returned to snatch a dry, cold, unappetizing meal, still others were waiting with new troubles. Lacking Ian’s experience, he allowed the men to take advantage of him. Where Ian would have answered with a brief sentence of advice, knowing that what was done was not of great importance, Geoffrey felt obliged to go and see for himself. Worse, where Ian would have told a man sharply that he should attend to such a thing himself, Geoffrey took the burden on his own shoulders.

Above and beyond the effort demanded by his own men, Salisbury and the king drew heavily on Geoffrey’s time. There was no lack of advice on how best to conduct a campaign in Wales now. A number of Welsh princes, who hoped to see Lord Llewelyn’s pride abated, were with the   king and eager to show themselves earnest in his cause. They were not, however, in agreement about anything else very often, and the king insisted that Geoffrey attend the conferences so that he could watch them and listen to them in person, the better to judge the honesty of their advice as well as the practicality of it. Because he knew Owain well and Llewelyn, although less well, at least in a way that was free of envy, spite, and prejudice, Geoffrey was able to make a suggestion here and there.

The help he gave, increasing his father’s pride in him, did Geoffrey no good with his uncle. John might hate his nephew and secretly hope he would catch his death in the coming action, but he was perfectly willing to use the young man as long as he was alive and found him useful enough not to plot his death actively. Thus, Geoffrey was indispensable at each war council. Salisbury did not realize how his son was driven. He saw Geoffrey only at council and they hardly exchanged a word that did not concern the subject immediately under discussion. The earl was also very busy and, if he gave Geoffrey a thought, it was of simple gratitude that his son did not run to him constantly for advice.

The army left Oswestry and as soon as they came to Llewelyn’s land, the men were loosed. One village after another went up in flames. The pack animals fed on the unripe standing crops. The offal of meals and such beasts as died were thrown into the wells to foul the water. The main force was divided in two. One part clung to the coast road and the other followed the road through the river valleys. On both these paths the draft animals could draw the heavy wains of supplies. Strong parties ranged out a half day’s ride northward and southward on every track they crossed, burning and pillaging whatever they found in their way. Some men were lost to the bowmen along the way who plagued them, but it did not hurt their spirit now. Their revenge was quick and sure. One small keep and then another and still another were taken in a matter of hours as the full force of England fell upon them.   Long marches were undertaken most willingly by the men who still seethed with anger and frustration at how they had been tricked and ambushed. Now they were getting their own back, and there was pleasure in it. At first, Geoffrey was at one with his men, but as his fatigue grew and he began to see familiar places raped and left broken he grew less glad. At the fortified village of Pen-y-Gaer, a flood of revulsion struck him. Geoffrey had stayed there with Ian and Llewelyn and Owain. They had hunted in the precipitous hills and sat by huge fires at night listening to their host, a man of exquisite manners and great learning, although he spoke no word of any language save Welsh, sing the history of his people. He had even taught Geoffrey a few hauntingly beautiful songs of enchantment and love and death.

The old hill fort, so old that no one knew when it had first been fortified, was a smoking ruin. The crops were ripped. untimely from the earth for green fodder. The grazing fields were burnt over. Fire even flickered on the edges of the forest where an earnest attempt had been made to set the hills themselves ablaze. It was a poor return for the welcome Geoffrey had received. Guilt tore him. It was he who had suggested this. In pride and heedless haste he had urged this cruel path.

Yet it was the best way, the only way. They must walk this path or the path to ignominy, to being driven from the country like starved, whipped curs with their tails between their legs. Perhaps in the long view it would be worth while. If Wales lay at peace for many years with an impartial judge to settle the quarrels between the princes so that the land would not be torn and burnt, the good would outweigh the evil. The land would grow green again, Geoffrey told himself, and the old fortress would be rebuilt. He sighed and touched his horse, making his way toward Tostig and the men who were formed up to continue their march. Who knew how often the structures on this hill had been taken and burnt and rebuilt and taken and burnt and rebuilt yet again. Once more would not matter.   For all the burning, there had been little loss of life, so far. The people, as was their custom, had fled away to hide in the hills and forests, driving their cattle before them. The towns were another matter. At Bangor, the coast road and the inland route met and the full army reassembled. What would have happened had the town yielded was impossible to say. It seemed to Geoffrey that John was enjoying the devastation and might not be willing to accept an offer to yield. The question did not arise. The bishop of Bangor closed the gates and cursed the excommunicated king, crying anathema also on the army that was contaminated by his presence.

There was a brief council of war at which Geoffrey stood still and silent. He knew what must be done and his reason agreed heartily with the advice the king received and the orders he gave. Only his heart cried out that it was a fair town, with its river winding down to the sea. Why should it die? And when the men around the king spoke approval of the final plans, he said nothing, looking down at the hem of his surcoat which was blackened from brushing against the charred remains of the last village they had fired.

Salisbury caught up with his son before he reached his own men. “What is wrong, Geoffrey?” he asked. “Do you think we are mistaken in what we do?”

“No.”

The blank monosyllable startled Salisbury into a closer examination of Geoffrey’s face. “Child, what is it? Are you ill? Have you had bad news?”

Geoffrey pushed his stiff lips up into a smile. “No news at all, and I am quite well, father. I am only tired of seeing blackened earth where life once was.”

“I think you could stop just after the word tired. You look tired to death! What
have
you been doing?”

The smile softened into greater naturalness. “Nothing of which you would disapprove. There has been no fresh womanflesh along the road, and what we carry with us is too rank for my taste. Nor have I been drunk since you saw me fuddled in the camp at Whitechurch. I have not had time.”   “For that you should make time. What the devil makes you think I would disapprove of a healthful diversion?” Salisbury remonstrated. But there was no time now to get to the root of what was troubling Geoffrey. Horns were already sounding in parts of the temporary encampment. “I must go and you also,” he went on, “but for God’s sake, Geoffrey, have a care for yourself. When you are so tired, it is not well to trust overmuch to your own skill and judgment. Have some trusty men about you. Child, you have given me greater joy than anything else on this earth. Do not now make me curse the day I seeded you into your mother.”

“I do not think either of us has much to fear,” Geoffrey said bleakly, looking at the walls of Bangor.

In fact they were both right. The town was ill defended. In many places, the walls were scaled and the gates battered in with virtually no resistance. However, here and there, bands of determined men tried to stem the invasion. Having come over the wall with no more to contend against than a few arrows, which seemed to be aimed by a novice with the bow, Geoffrey ran headlong into a group of twenty. Their purpose obviously was to overturn the ill-constructed scaling ladders. Torn between the knowledge that he must protect his men and forward a purpose that was right but abhorrent to him and a feeling of sympathy for the desire of the men opposing him to preserve their city, Geoffrey fought with even more than his usual ferocity and less than his usual caution. Had not the older men under his command already decided among themselves to “keep one eye” on their excellent but inexperienced leader, Geoffrey might well have come to grief. As it was, he raged like a tempest through the quarter of the city assigned to him, steeping himself in the need to strike and parry so that his mind would not fix on what would come after.

They fought afoot. Horses would have been no advantage to them in the narrow twisting streets. To be mounted might have been an additional disadvantage in the face of the unusual perils they faced. Young Sir Giles, the heir of Iford, was felled by a large piece of masonry cast from a roof. As   Geoffrey bent to look at him, a band of men burst from surrounding doorways. Although their numbers were insignificant in comparison with Geoffrey’s force, numbers meant little in the crowded space. It was a hard-fought twenty minutes, with Geoffrey standing over his fallen liege man as once, when he was a young squire, Ian had stood over him.

That time Geoffrey’s force came near disaster. Most of the responsible vassals rushed to their lord’s aid from side streets when they heard the sound of fighting, which concentrated the leadership into one small space. Then, from the rooftops, the archers began to fire. In the close packed mass of men, the arrows could scarcely miss, and in the heat of the fighting it was a little while before anyone even realized that death was raining down on them from above. Drawn from his concentration on the battle in which he was engaged, Geoffrey shouted to Sir Robert de Remy to set some men to bursting in the doors so that they could get above and wipe out the plague of archers.

When the furor died down, it was discovered that others were also hurt. Sir Alfred of Ealand had an arrow through the thigh and some men-at-arms whose armor was not as effective as the mail of the knights were dead or badly hurt. The wounded were sent back to camp with an escort and Geoffrey moved his men forward again. They went with more care now, clinging to the sides of the streets so that they would not be easy targets for stones from the roofs. With their backs to the wall and their shields before them, they were also less vulnerable to archers. The Welsh knew that, however. No attempt was made to shoot at them until they were once more engaged in combat.

The tactic could not work well a second time, of course. As soon as a group of men charged into the street to engage Geoffrey’s troop, de Remy’s men began to batter at all the doors along the street. That time only one of Geoffrey’s men-at-arms was hit by an arrow and he sustained only a slight wound. Essentially that was the end of all resistance in Geoffrey’s sector. The men who opposed him were not   soldiers and had little experience of war. They were brave enough, but without a real leader to spur them on and provide a new plan of attack for them, they were soon discouraged.

Geoffrey led his men, unopposed now, through the town until his troops converged with Salisbury’s, d’Albini’s, William de Cantelu’s, and Arundel’s. Sure that Bangor was theirs, they then turned about and began a systematic looting from the center of the town outward, firing the houses when they had stripped them of everything desirable. They fanned out like the spokes of a wheel, robbing and burning until the men were sated with loot and set fire to places without even looking within. It was the most efficient destruction of a town Geoffrey had ever seen. ‘‘Take down the cities,” he had advised and, of a truth, there was scarcely one stone standing upon another in Bangor when the flames died down.