Chapter 21 Angoulême, Aquitaine, August 1370
A couple of weeks later, Jeanette regarded her son Johan who had just returned from Limoges.
He sat in the cool of her tower chamber, taking advantage of an eddy of breeze drifting through the window arch.
He had removed his armour and one of her ladies was bathing his hot feet with tepid rose water.
He had brought the news that his stepfather and Lancaster had recovered Limoges from the French, having mined under the foundations of a section of town wall, and the city was theirs.
Jean, Duc de Berri had stayed well away, and the Bishop of Limoges had been castigated for his part in the affair and summoned to Avignon by the Pope.
‘How is your stepfather?’ Jeanette asked, anxiety churning her stomach.
‘He did exactly what he said he would do, Mama,’ Johan said, his eyes full of admiration.
‘He stood on his feet in his armour in all this heat, and he watched that mined wall come roaring down in a cloud of dust and stone – and everyone knew we had arrived and were still a force to be reckoned with.’
He paused as a lady arrived with a flagon of cool wine and a platter of pastries and waited until she had retreated out of hearing range. He picked up a pastry and put it down, and suddenly the assured young man was an uncertain youth again.
‘The French garrison were wolves. Some of the citizens rushed to open the gates and plant our banner, but the fleeing French cut them down and slaughtered anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path.’ His throat worked.
‘When my stepfather and the Duke of Lancaster saw what was happening, they swore that no quarter would be given to any Frenchman they caught. It was bloody, Mama.’ Johan shuddered.
‘The Prince ordered it to stop after a while – he decided we needed the ransom money from the French rather than their corpses – but the stench was already enough by then.’ He looked into the bowl of rose water, cloudy from the dust washed from his feet.
‘We took two hundred prisoners in the end. The Prince threatened to execute the Bishop, made him beg on his knees for his life, but eventually packed him off to Avignon on his mule.’ He palmed his face, as if to wipe away what he had just been reliving.
‘The French will twist it their own way and make my stepfather the villain in all this. Certainly Jean de Berri will, the arrant coward.’
‘And when is everyone returning?’ Jeanette asked.
‘Perhaps another week,’ Johan said. ‘The Duke of Lancaster sent me to bring you the good tidings ahead of time and I have gifts for you in my baggage. Limoges is shored up and safe, but many are dead who need not have died – and I am not talking of the French.’
The gifts proved to be French booty – a gold collar set with crystals, a casket full of gold coins, and some handsome furs and rich textiles including cloth of gold from the Bishop’s treasury.
Looking over the items Edward had sent her, Jeanette hoped that when he came back he would continue with his plans to return to England, but feared this success might buoy him up to continue travelling along this road of stones.
And all these gifts would have to be sold anyway to pay their way.
A fortnight passed and the army remained in Limoges conducting business.
Johan had ridden back to the city to rejoin his stepfather and uncle, carrying satchels of letters both business and domestic.
Jeanette stayed busy, moving the domestic court down to Bordeaux to spend the autumn there, and began making tenuous preparations to leave Gascony.
Edward and Richard had been playing together, tumbling like puppies, but now Edward came over to the women, sat down beside his mother and leaned his head against her side. Jeanette tenderly stroked his hair back from his brow.
‘What is it, little man?’ she asked.
‘I’m tired, Mama,’ he said, ‘and my head hurts.’
Jeanette looked at him, her attention suddenly sharp.
He had been well this morning, but he looked heavy-eyed now and a little pale.
She laid her palm across his brow, and it was dry and hot to her touch.
Fear jolted through her; the pestilence was always waiting to step forth from the shadows and attack.
She would never forget the terrible days of her youth when it had gorged on entire cities, devouring swathes of the population.
Friends, family, enemies, all had succumbed.
Although it had retreated, it remained close and often returned to take another bite at those who had survived.
Angoulême and Bordeaux had been free of pestilence this year and since they had survived the summer without cases Jeanette had begun to relax her guard.
Pray God she had no cause for worry now.
‘I will give you a soothing drink to help your headache,’ she said. ‘You should nap for a little while and I will sit with you. Do not worry, you will soon feel much better.’
He nodded sleepily and put his thumb in his mouth.
She summoned Mundina, and the women undressed him to his shirt and put him to bed.
Jeanette gave him a drink containing powdered willow bark and sat with him, singing a gentle lullaby and smoothing his hair.
He was so seldom ill that she was anxious and prayed fervently it was but a minor childhood ailment.
Eventually he slept and she withdrew from his bedside but remained within calling distance and told his nurse to stay close.
‘My head aches too!’ Richard declared loudly, clearly not wishing to be outdone and jealous of the attention his brother was receiving.
Jeanette palmed his brow with a flash of concern, but it was as smooth and cool as fine marble.
‘I need a drink too.’ It was not worth the tantrum that would ensue if she refused, so Jeanette told Mundina to bring him some pulped grape juice.
Annoyed that his brother would no longer play with him, Richard went to lie down too but was soon bored and started pulling feathers out of his pillow.
Jeanette fetched her jewel casket and gave him a bag of gems and textile ornaments to play with, knowing they would keep him quiet for a while.
He began arranging them in piles, chattering to himself, creating patterns and stories.
Jeanette set his two half-sisters to play nearby and keep an eye on him. At fourteen and eleven they were old enough to be responsible.
Edward slept for a long time, and when he woke his fever was higher and hotter. Jeanette sat beside him, wiping his body with a cooling cloth and trying to make him drink. He was delirious, barely knowing her, and screamed in terror that a wolf was chasing him.
‘Hush, my lovely boy, hush, there are no wolves. Nothing can harm you while I am here, I will never allow such a thing.’ She stroked his head and kissed his cheek. ‘See, the wolf has gone, and I will protect you. You will be all right in the morning.’
She watched him through the night, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his small cries of distress.
Tiny pinprick blotches began to appear on his skin, dark red over his torso and arms and legs.
As she watched them grow and spread and meld, her fear increased, and her heart was a cracked stone in her chest. It did not resemble the pestilence, nor was it like pox or measles, but its effect was devastating all the same and there was nothing she could do.
‘What is wrong with him?’ she whispered to the physician sitting with her at her son’s bedside.
‘I have sometimes seen this thing before and I do not believe that it is contagious,’ he said, and hesitated, the pause drawing out.
‘Then what?’ Jeanette demanded, feeling sick. ‘You say it is not contagious – but it is deadly, is that it? I am not a fool.’
‘I can tell you nothing, madam, that you do not already know,’ he replied. ‘The next hours will be crucial, but you should prepare yourself and you should call for your chaplain and send word to the Prince so that he too may be prepared.’
His words fell upon her like bruising stones, but still too soon to feel the pain beyond the damage of the impact.
‘Madam, I wish this was within my skill to heal but you will not find a single doctor in Christendom and beyond to cure what ails your son. It is truly in God’s hands.’
Jeanette swallowed. It was impossible. This could not be happening.
‘Madam . . .’
She stared at him and through him.
He spoke to her again, gently, with concern, and she drew a shuddering breath.
She did not ask if he was certain, for he would only have spoken out of necessity.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Bring the chaplain.’ She would set everyone in the household to praying, because perhaps God might have the mercy to spare her son’s life, and if not, then those prayers would raise up his soul and speed it to heaven.
‘Madam.’ She heard the physician leave in a whisper of dark robes.
The pragmatic part of her knew she mustn’t fall apart the way she had done when she lost Thomas – she could not do that to herself ever again, and others were relying on her to be strong.
So many children died in infancy; it had happened three times to Queen Philippa, and four times to Blanche.
Why should she be the exception? It didn’t stop the pain from being a swollen, terrible thing inside her.
Rather, it became worse in the face of endurance.