Chapter 18 Angoulême, Aquitaine, late September 1368 #3
‘I shall say nothing, madam,’ Alys promised, her eyes full of anxious sympathy. ‘Not even to Tom,’ she added staunchly.
‘Oh, you can tell him – although I think he knows too.’ Jeanette managed a smile. ‘You are a good daughter,’ she said. ‘We shall let him rest while the tincture does its work.’
Once in her own chamber, she went to her small sons and embraced them.
In the new year Edward would be four and Richard two.
Having read the letters arriving from England, Jeanette knew the King’s once great abilities were waning like a dying fire that could not be replenished because its bed was choked with the ashes of its years.
Her husband was in no state to take the reins.
His illness had lasted for months and showed little sign of improvement.
How could he rule a kingdom in his present condition when Aquitaine was already slipping from his hands day by day?
His heirs were little boys – babies – who would require nurturing and protecting until ready to play their part, and she had no choice but to be that protection.
Sighing, she sat down to read her own correspondence of petitions and requests. In the midst of answering a nunnery regarding their rights in a particular mill, Tom arrived, accompanied by a messenger.
‘News from England, mother,’ he announced. ‘My stepfather will need to hear it, but I have brought it to you first, since he is resting.’
Tom’s serious expression filled Jeanette with trepidation. She bade the kneeling messenger stand up and drew the men to one side, away from her ladies. ‘Tell me.’
The messenger swallowed. ‘Madam, I am sorry to say that the Prince’s brother, the lord Lionel, died of a fever in Italy three weeks ago.’
‘No! Not Lionel!’ Jeanette’s mind filled with the image of Edward’s brother, eight years younger than he was, with his warm brown eyes and ready smile.
She had watched him being born when she was a girl at court in Flanders and she had played with him in the royal household.
In adulthood he had been a more distant figure as their lives had gone separate ways, but she cherished his memory.
Edward had loved him too, although they were seldom in each other’s company.
It felt like another blow on a shield already broken and splintered.
‘God rest his soul.’ She crossed herself as Fortune’s wheel slipped a notch lower.
Edward would have to be told when he woke up, and nothing would soften the blow.
Best to let him have the consolation of sleep first.
On a late November morning of heavy rain, Edward lay in his bed while Jeanette ministered to him.
His illness had worsened. Candles and glass lamps burned in every niche as Bordeaux endured an ‘English day’.
He often thought of returning to the land of his birth as the dream of Aquitaine was soured by constant news of defections, defeats and disasters.
Lionel’s death had hit him hard. He had not been especially close to his brother, but he had still loved him, and it was a further sign of the family weakening its grip – another inevitable moment of mortality.
Jeanette had tried to brighten his spirits, but he could tell that hers were low too, and the smile she showed to him was a broken mask.
He saw through its cracks easily. John Chandos, who had been dealing with matters in Normandy, had been recalled to oversee much of the administration in Bordeaux but was not making great progress.
It was being openly said that when the head was sick, the entire body suffered.
Charles, King of France, was contesting the terms of the Treaty of Bretigny, arranged almost ten years ago to secure peace between England and France, and was preparing for a new war with England, knowing how vulnerable they were.
Just last week Jean d’Armagnac, with whom he had disputed over the town of Rodez, had abandoned his fealty and gone over to the French.
As Jeanette was trying to persuade him to drink more of the physician’s disgusting tisane, an usher arrived with the news that a group of French envoys had arrived and were requesting an audience.
‘Bring them to me,’ Edward commanded. He had his pillows plumped up and called for his cloak of ermine and silk velvet, which his attendants clasped around his shoulders. ‘Stay,’ he said to Jeanette, grasping her hand, and gestured for her to sit at his side.
The emissaries were ushered into the room.
Jeanette sent for wine and small refreshments, maintaining a bland expression.
Edward greeted the men in a neutral tone of voice.
Once they had removed their caps and knelt to him, he made sure they stayed in that position long enough that they understood he was in control of the proceedings, then gestured them to sit upon a bench that had been drawn close to his bedside.
‘Sire, our lord King Charles is sorry to hear of your continuing malady,’ announced their spokesman, rotating his hat between his hands.
‘I am most certain he is,’ Edward replied with polite sarcasm. ‘Just as I am certain you are not here to offer his good wishes for my recovery. What is it your lord requires of me?’ He noted the swift flick of glances between the envoys and saw that Jeanette had noted it too.
‘Sire, we are here with a summons from our puissant lord requiring you to attend his supreme law court in Paris. He desires you to answer points arising from clauses in the treaty made at Bretigny before the parliament of France.’
Beside him, Jeanette suppressed a gasp of outrage. Edward remained steely while dark fury licked through his veins. ‘You wish me to come to Paris,’ he said.
‘Sire, yes, our lord requires it of you. I have letters.’ He delved into his satchel.
Edward made no attempt to take them, or to direct anyone else to do so. Instead, he stared at the men without blinking, and the silence drew out. The refreshments arrived and, waving them away, he sat up straight, his rage giving him strength.
‘My lords, you see me here in my bed, and by my faith, from what I see and hear, it seems that you Frenchmen think I am a spent force. You would be wise to discard that notion. If God gives me comfort and I can rise from this couch, I shall do your countrymen great harm even now. Your king lacks a strong case, and he should be wary indeed lest I give him true reason to complain against me. I have no intention of coming before him to answer the terms of a treaty long since agreed. To foment war and unrest under such pretences is a shameful dishonour. Tell your “puissant lord” that I shall indeed reply to his request and gladly come at his bidding – bringing an army with me to the very heart of Paris.’ His control was icy, but his rage felt like fire inside him.
‘You have my leave to depart as swiftly as your horses may carry you.’ He snapped his fingers at John Chandos.
‘Escort these gentlemen out of my palace and bid them on their way.’
‘Sire.’ Chandos placed his hand on his sword hilt and saw to his orders.
Edward glared at the door as it closed in their wake.
He could feel sweat clamming his brow. His heart was thundering, and suddenly it was hard to breathe.
Jeanette helped him take some sips of tisane from his silver goblet before he slumped against his pillows, panting, exhausted.
He saw the sick anxiety in her face, and it made him feel worse.
‘It was necessary,’ he said. ‘I had to make a stand.’
She gripped his hands. ‘I agree,’ she said, ‘but at what cost to yourself?’
He groaned, and shook his head in frustration. ‘I meant every word. If I was strong enough to leave this bed, I would show the French the folly of challenging me.’
‘I know you would, my love.’ He looked at her to see if she was humouring him, but she met his gaze with firm conviction. ‘You gave them the right reply.’
He opened his arms, and she went into them for a hard hug, and kissed his cheek. And then she drew back and curtseyed deeply to him. ‘My lord,’ she said with deference, and left him with his men.
Once out of Edward’s sight, Jeanette paused to gather her strength.
Many times in her life she had needed to be indomitable – she knew of old the feeling of having the odds stacked against her, and how hard it was to continue the fight.
More than once she had come so close to the mire at the foot of Fortune’s wheel that the hem of her dress had trailed in the dirt, and still she had clung on, waiting for the next turn to raise her up, knowing that if she let go, she was finished.
If only she could somehow jam the wheel at its apex and freeze its rotation for ever.
Instead, she had to cling for dear life, while holding on to her husband and children, and wait out the next turn, knowing they might still have further to fall.