Joanna (58 page)

Geoffrey and the men still with him had been fighting steadily, with only intervals of a few minutes, for nearly four hours now. He had a dozen minor cuts, innumerable bruises, and two fairly bad wounds from which he was now losing blood in serious quantity. None of that even crossed his mind. What did worry him was that he had seen that Roger of Hemel’s warning concerned a real danger. In all the twisting and turning, Geoffrey’s eyes had swept nearly the whole field of battle. Although his attention was really on his opponents, he was war-wise enough for impressions of what he saw to remain in his brain.

He had to warn his father. He had to. They must retreat and consolidate their forces or all would be lost. Even as Geoffrey thought that, icy fear washed over him. The noise of battle was both louder and more muted than it should have been. In the fury of thrust and parry it took some time for the significance of that evidence of his ears to make sense and to explain his instinctive fright. Simply, it meant that there was no other battle. The dull roar that testified to screams, shouts, and blows at a distance was absent. What remained were the shrill cries, the sharp clang of weapons being employed near at hand.

Desperation was a fire in Geoffrey’s weakening body. He struck and thrust like a madman, nearly heedless of blows launched at him. The ferocity of his attack saved him something, but more than one new cut and bruise were added to the many he bore. The wild activity also tore his two bad wounds wider and the blood ran quicker and thicker. Through all, however, his eyes constantly flicked to Salisbury, now only some five yards away from him. At last the earl struck down the man he was fighting.

“Papa!” Geoffrey screamed, “Papa, look! We are near surrounded. “Go back! Go back!’’

Perhaps Geoffrey was not the first to cry that warning. Many shouts had been directed at Salisbury in the last half   hour, but the pain- and fear-filled voice of his child pierced through the fighting fog as nothing else could. He turned his head toward the sound, saw the blood-covered form. “Geoffrey!,” he cried, and wrenched his horse toward his son.

In that moment, a man who had been to his right and was now directly in front of him slashed at him. Salisbury blocked the blow automatically, but his eyes and mind were still fixed upon his child. He did not see another man who had been striving toward him almost as single-mindedly as Geoffrey, come up slightly behind him. He raised the formidable war club he carried. With a joyful hosanna to God, he brought the full force of the club, unimpeded by any need to ward off a counterblow at the same time, down on the top of Salisbury’s head.

Like a stricken ox, the earl fell from his saddle all of a piece, making no effort to save himself. In the single instant before another opponent rode between him and his father, Geoffrey saw Salisbury topple, totally limp under the horses’ hooves.

“Papa!” he shrieked, spurring Orage forward like a maniac, hardly realizing it was a man with a raised sword that was blocking his view, “Papa!”  
p.

As the days of a sweet, rich summer passed, Joanna found to her discomfort that fear was not the worst enemy with which she had to contend. Although she had more than enough to do in the overt management of her mother’s and Geoffrey’s lands and in the more tactful, and thus more time-consuming, inspection of Ian’s property, she was very far from content. She could not blame her restlessness on boredom. Between the antics of Simon, whom she took with her to the keeps of Ian’s vassals, and the stupidity (or too-great shrewdness) of the wives of the vassals and castellans who were serving with Ian, she had plenty to occupy her.

Not to put a fine shroud on a stinking corpse, Joanna had to admit that what she craved was Geoffrey’s body. She was not, as she had feared, racked with constant pangs of fear. Occasionally, it was true that a huge hand seemed to grip her entrails and wrench at them until she could have screamed. Most of the time, however, her thoughts were far more pleasant although almost as unsettling. What her mind dwelt upon was Geoffrey’s caresses, his hands and lips on her body, and the sweet culmination of that eagerly sought torment. She found herself sitting with eyes closed over her embroidery murmuring, “Beloved, beloved, come home to me,” which surprised her. Joanna was not given to the use of endearments, except to small children like Simon.

Once, to occupy her mind, she had tried to determine why’ that was so. It was true her mother did not very often call her by sweet names, but she was free enough with “dear hearts” and “beloveds” to Ian. And Ian had always used love words to his stepdaughter. Yet, Joanna thought, I   have never returned them, never called him anything but “Ian,” even though I do love him. Suddenly a bright light in her brain clarified that line of thought.

In the past Joanna had been afraid to permit the smallest tinge of similarity to her mother’s love for Ian to color their relationship. Ian could call her “love” lightly because she was his daughter and
only
his daughter in his heart. As a man loves a woman, there had never been anyone but Alinor for Ian. For herself, Joanna realized, it would have been all, too easy to love lan as a man.

And now? Joanna smiled with satisfaction. No, there was only Geoffrey. In spite of Ian’s overwhelming beauty, it was Geoffrey’s fair, slender body she desired, not her stepfather’s swarthy strength.

A frown creased Joanna’s forehead. Had Geoffrey been aware of her failure to use to him the terms a loving wife gives a husband? He had never said anythingbut, of course, he would not. Unless he believes the lack to be a result of fear or shyness, a man does not ask his wife to call him “beloved,” not a man with Geoffrey’s tender pride. How could he know the lack was merely long habit?

Could this be the cause of the little strain, the slight disappointment or dissatisfaction she had felt in Geoffrey? Many times she had worried about that faint shadow that stained the perfection of their marriage, but she had never been able to find the slightest cause for it. Joanna laid down her needle and bit her lip. It was not a thing that could be mended in a minute. If she suddenly changed her pattern and began to call Geoffrey her love, the beat of her heart, would he not wonder why? Nor did she think it wise or safe to explain what she had discovered about herself. To plant in Geoffrey’s jealous heart the thought that she might once have feared her own emotions for Ian might only make him more uneasy.

Then the worry cleared from her face. It was not a matter that needed instant mending, now that she knew. Little by little, she could speak her heart aloud more often. It would not matter if Geoffrey thought he had won her to love   slowly. Perhaps it would be better that way. Let him believe her heart was slow and considerate in its submission. Possibly that would give him assurance that it would not lightly change.

These concerns were largely obliterated, however, when Joanna had news of the treachery of the Poitevin lords that had ended John’s hopes for reconquering Anjou. The request that John sent for more support, Joanna could rightfully ignore. Ian had brought with him every man required by his feudal obligations. However, the request worried her. Had John been successful and called for more men to consolidate his gains or take over the strongholds previously controlled by Philip, all would have been well. Even disaffected vassals would think seriously before challenging a victorious king. The news that he had lost all he had gained and perhaps even more in that some previously loyal barons had defected cast an ugly light over the expedition. Joanna waited for two weeks, sounding out visitors to Roselynde keep and town, and then wrote to Alinor.

“I understand from your letter,” Joanna began after the salutation, “that the fault for what took place was nowise the king’s, that he acted in all ways as was right and proper, but I fear those facts will be lost upon the men who remained here. As you well know, none of them have any love for the king, and all will ignoreor, for the worst-disposedwill even lie about these matters. Already rumors fly about and all of them are unfavorable. The kindest say the king fell into a lethargy and would not act and the men, in despair, went home. Some say the king insulted the wives and daughters of the vassals and that was why they withdrew; others are even worse and say the king fled first, leaving the barons without a leader. I do not
know
where these ill winds blow from, but I can guess and Lady Ela agrees that most likely their sources are where you would expectVesci in the north and FitzWalter in the east.

“This I know you will have expected, but what makes me particularly uneasy is that Oxford happened to be here on his way to Portsmouth when the copy of the king’s letter   was given to me. He has always been moderate in his dealings with the king, yet he spoke very bitterly about Peter of Winchester’s rule. It has been, as I wrote you before, harsher than it should, but, as you know, there is so much resistance to whatever is asked that I fear harshness has become a habit. Oxford grew quite heated when he saw John’s letter, saying that anyone who answered the summons was a fool, merely throwing good money after bad and, moreover, that he would pay no scutage for withholding his men from a mad venture that could benefit no one in this land. I am sorry to add to your troubles. I know it cannot be easy for you or for Ian, situated as you are, but I felt you must be warned that things do not go well here and that the king is like to have a cold welcome when he returns.”

“I have some good news to temper the ill. Geoffrey writes that all goes very well in Flanders. Salisbury has virtually cleared the country of all French troops and sympathizers, and they only await the Emperor Otto’s arrival before they engage King Philip himself. If they win a great victory, it may help for a short time, but I must add that Oxford was talking again about the charter. I know Ian also believes that peace will be restored if the king can be brought to sign this. I thought I should mention it, especially considering the source from where I heard it. I do not suppose Ian can broach the subject himself because whatever he thinks good the king hates, but perhaps d’Atie or Cantelu could hint to the king that he should not condemn the idea of a charter out of hand.”

Joanna then turned to personal news. Fortunately, that was a good. Simon was still a devil, but a charming one and his health was excellent. Adam was growing up by leaps and bounds. He spent most of his time in his own keeps now, Leicester having given him leave to oversee his lands more closely because the castellans were mostly with Ian in France. He had ridden over to Roselynde to spend a week with his sister.

It was a very good thing that Joanna had spent some space on Adam. That was the one spark of light, the one cheerful subject Alinor and Ian had as a relief, for Joanna’s letter had   arrived at the end of the second week of August, a week after the news of the disaster at Bouvines. The personal effects of this catastrophe, which made anything Joanna wrote about the reception the king would have irrelevant, had stunned Alinor into numbness and disbelief.

The first communication direct from France, from Philip himself, which arrived two days after the initial news, had lit a spark of hope. Salisbury was not dead. Hoping and praying, Alinor had waited for further news. This day it had come. Now she had a thing to tell Joanna that tore her heart violently so that a pain made her press her arms across her breast and rock to and fro moaning. When the spasm passed, Alinor wiped the tears that ran down her face and obscured her vision and picked up her pen.

“My dearest, my most sweet and beloved daughter, I pray that the Mother of mercy will give you strength to bear the news I write. I pray also that you will not in your bitterness despise me for being the sender of these tidings or for exposing you to this sorrow by urging your marriage. Geoffrey is lost. Beloved, beloved, have courage. I’do not know what else to say. I cannot even comfort you by bringing you his dear body to lay to rest nor even by telling you where to go to weep over his grave. Heart of my heart, my pain is nothing to yours, yet it racks me apart so I can hardly write.”

The evidence of that was plain. Alinor’s usually firm and flowing hand was tremulous and the ink was splotched and smeared with the tears she could not catch, which had fallen on the parchment and had been blotted away. For a while she stopped writing again. The new messenger who had arrived was a nobleman close to Philip. Ian had gone to speak to him personally. Perhaps they had found Geoffrey’s body after all. The only thing they knew for certain was that he was not among the prisoners taken. Alinor sobbed disconsolately, crying so hard that she could not see. Her maid Gertrude crept to her side and patted her hand.

“Madam,” she whispered, “your lord comes. You bade me warn you.”

Desperately, Alinor wiped her eyes and face and struggled to control her sobbing. Ian was distraught enough. She did not wish to burden him with her grief as well as his own. She did choke herself into quiet before he entered the roomhe walked so slowlyand she was glad of it. Ian looked worse than when he had gone out. His face was gray and his luminous eyes dull and fixed. Nervously, Alinor rose and went round the table to meet him.

“What is it Ian? Is the news worse?”

“The terms are unbelievable. I will tell you of that later. What is worse is Geoffrey” his voice cracked and he took a deep breath. “Geoffrey was definitely not among the prisoners nor among those who were sore wounded and died. It cannot be an oversight that he is not mentionedI mean, he is mentioned, and by name. It seems that Salisbury begged Philip to inquire specially and Philip was so good as to do so. Geoffrey is not among the live or the dead that they have identified.

Alinor’s tears broke out afresh and her husband took her into his arms. “I begged you not to hope,” he whispered.

“I did not,” she sobbed, “not really. See,” she gestured toward the parchment on the table, ‘‘I have begun my letter to Joanna.” She paused and struggled with herself but without success. Clinging to her husband she wailed aloud. “I cannot bear it. I cannot bear that Joanna should suffer”