Authors: Norah Lofts
She looked towards the fire, towards Berengaria again, and then went on in a harsh voice: ‘When I left Messina I meant to save England from Longchamp. I so reduced, so harried him that in the end he tried to skulk out of Dover disguised as a woman and the fishwives set about him and tumbled him—a fitting exit. Now, I thought, I can deal with John, the wind-bladder. But what happened? To spite me, Philip of France must turn back from the crusade and come home to bolster and stiffen John so that he could defy me. My doomed, fatal luck renewed! And now,’ she said, thrusting her hands through her hair, ‘there is this business of Richard. I
know
, I know in my heart that if I handle it I damn it but who is to deal with it if I fold my hands? I am his mother…’
I looked back over as much of her life story as had come to my knowledge, either directly or in song and story, and truly it seemed that her luck had never been good; she was clever and she was wily, yet failure had been her lot. And the task which confronted her now was a formidable one indeed.
All at once I felt sorry for her and found it in my heart to forgive her for the looks of scorn and disgust and sheer physical repulsion which she had turned on me in the time we had spent together. I answered her as cheerily and hearteningly as I could. I could always be kind to the afflicted.
V
And in the days that followed they were all afflicted.
His Holiness sent back nonsensical, soothing letters, maddening in their futility. Anyone capable—as Eleanor was, as I was—of dissociating the man from the office was bound to see that they were the letters of a weak, vacillating, bewildered man who meant well but had no idea of how to put his good intentions into action.
The Emperor wrote most friendly and heartening letters. For the perusal of fools! When he knew, when he was certain, when his cousin of England had been found—but the Empire was so wide, there were so many Prince Electors and it would of course be fatal to show a suspicion that could not be verified…
Leopold wrote characteristically. Richard, he said, was not within his jurisdiction or he would have released him and taken Eleanor of Brittany to wife. ‘He insulted me, many times, he tore down my flag, I have little reason to love him. But if I knew where he lay at this moment would gladly exchange that information for the promise of your granddaughter’s hand.’
None of them said, Why ask me? Didn’t Richard Plantagenet drown and am I the custodian of drowned dead men?
I pointed that fact out to Eleanor. She agreed that it was significant and added:
‘There is a note of regret in the archduke’s communication. He wishes he had the information—he wishes he still had Richard in his hand. And there is a note in the Emperor’s letter when… when… he is bidding for time, time to see which way the cat jumps. If John and Philip get control of England, Richard will never see the light of day again; if they fail, the Emperor will
find
him quite suddenly. I see through it! But, Anna, what can I do?’ Her face was twisted with agony. ‘What can I do more than I have done?’
It was painful to watch her, to listen to her. And there was Berengaria, neither maid nor wife nor widow, stupid, perhaps, in bemoaning the ardent red-headed lover who had never existed save in her imagination but horribly, shrewdly stating a truth when she said:
‘Of all men on earth, Richard is least able to bear imprisonment. He’ll die or go mad. And he was such a good fighter; he deserved to die in the open.’
And there was Joanna, weeping and weeping.
The weather without was cold and pitiless; day dawned late and it was dark again soon after noon and the castle in which we lodged was the coldest and most comfortless place on earth. Snow blew in at the windows and sometimes lay all day unmelted on the floor where the rushes shifted and swayed in the draught.
Pamplona lay low, sheltered from the cold north wind by the mountains, and what winter we had there had been brief, exhilarating, never losing its novelty because it was as so soon over. And our bower had been cosy with its shuttered windows and its great hearth. (These northern castles seemed to me to be fitted neither for hot weather nor for cold.) On the higher slopes of the mountains to the north of Pamplona snow often fell and lay for three or four weeks and the frost forbade the growing of peaches except in sheltered places; and there, in winter, the peasants wore coats of sheepskin, loose and baggy enough to be worn over ordinary garments and with the fleece turned inwards. And they had some manner of dressing the sheepskin which made it supple, so that men could work and move easily while wearing such coats, women could spin in them and children play. They were called “grotis.”
One day Berengaria, shivering and blue as we huddled over a fire which seemed to give out no heat, said, ‘I envy the peasants at home their grotis.’ And I turned aside and sat down and wrote a letter to Father, asking him to send our grotis with all possible speed. I thought as I wrote the letter that the winter would be over by the time they arrived and the summer, just as ill prepared for, would be upon us but writing the letter was something to do and the grotis would keep, I thought.
Six weeks later they arrived and it was March and colder than ever. In every room the rushes had blown into heaps in the far corner, snow was heaped inside every window, icicles hung from the walls. We had muffled ourselves in every garment we possessed and still our teeth chattered. Father had sent the very best; the skins were soft as silk and beautifully embroidered in coloured wools, dyed with saffron and onion and elderberry juice. Each groti had loops of wool along one edge of its front and carved peach stones or acorns or bored pebbles to serve as buttons. I slipped my arms into the first one that I took from the bundle and a comforting warmth enveloped me. I forced the taut woolen loops over the acorns and was enclosed, invulnerable.
Then I shook the other three free of their canvas wrapping and went to the cold, smoke-darkened room where Berengaria and Joanna spent most of their time and threw a green-and-blue embroidered groti over Berengaria’s shoulders and said, ‘Here’s what you wished for!’ and a pink-and-purple one I bundled into Joanna’s lap, saying, ‘This will keep you warm.’ The third one, orange and yellow in colour, I carried on towards the specially cold, most dreadfully draughty little room where Eleanor Aquitaine wrote her letters, interviewed her visitors and walked up and own, tearing her hair.
Outside the heavy iron-studded door—for the northern castles, if unfitted for comfortable living, were so constructed that each separate compartment could, if need be, withstand a siege—I listened, not wanting to disturb a serious interview. There was no sound of voices, so I knocked and she called, ‘Come in.’ I meant to go and lay the groti across her shoulders, to surprise her with its comforting warmth and so I edged through the door, opening the coat as I moved and holding it high, shoulder level for her, eye level for me. I knew so well where she sat with her back to the door. So I walked in, the groti spread before me, and planted it on her shoulders and said, ‘Madam, a little present from Navarre,’ dropped the groti and my hands and, with vision thus unimpeded, saw Blondel.
I heard myself say, ‘Blondel,’ in a strangled voice, as though someone had me by the throat. He came and went on his knee and kissed my hand and I put my other hand on his shoulder. I heard him say, ‘I thought you were in Le Mans.’ And I said, ‘I thought you were in Canterbury.’
‘He brought me this letter from the archbishop,’ said Eleanor. She was holding it at arm’s length away from her eyes, as old people do. ‘No other message?’ she asked.
Blondel straightened himself and went and stood by the corner of the table and answered her and I looked at him and saw him clearly for the first time and was smitten with a curious wonder that I had so instantly recognised him. Once in Pamplona, in bleak revealing light, I had seen him as he would look when he was old—or so I had thought; but what I had seen then had been the young suffering boy’s face grown old and worn by years. The face I now stared at across the corner of the table was entirely different. It was a dark, sardonic mask. It bore little trace of the frank, boyish beauty which I had so loved.
I suppose I would have gone on staring for an hour but Eleanor, with a great sigh, laid down the letter and became aware for the first time of the groti which I had laid across her shoulders.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘A groti,’ I said, speaking as though out of sleep. ‘A thing peasants at home wear in cold weather. Father sent one for each of us.’
Blondel moved and lifted the coat, holding it open so that she could slip her arms into it. She sat for a moment hugging the warmth to her. Then her face, contracted in a spasm of misery and two of the scanty, slow, difficult tears of old age gathered in her eyes and crawled down over her furrowed face. She put up her hands to hide them.
‘Richard…’ she said in a broken, terribly bitter voice, ‘I never go to my warm bed or hold my hands to the fire or eat a good dish without thinking—some cold dungeon, couched on damp stone, empty-bellied, even galled by chains. Oh God!’ she cried, and dropped her wild-haired head to the edge of the table while her shoulders, under the incogruously gay orange-and-yellow-embroidered groti, shook with her sobs.
‘All Walter can say is that he regrets that he did not put him under restraint as he threatened… By the same token I might say that I regret I did not smother him in his cradle! Dear God, what is there to do that I have not done? Holy Mother, you had a son—but He did ride in triumph into Jerusalem and He hung on the Cross in pain for only three hours…’
Over the bowed head I looked at Blondel and he looked at Eleanor—through the mask. It was exactly how, at the Christmas revels, people hold up the most grotesque and unlikely masks and look through the eye slits with their own eyes. The sweetly curved, sensitive, easily troubled mouth had hidden itself behind one that was hard, ironic, easily amused, most of all self-amused; but the eyes, I now realised, were the eyes of the boy who, long ago in the market place at Pamplona, had looked at me and then at the dancing bear with precisely the same expression of pity. Presently Eleanor lifted her head and said resolutely:
‘I must not lose heart. Hubert Walter at least seems to have control of England and when Philip sees that England is not going to drop into John’s hand like a ripe plum he may change his tactics. For I think he knows. And so does the Emperor—and Leopold. Is it possible that Richard, who even if he weren’t King of England would from his size and looks alone be a man to mark, could lie hidden anywhere for a year and no word, no rumor go round?’ She paused. ‘Of course dungeons are deep and dark; and every little castle, even if it has no well and depends upon the ditch for drinking water, would have a dungeon. And Germany must be full of such little castles. I suppose it
is
possible that nobody knows.’ She brooded and then, as though talking to herself, went on: ‘I wonder, has the Pope pressed
hard
enough on Philip? There’s a monkish streak there. I’ll write to the Pope again. He must make Philip see.’
There are times when a desperate hopefulness is far more touching than despair. The Pope had rebuffed her, kindly but certainly, again and again in the last months; but she was going on, tackling him anew, vainly seeking a hold like a toothless old bulldog baiting a particularly lively bull.
Pity for her made me say, ‘I think His Holiness has done all that he intends to do, madam; whether it was all he could do or somewhat less is not for me to say. Whatever the secret of Richard’s whereabouts is, it has been kept well these many months and secrets are seldom discovered by point-blank attacks. I can remember a very similar case. Have you ever thought of pursuing
private
inquiries in Germany? Matching secrecy with secrecy?’
‘Spies? Yes, Anna, four I despatched myself and Hubert Walter sent some of his own. Of my four, two have not returned; one whom I regarded with a degree of affection died at Württemberg and of the other I know nothing. But the others all say the same thing: The Empire is so vast and the medley of languages makes inquiry impossible. Poor Alberic of Saxham, God rest his soul, set off with a simple but not despicable idea of hawking ready-made shoes, several pairs in varying sizes and one pair enormous. As you know, Richard has the largest feet in the world. He thought Richard might need shoes. Anyway, he said that wherever those shoes were sold he would nose about like a hound until he found the feet that wore them. It was a chance. It would have given a clue—perhaps. But as I say, he died at Württemberg, crafty to the end, for he got a message back to me in a manner it would take too long to explain now. He had not sold the shoes. And it may be, of course, that Richard is dead. They may all be telling the truth. But I think I should know. That may sound strange to you, Anna, but then you are not—’
‘A mother,’ I finished for her.
‘And for that mercy,’ she said with sudden violence, ‘you should thank God, fasting!’ She reached out and drew her quill and her inkhorn towards her. ‘I must waste no more time in talk. Anna, would you mind carrying a message for me? Find Sir Amyas and tell him I want him to set out for Rome immediately, now, as soon as I have written this.’
I turned to the door and there looked back at Blondel. He stood by the end of the table, his face inscrutable, looking down at her. The scratch of a furiously driven quill began to fill the room. I put my hand to the latch of the door. The room was cold enough but as I opened the door a furious gust of even colder wind swept in. It seemed to rouse them both. Blondel looked towards the door like someone waking from sleep; Eleanor halted the quill long enough to say,
‘Thank you for bringing the letter so swiftly, Blondel. You may go.’
‘Is the—Queen here too?’ he asked as he joined me outside.
‘Yes.’
‘And similarly distraught?’
‘She is very anxious. And sad. I think she, more than Eleanor, is inclined to believe that he is dead.’
That was true. Berengaria’s thoughts tended more and more to dwell on the handsome knight who was dead than on the man who might be suffering captivity. From every point of view such thoughts were easier to bear. If Richard had been lost in Messina, in Cyprus or in Palestine immediately after the fall of Acre it would have been a different story. Then I believe she would have gone on foot, beating on every castle gate in Europe. But Richard himself had forced her into a passive position, made it clear that she had little to hope for from him, wherever he was. In fact, she had served a long, hard apprenticeship in the arts of waiting and resignation and seemed able now to practise them with ease.