Authors: Alys Clare
Many of those who had been cured of the sickness either remained at or came back to the Abbey to attend the great service of thanksgiving. The King might not know they’d had a narrow escape, they reasoned, and he might be under the impression that the thanks were for his release. But it didn’t matter, the people reasoned, because
they
knew and – much more importantly – so did God that they were really giving thanks for their own deliverance.
Some families had been torn apart by the sickness, but, as compensation, in some cases new families had been formed. A strong young woman who had brought in and lost her father adopted an orphaned child and a crippled boy. A young merchant took pity on a widowed bride and promised to take care of her. When Waldo was eventually able to take his little brother and his baby niece back home to the house in Hastings, Catt had undertaken to make sure the children got safely home. And Catt himself appeared to cast rather a lot of glances in the direction of the strong young woman . . .
Nobody, it seemed, would be able to forget the brush with death; those who survived would perhaps find life the sweeter for having come close to losing it.
The arrival of the King was a moment that none who witnessed it ever forgot. He was magnificently dressed in white trimmed with scarlet and rode a fine black horse. Queen Eleanor, veiled against the dust of the roads, wore a dark cloak over a gown as golden as summer sunshine. Mother and son alike glittered with fine jewels; it was as if the King were stating plainly that he might have suffered the ignominy of imprisonment but look, everyone, here he was as strong, splendid, regal and rich as ever.
The thanksgiving service went on for a long time. Josse stood in his place among the King’s men watching the Abbess in an agony of anxiety; she had only got out of bed two days ago and he was so afraid that today would prove too much for her. But Sister Euphemia stood on one side of her and Sister Tiphaine the other; they could be trusted, he told himself, not to let harm come to her.
The service was followed by a feast, modest in comparison to what the King must surely be used to but, as the Abbess had calmly said, the best that the community could offer. The King seemed satisfied; he was as usual, Josse observed, too busy talking to pay much attention to his food but he did seem to enjoy the wine.
The King and Queen Eleanor were escorted down to the Vale to look at the new building. The King exclaimed on the magnificent thatched roof and Catt was commanded to step forward as the craftsman who had made it. Watching him, Josse was struck with the dignity of the man; not in the least overawed, he answered the King’s questions briefly and politely with no hint of nerves.
He’s rightly proud of his work, Josse thought. And probably Catt, like the Abbess, had been too deeply affected by the recent past to be unduly discommoded by the presence of royalty.
And I bet, Josse concluded, that King Richard can’t lay thatch to save his life . . .
The wonderful day came to an end; the royal party rode off to seek out their night’s lodgings down in Tonbridge Castle and peace descended.
Josse would be leaving too the next morning; he was part of the escort that would see the King and Queen Eleanor safely up to Nottingham, where they were to hold a meeting of the Great Council.
‘Will you come back and tell us what transpires?’ the Abbess asked as he took his leave of her in the morning.
‘Aye, that I will,’ he agreed. ‘Although I do think, my lady, that I should first pay a visit to New Winnowlands; I have been absent for a long time.’
‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘Just as long as I know that you won’t desert us, Sir Josse.’
Oh, I won’t do that, he thought as he rode away. Not now I know that
every
piece of my heart is now held captive here.
Turning his thoughts to the exalted company in which he would spend the next few days, he kicked Horace and cantered off on the road to Tonbridge.
Author’s Note
There is no historical evidence to suggest that John sent an assassin to kill Arthur of Brittany in the early months of 1194 although, since Richard had nominated Arthur as his heir, John must certainly have viewed the boy as an obstacle between himself and the throne that would otherwise be his if Richard were to be prevented from regaining his liberty.
However, Arthur continued to be a provocation to John after the latter was crowned king. He made a botched attempt to wrest John’s territories in western France from him, during which he committed the impertinent folly of trying to hold his grandmother Eleanor hostage in the castle of Mirebeau, in Anjou, and use her for bartering purposes. In the devastatingly efficient revenge assault on Mirebeau, Eleanor was released unharmed and taken away to safety; Arthur was captured. John’s magnates recommended maiming the young man, who was now about fifteen years old, in such a way that he was ‘deprived of his eyes and genitals’ and thus rendered unfit to beget any offspring who might follow him into treachery. Although this monstrous suggestion was not carried out, Arthur did not reappear and rumours began to circulate that he was dead.
Arthur’s true fate is not recorded. One tale – which achieved widespread credibility at the time – was that in Rouen at Easter 1203 John got drunk and, his frustration finally getting the better of him, killed Arthur with his own hands and, having weighted the body with a stone, slung it into the Seine. Whether or not this version is accurate, it remains true that Arthur was never seen again after Easter 1203. It was widely believed to be tantamount to suicide to mention the lad’s name, especially in the same breath as that of the king, which pretty much speaks for itself.
About the Author
Alys Clare is a history enthusiast who has written many novels under a different name.
Alys Clare lives in Kent, where the Hawkenlye mysteries are set. You can reach her on her website
www.alysclare.com