The Prince of Poison Read online

  I caught a farm woman’s tunic as she passed. “Is there something amiss in the city, milady? There’s a peculiar odor . . .”

  “Where ha’e ye been that ye doona knaw aboot the fire?”

  “Fire?” My heart stopped. “Was much destroyed?”

  “A good portion o’ the town on this side.” She crossed herself. “I’m sorry, Sister; mayhap half of Notre-Dame-de-la-Rond war burned.” She hesitated. “They do say that a part of the royal castle went as well.”

  My heart leaped—had King John burned in Hell?

  Had Bonel? The Clos des Juifs abutted the square of the burned Cathedral.

  I swayed.

  “Keerful!” The farm woman grabbed my arm. “Be ye sick?”

  “No, I . . .” I stopped; she knew.

  “The Pont des Arches be unsteady in this wind—gi’e me yer arm.”

  The Seine licked the underside of the bridge and twice soaked our feet; I walked at a slant, truly totty. I closed my eyes as the goodwife led me across the flood. The woman proved clever when we reached the gate as well. She screamed that her “Sister” had a fever—and the guard hastened us through. Once inside, I raised my eyes to the square towers of the Jewish synagogue, just visible. I began to weep.

  My benefactress pressed a coin into my palm and disappeared into the crowd.

  The sky was the hue of a dark-gray goose, the trees thrashed; flags whipped on the towers. The king was in residence. Was I mad? Too late to wonder. Avoiding an animal mess, I stumbled to the opposite side of Sea Mew.

  “Sister, remain on my side, if you please!”

  I pretended not to hear the guard.

  “Sister, wait—you can’t—stop her, Jrome!”

  The sky belched three fireflashes in rapid succession; the streets became a rivers!

  “Alix!”

  Deus juva me, I knew the voice! Sir Alain, the wight who’d undressed me with his eyes when I’d ridden pillion behind King Richard.

  “Alix, wait! I won’t . . .”

  The sky split! The street became a melee of animals, rolling gourds, screaming women!

  What’s happening? cried my prince.

  I waddled toward a feeding shed for horses, where even the king occasionally stopped.

  Only six steps away! I whispered.

  Try seven; it’s a better roll.

  I grasped the trough for balance. Sea Mew pushed eagerly toward a pile of oats.

  Try not to breathe, I ordered.

  Now on my hands and knees, awkward, again feeling sick, I pushed at a stack of hay.

  I’m corked in a bottle!

  If you don’t like the wine, try the water!

  Then both of us fell silent. Wet black boots topped by a short red tunic stood close to my nose.

  “Alix? It is Lady Alix, isn’t it? I had a glimpse of your profile . . .”

  “Sir Alain! Come quick! A brigade for the king is coming through!”

  “I’ll be back, sweetheart,” Alain promised.

  I burrowed deeper.

  When I woke, still the storm raged. At least the dark streets had been cleared of brigands and outlaws, not to mention soldiers.

  Yet the inability to see disoriented me. Hardly knowing if I walked toward or away from the Seine, I awaited another fireflash to reveal the spires of the cathedral. I would have fallen except for Sea Mew.

  “Ahhh!”

  I plucked at fat mushy toads on my face—only they were wet leaves. Branches rolled down the cobbles; water torrented in the gutters. Another fireflash outlined the spires of Notre-Dame-de-la-Rond, guiding me toward Bonel’s house.

  We’d go faster if you’d ride!

  I could no longer mount my horse. Slowly, slowly, I pushed up the slope. I stopped frequently. Sweat drenched my entire body. Then I found a haven, the lee side of Notre Dame where the walls seemed intact. Feeling along the sooty stalls, I rounded the corner to be hit again by the elements. I sidled into the exposed square.

  I stopped to regain my wits—and pissed! Aye, hot urine flowed down my legs into my boots.

  “I’m so sorry! Sorry!” I wailed.

  Deo gratias, no one had seen. Yet I couldn’t go to Bonel’s like this. I lifted my habit—my Plantagenet undertunic wouldn’t raise over my belly—and put my hand down to cleanse myself. Oh God, dear God, help me! My urine was sticky—thick as honey. I raised my hand to my nose, then my lips. Blood! I was bleeding! My water had broken!

  Clinging to Sea Mew, I sidled forward. I couldn’t have much farther to go. Jews’ Street ended on the square! Sea Mew tripped—ah!—three steps up above the square, yes, I remembered. I had to beg the horse to go up.

  Mincing sideways, my legs close, I put my hand against a splintered post—I smelled soot—the former gate. Oh, thank you, Fire, I could enter directly into the street. But, oh God, let the houses be not burned! I touched a corner and groped—intact! Now the next, a row of connected houses. One—two—three—was it six?

  I pulled a bell cord.

  “Bonel!” I screamed. “It’s me, Alix!”

  The door gave way—pitch blackness—female arms.

  A male voice: “Alix!”

  2

  Women cut off my red tunic, then studied my heaving middle under a brilliant torch. They all wore blue scarves close to intent eyes that scrutinized my body. They brought a second torch, pushed gently, and spoke to each other in their harsh Hebrew tongue.

  The pain was so intense that I couldn’t speak, even if I’d had anything to say. At the same time, I was surprised that it wasn’t worse; I recalled my near death when I’d had a premature baby by Richard long ago. By comparison, this was nothing.

  Four women remained by my side until dawn, then on through the day, at which point one said in rough French that I must walk. They pulled me upright, put cloth slippers on my feet, and held me by both arms as I attempted to obey. I smiled bitterly, as if I hadn’t already walked miles. My bleeding had stopped, though I still felt a flutter that seemed to have descended. I walked in circles.

  At least the exercise brought profound sleep; I wakened to the torch again just in time to see a fleshy triangle arch high above me and to hear, “What rhymes with joy?” Boy, I thought. I had a son! Instantly, I became weepy; I was alone, separated from him forever. I miss you, baby, I thought. There was no reply: I slept again.

  When I woke next time, a tiny bundled mite lay beside me. With effort, he opened one slit-eye the color of lapis. I knew he couldn’t see me, knew that the lapis would change to some other color in a few days, but I swear that he studied my face. Then he was taken away.

  Someone had bound my seeping breasts and my abdomen—I could hardly breathe. I slept so soundly that I could hear myself snore. When was the last time I’d been in a bed?

  I was awake. My room was a small airless closet. Footsteps went up and down the hall outside my door, female voices chatted and laughed; twice that day women attended me: My crotch was swathed in fresh linens three times. I smelled of soap. For the first time in months, I was clean. Where was my son?

  Morning sounds, the clink of wooden bowls, the smell of fresh eggs.

  “Are you hungry?” A familiar female voice—the midwife?

  “Where’s Bonel?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  I sighed. “Yes.”

  She left, then reappeared almost at once with a crust of brown bread, two boiled eggs, a mug of milk.

  “Thank you.” I watched her warily. “Have we met before?”

  “I’m Viette, your midwife.” She paused. “A fine boy.”

  Deo gratias, she spoke in Norman French, albeit with the thick tongue of a cow.

  “Is my son . . .?”

  “Rachel is his wet nurse.”

  “When . . . ?”

  “Soon.”

  The instant she left, I fell asleep. Yet, at some level, I worried; I couldn’t find the document naming my son as the next king of England. Not that I planned to execute his claim, but even so�
��had someone stolen it? I must fill in his name: Richard, of course, for his blood father, Enoch for his legal father, William in memory of my father, and Theodore because he was truly a gift from God. Aye, Theo. I would call him Theo.

  Where was Bonel?

  How could I summon a woman to help me? I needed a bucket.

  A young female came at that instant for my bowl and methier; she listened to my request.

  “Let me help you.”

  When I was finished, she cleaned me carefully, then tossed some sweet-smelling herb on the rushes.

  I measured the time by the ring of the hours from the cathedral; apparently, the bell tower had not burned. In late afternoon, Viette and two other women walked me down a narrow corridor to a slightly larger closet, which had a small window covered by an oiled linen square. From street sounds, I realized we were in a basement. The wet nurse called Rachel took me to a cradleboard hanging on a wall where Theo was sleeping; another small wizened baby slept on another board. Rachel slowly unwound Theo’s swaddling clothes and lifted him down for me to examine.

  His face was beautiful—no other word sufficed—with smooth fat cheeks that dimpled when he yawned. He had very little hair and perfect ears, and he sucked most prodigiously when Rachel tickled his lips. I was glad I’d seen his single eye, however, since now he didn’t wake. His poor wizened body made me weep; so tiny, so weak, so red. My diet of worms and grubs hadn’t agreed with him any more than it had with me.

  “A fine baby boy,” his wet nurse said proudly.

  “He’s fragile.”

  “Needs a little fat, that’s all. I give forth cream, you’ll see!”

  I slept and ate, physically comfortable but more and more anguished and tearful; I wept for the long months I’d withheld tears.

  Where was Bonel?

  Then one morning, just before Prime sounded, I was waked by a hideous scream—Theo! I rolled from my cot and ran down the long narrow corridor in the direction of his howls. Murdered, he was being murdered! Half-forgotten tales of how Jews had committed ritual murders on Christian children heated my fantastick cell. I burst into a room of men with long beards, yarmulkas, and curls dangling down their cheeks. One held a knife over Theo!

  “No!” I screamed.

  I was too late—my baby was covered with blood.

  One man restrained me while another scolded me in Hebrew. The man with the knife finished with his grisly task. Apparently, they wanted the tip of Theo’s member—for what? Another man lifted my son so I could view Theo’s penis myself, a raw little flower dripping blood. I wept uncontrollably. What a way to die! Would we’d both expired on the road rather than this! The door opened behind me and Rachel rushed in. As she spoke rapidly in Hebrew, Theo’s lapis eye opened. Poor mite; he knew nothing of how his life had been destroyed.

  I sobbed even harder. Then, by Rachel’s gestures, I realized that she was apologizing for me! Not for the butchers, for me! She swaddled Theo and placed him back on his cradleboard, where he slept soundly. Rachel led me back to my closet. Once I was safe on my pad, she laid Theo beside me. Then, speaking in her mangled French, she explained that the rabbi had circumcised Theo for his health’s sake, did I understand?

  Aye, they’d castrated my boy! And he a prince!

  She tried again and mollified me somewhat, though I still couldn’t understand her reasoning. I had to admit, however, that Theo seemed not to suffer. I also had to admit that what was done was done.

  My document suddenly reappeared. It had survived my travails surprising well, except for salt stains along the edge from my dip into the sea. The scribe had etched the words deeply into the vellum. At my request, Rachel supplied a stylus for me to enter Theo’s name. I then placed the document safely between my legs.

  In late afternoon that same day, Bonel summoned me to his office.

  Rachel helped me dress in one of her blue tunics, for my red Plantagenet tunic was destroyed and my nun’s habit had disappeared. She did not, however, cover my hair with one of the low turbans she and the other women wore. In fact, she unbraided my pale hair so it flowed freely down my back.

  I’d been right; we were in a basement. Rachel supported me as we climbed to the ground floor, then along a narrow hallway to Bonel’s office. She then left me.

  I had to force myself to knock. Though I was again bathed, free of my bloody odor or other body emanations, scented with jasmine, Deo gratias, I was nevertheless apprehensive. For the first time since I’d met Bonel, I came without the king’s protection. And Bonel represented the Jews to the king. Did that include King John?

  I also felt shy because the last time I’d seen Bonel, he’d kissed me most ardently and supplied me with small diamonds for my security. Yet he’d never promised to put his entire community into jeopardy for my sake.

  “Enter!” he called.

  An exotic potentate inside an equally exotic tent confronted me. Oh, I could see the small windows covered with oiled linen, could see the low thatch, but what a transformation! Silk billowed above our heads, and every surface below was covered with skins of camels and leopards and lions; crocodile skins stretched over the tables. Tapestries embroidered with flowers twining among mathematical formulations concealed daub walls. Though it was broad daylight, oil lamps burned in the corners; a strong scent of cinnamon mixed with the jasmine I wore.

  “Alix.” Bonel rose from behind a desk in the corner.

  “Bonel, greeting.” Only his voice was familiar, for he was as strange as his room. He wore a saffron turban, a long, flowing tunic that changed colors as he walked, a heavy chain glittering with jewels, and long, pointed slippers with similar jewels. He stopped directly in front of me.

  We studied each other a long while without speaking. He was somewhat taller than I recalled; his missing eye was covered with a jeweled patch.

  “My commiseration; you’ve fallen on bad times, I hear,” he said gently. “Tell me why you’re here.”

  And I did, emphasizing the threat to my life from King John. “I’m grateful for your sanctuary, Bonel, but I kow full well that I may have put your commune in jeopardy. I’m truly sorry; I’ll leave as soon as Theo can travel, which might be this very day.”

  “Why didn’t you use the diamonds I gave you?”

  “Do you want them back?”

  He waved a dismissive hand.

  “I didn’t know how to barter them—I was afraid.”

  “Please sit down. This will take thought.”

  “Do you still represent the Jews to the royal court?”

  “Yes.”

  I searched his good eye, then perched on a stool covered with a spotted fur. Before he could speak, I told him how I planned to disguise myself somehow—dye my hair, dress as a farm woman—and find my old friend Tib, who had helped me before.

  His brows raised. “Why? Didn’t she almost destroy you once before?”

  More important, I thought, I’d almost destroyed her. My presence was poison for my friends.

  He began to pace. “Did Richard make no provision for you? No residence?”

  “He wrote a document naming our son as the next king of England.” A worthless document, I could have added.

  He bent over me. “Alix, he and the queen decided two years ago that John would be his heir. They knew his defects well enough, but the alternative—at that time meaning Count Arthur of Brittany, Richard’s nephew—would be much too young to face France. The Earl of Pembroke and Archbishop Hubert Walter in England approved John.” He lowered his voice. “And it keeps Queen Eleanor in power, no small consideration.”

  “I neither wanted the position or the settlement that you once suggested.”

  He went back to his desk. “Very noble, but—forgive me—shortsighted. You must have known as well as he did that Richard would die young.” He rose again. “Perhaps he thought you would find a husband as a result of his attention. Concubines of kings notoriously do well on the marriage market.”

  “I’m already mar
ried!”

  “What?” He stopped pacing.

  “Richard told me just before he died. Enoch wasn’t killed—he’s alive! You must have known.”

  For the first time, he became confused. “Yes, I did. I’m sorry, Alix.”

  Sorry that he hadn’t told me?

  “And he wouldn’t release me when Richard asked, even when he demanded, and offered money. So, of course, he’ll be happy to see me!”

  “Unless he wanted to maintain the marriage in order to have control of—what was the name of your estate?”

  “Wanthwaite.”

  “Yes, Wanthwaite.” He paused again. “Many English barons are just as fierce as the king where land is concerned.”

  “Enoch is Scottish, not English. And he . . . he’ll be happy to see me. Land is no object between us.”

  “I hope so; he should be.”

  “And my son as well. Legally, he’s Enoch’s son.”

  “Legally? I wouldn’t be too sure.” His one brown eye pitied me—for my situation? My navet?

  He put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, Lady Alix, truly sorry, but I must stop this interview. You are not the only one who has to deal with the new king—I’m leaving at once for Vernon. When I return, we can discuss your future at greater length.”

  “Is that why you’re dressed so . . . ?” I stopped myself.

  “Like an eastern potentate? No, I just returned from Barcelona, where I met with a merchant.” He smiled. “A Muslim, in fact. Sometimes I travel as a leper.”

  “I’m sorry if I detained you, Bonel. I’ll be gone—I promise—by the time you return. And some day I’ll repay you . . .”

  He walked me to the door. “You’ll be exactly as you are when I come back. Must I assign guards?” He smiled again. “I’ll have a plan next time we meet.”

  “I could sell my diamonds here in Rouen! Purchase passage to go back to Wanthwaite!”

  “With an infant son? Wait for me, Alix.”

  He had assigned guards, though they were female. Feeling stronger every day, I led my guards on a merry chase through the basement hallways, for our house—Number 6—was joined to the other houses by dark passageways. Each house had a particular designation: mine was the delivery room and small infants; others were laundry, food preparation, hospice care, schooling—all female. Rachel informed me that the male Jews lived in similar divisions of activities above us. Most of the married females retired upstairs when darkness fell.