It was fortunate that the horses, which had no better fodder than the dry leaves and bracken on which the men slept, did not recover enough to produce a pace faster than a walk. In the first half hour, Fenice would have fallen off. As it was, she gave the men-at-arms behind her considerable anxiety by the way she swayed and teetered in the saddle. Since Aubery was ahead and too angry and stubborn to turn his head, he was not aware of her difficulties. And once the huge abbey of Fontevrault came into view, Aubery’s attention was fixed on the problem of obtaining an audience with the king.
Fontevrault, Aubery realized, was to the abbey at Hurley, with which he was familiar and mistakenly equated it, as the huge royal palace of Westminster was to the modest keep of Marlowe. Here was no simple guesthouse where all gentlefolk were lodged alike, but a massive complex of buildings with special accommodations for abbots and bishops, for kings and queens, for lords, monks, clerks, merchants, commonfolk, and even for beggars, all with their separate oratories, dining halls, and kitchens. And huge as it was, it was plain that the abbey was filled to bursting, as was the town that surrounded it, for in addition to the large entourage that had come with Henry and Eleanor, every French nobleman in the area who could afford it had rushed to the abbey out of curiosity or hope of settling some business that the change of overlordship from England to France had left in limbo for more than ten years.
Nonetheless the fears Aubery had of hours of argument and explanation to penetrate the seeming chaos did not materialize. The stewards and servants employed by the prioress of Fontevrault were accustomed to incursions by royalty or those with nearly equal power and sometimes greater pretensions than royalty. Moreover, there had been a stream of messengers arriving and departing, some who had followed Henry all the way from England, some from Prince Edward or the officers of his new court, some from the King of France, who sent gifts and warm words of welcome. When Aubery said he had urgent business with the king, a servant was dispatched at once to an official, who recognized Aubery’s name and had him brought in at once.
Resentful as he was, Aubery did not forget Fenice or the tired men-at-arms who had accompanied him on the grueling ride. He was so tired himself that he could have wept with relief when he was shown into a chamber where John Mansel came forward to greet him. Brushing aside the clerk’s horrified comments on his battered appearance, he said at once that comfort must be found for his wife, who had been riding since dawn the preceding day, and for the men with her, and only after Mansel’s own secretary had been dispatched to see to that did he begin his tale of the attack and imprisonment of the Earl of Warwick and other English gentlemen in Pons.
As they rode and Fenice’s muscles were warmed by the action, her pain diminished and she was able to take notice of her surroundings. She was as surprised by the size of Fontevrault as Aubery had been. Because she knew it to be ruled by an abbess, she had somehow expected an establishment much like the one from which she had escaped. And then she realized how silly she had been. Fontevrault had been the favorite religious house of the Plantagenets since Alinor of Aquitaine. She lay here, as did her second husband, Henry II, and her favorite son, Richard
Coeur de Lion
. Many, many others had chosen to be in their august company, and Fontevrault had grown rich on the gifts of the living and the great legacies of the dead.
It was as large as or larger than the palace in Burgos, Fenice thought, and with the thought came the realization that she would doubtless be brought to greet the queen and speak to her, even if her service as one of Eleanor’s ladies was not renewed. Memories of Eleanor’s kindness and Fenice’s desperate need to explain
why
she had done what she had done, which Aubery had never permitted her to do, seduced her into wondering for a few seconds whether she could appeal to the queen to intercede with Aubery for her. But almost as quickly as the notion came, Fenice rejected it, shuddering with horror at the idea of admitting she had worn a soil gatherer’s clothing and covered herself with human filth. And then a cold horror clutched her. Would Aubery betray her and tell?
Although she was in a mood to believe any disaster that had not already befallen her would do so immediately, she soon rejected that fearful notion. Aubery might have lost whatever fondness he had for her, but it was clear he felt her degradation reflected shame on him. He would not betray her, she thought, though that was cold comfort, which grew colder when Mansel’s secretary came with a servant to lead the men-at-arms to quarters and he himself showed Fenice to the private apartments of the queen.
Instead of thinking that it was a good sign that Eleanor would receive her and that it must have been Aubery’s thoughtfulness for her that sent a court official to escort her, Fenice leapt to the conclusion that the secretary had come for her because Aubery did not wish to see her or speak to her. She really knew that Aubery’s first duty was to speak to the king, but her heart would not accept that practical explanation, and from despair and fatigue she tottered only a step or two before giving up and sinking to the ground.
Fenice was dimly aware of the secretary’s cry of distress and of a growing furor as he summoned help, but her total misery made her indifferent for once to the trouble she was causing others. She lay limp, eyes closed and unresponding, even when the queen bent over her, asking anxious questions of those who had carried her in. It was better this way, Fenice thought fuzzily. This way no one would ask
her
for explanations, and she remained unstirring and uncaring while the queen’s maids undressed her and laid her in a soft bed. A few minutes later she felt the stab of a knife as a vein in her forearm was opened to bleed her. The warm trickle of blood seemed to drain away whatever strength had kept her half-conscious, and she slipped into the restful, unthreatening dark.
Meanwhile, Aubery had explained to Mansel what had happened in Pons. He did not conceal the carelessness of Warwick and his friends in simply loosing their men-at-arms on the town and agreed when Mansel asked if it was not likely that some of the other knights might have been equally indifferent. Nonetheless, Aubery pointed out, he had come to the conclusion that the attack at the feast had been planned in advance. From some of the remarks he had heard himself and from those reported to him by Warwick, Seagrave, Mauduit, and Philip Marmim, it seemed clear that the disturbances caused by the men-at-arms had been only an excuse, not a cause, for imprisoning the English.
Mansel frowned. “The king will not like this,” he said sourly.
“None of
us
liked it much either,” Aubery snapped in return.
After a glance at Aubery’s face, one side of which was still swollen and showed a remarkable medley of green, yellow, blue, and maroon bruises, Mansel made an apologetic gesture. “I am sorry,” he said. “I only wish to warn you. Pons was a favorite city of my lord the king’s, before he lost Poitou to Louis in 1243. He will not wish to believe that the commune has so quickly and completely changed their professed love and loyalty as to attack deliberately a group of noblemen just because they were his vassals. Moreover, King Henry has been treated with great courtesy, even with loving kindness, by King Louis, who is doing all in his power to satisfy my lord the king’s every desire insofar as seeing France, so—”
“Will you take me to King Henry or not?” Aubery asked.
Mansel eyed him for a moment and then pointed out, “It was their own fault, you agreed with me. You were no member of their party. Can you not simply pretend you never met them? I can arrange—”
“No,” Aubery interrupted. “I passed my word to inform the king of their plight. I have a message from Warwick and his seal ring to deliver to King Henry.”
With a sigh and a helpless shrug of his shoulders, Mansel beckoned to a page, to whom he gave instructions in a low voice. He noticed that Aubery made no attempt to listen to his orders to the boy and grimaced slightly. It was another mark of Aubery’s intelligence and determination that he did not care what Mansel was saying. It showed he knew that Mansel could not really thwart him. Though of no particular importance himself, Aubery had many paths to the king, and if Mansel would not set him on one, he would find another to open a gate. Aubery’s message could be delayed but could not be prevented, and delay would only endanger Mansel himself without helping the situation.
Aubery, however, was not thinking along those same lines. The clerk’s protest had given a warning that Aubery would not ignore. Aubery knew how easily King Henry could become deaf to what he did not choose to hear or, worse yet, how he could turn the anger he could not vent on the actual maker of trouble onto those who urged him to remedy it. Although Aubery had sworn no oath to Warwick and the others, he was bound by honor to inform Henry of their plight in such a way that the king would attempt to help them.
Fortunately there was some delay. The king was with his half brothers, Guy and Geoffrey de Lusignan, and they insisted on finishing some private business before Aubery could be shown in. At another time that might have produced some resentment in Aubery, but in this case he was rather grateful. He was tired, and his mind was moving more slowly than usual, so he was glad of the interval to work out what he intended to say, taking into consideration the different reactions Henry might display. Aubery was, however, annoyed when he saw the Lusignans still seated near the king when he was finally received.
Still, he did not see that the half brothers could be in any way involved in the problem of dealing with Pons, so he went ahead without altering what he had planned to say. The result of his earlier cogitations was that the story was much shorter. Aubery told only what had actually befallen him in Pons itself. He made no mention of his meeting with Warwick or of the lack of any attempt at control over their men-at-arms by Warwick and his friends. Aubery started with the mayor’s unsolicited invitation to the feast, described the attack by a large number of armed commoners on the unarmed guests, and ended with his escape, after which he presented the shirt on which Warwick had scrawled his plea for help and Warwick’s seal ring to authenticate the tale. Aubery was aware of Mansel’s eyes on him and was both grimly amused and somewhat worried about the clerk’s reaction to the way he had used the warning Mansel had given.
Taking into consideration the color of Henry’s face and the violent exclamations the king had made from time to time during his narrative, Aubery thought it safe to cover himself by adding, “There are some matters I have not mentioned because—” He was relatively sure the king was too angry to ask for any details and he was right, for Henry interrupted him before he could finish his explanation.
“I do not need to hear more,” Henry roared. “The treacherous scum! How dared they lay their hands on
my
gentlemen? I will see to their lessoning, I assure you, Sir Aubery.”
“You see,” Guy de Lusignan put in, “it is as I have been telling you all along. The sweet words and gifts from Louis are no more than a sly delusion. The action of the commune of Pons shows his true feeling. Even while you are his guest, those under his protection show their contempt—”
“No!” Aubery exclaimed. “No, my lord king, I am sure this is not so. I am sure that the commune of Pons is as eager to hide their crime from the King of France as from you.”
Aubery had suddenly realized why Mansel had not wanted him to tell the king about Pons. Apparently Mansel wished to encourage Henry to accept the French king’s friendly gestures as being sincere, whereas the Lusignans wanted the king to think Louis’s accommodating offers were traps. Aubery knew nothing about Louis except what Alys had written to his mother and stepfather, who had shared Alys’s letters with him from the time she left England, but he knew more than he wanted about Henry’s greedy, pompous half brothers, and his contradiction of Lord Guy’s accusation had been instinctive.
Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey glared at Aubery so furiously that he almost regretted his interference, but the king’s expression showed eager interest rather than anger. “You have some reason for saying this?” he asked Aubery.
“Certainly,” Aubery replied. “If King Louis had been involved, surely there would have been some trained men-at-arms and perhaps even a French captain among those who took us prisoner. I fought them. I can tell you there were only Poitevin townsmen. And another thing. They took away our safe conducts. That must have been done only so that they could say no man they took prisoner had a safe conduct, and by that claim defend themselves against Louis’s wrath if their deed were discovered.”
The king smiled, confirming Aubery’s feeling that Henry did not wish to think ill of King Louis. Nonetheless, Aubery had no intentions of wading out farther into the unstable quicksands of French and English politics. He was just about to ask Henry’s permission to leave, since he had done his duty toward Warwick and the others, and he was more than willing to allow the defense of King Louis to rest in Mansel’s capable hands. Before he could speak, however, Geoffrey de Lusignan came to the support of his brother Guy’s attack.
“Nonsense,” Lord Geoffrey said, sneering down his nose at Aubery. “What could such a simple knight know of high policy and the devices of kings? That no French men-at-arms be present and the destruction of the safe conducts are acts that Louis would order if his purpose was to collect ransoms. Remember how poor he has rendered France with his crusade and the payment of his own ransom.”
“I am sorry to disagree with you, Lord Geoffrey,” Aubery said with nasty emphasis, “but I cannot believe that so honorable a man as King Louis would stoop to such lies, so the action of the common dross in Pons cannot reflect the usual devices of kings. Moreover—”