CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Savary de Mauléon cast a worried glance at Guy de Buissant. It was one of those indeterminate sort of days, not exactly cold, certainly not warm, but almost typical early/mid-October weather conditions. There was still a faint tinge of Summer air that under the right circumstances might quicken the blood, but the wet miry leaves on the ground and the occasional chill wind indicated that the hot sticky months of the year were now a thing of the past. The frown upon the brow of de Mauléon was not, however, related to the outside conditions. The routier had discretely warned his King against setting-off from Lynn too soon. That advice had been ignored and following a brief stop at Wisbech the party were slowly following the Wellstream to Swineshead Abbey.

The reason for de Mauléon’s concern was closely aligned to the King’s condition. John was not one to deny himself the pleasures of the table and the gratitude of the relieved town was exceptional. Ever since the King had complained of a gnawing pain in the belly and in Wisbech had spent some time backwards and forward to the pallet. Inspite of his vigorous well-made if short physique Lackland was looking decidedly pale and drawn, barely able to sit his horse.

“Is everything alright with the baggage train?” enquired John somewhat gruffly.

“Yes, my Liege” responded de Buissant “It is obviously going to take time to move it, it will be a slow journey but hopefully a safe one.”

“Well I suppose so” muttered the King. “Everything of value to me is in that convoy, my grand-mother’s regalia when she was Empress, my own coronation treasures, gold and silver goblets of inestimable worth, ornamental plate the lot.”

Savary bit slightly on his lip. He was not altogether convinced about the way matters were being arranged. The baggage with its mass of carts and wagons was being conveyed across the Wellstream estuary. It would have been better to have a guide prodding the route with a pole in view of the treacherous sands. October was not a good time on the Fens especially as the mist tended to stay low for a fair time after sunrise.

“I will turn back a little way, my friends” suddenly announced John. “For why, my Lord?” enquired de Mauléon “You have enough to consider, let us make as much speed as we can to arrive at the Abbey in reasonable time.”

“It’s this dratted pain in my stomach, I need something to take my mind off it. In any case I must be certain that the crown jewels and all my other possessions are proceeding to their destination.”

“In that case let de Buissant and I go along with you. If no more we can at least help to reassure you.”

The King nodded wearily and spurring his horse galloped off with slightly renewed energy. De Buissant and de Mauléon quickly followed their monarch. They seemed to have covered the ground quite speedily when they heard John gasp audibly. His face was blank except for an intensity of expression about the eyes. De Buissant touched the King lightly on the arm but it was as if he were in another World.

“My God!” John exploded as if the realisation that had frozen him to his saddle like a statue had at last communicated itself to his vocal chords. The Angevin monarch pointed a trembling finger, both de Buissant and de Mauléon following its course.

“My treasure, my treasure!” roared the King “It’s sinking in that quagmire. Follow me, we must retrieve every last piece of equipment.”

“No sire” responded Savary” To venture in those quick-sands is certain death. I felt that we were expecting too much, the waters are now starting to rise. We cannot go forward and the wagons cannot go back.”

“At least let me try and rescue some of my plate and coronation regalia.”

Before Guy or Savary could say anything further the King charged into the water like a man inspired. As if fighting a human foe he sought to hack his way towards the centre of the shifting sands. The two paladins could not see their master destroy himself in such a quest, noble it may be but the chances of success were minimum.

“Let me try and save just one item, God in Heaven at least something.”

Ignoring this plea de Buissant and de Mauléon turned the King’s horse round
and shoving and moving with great dexterity they managed to get John back on shore. They both received that flashing Plantagenet glare, a look of the Devil Incarnate. Then almost as suddenly the King slumped over his horse’s neck and started to wail in a most despairing fashion.

“Think of the poor fellows who have sunk in this pit trying to guide the wagons over” mused Guy to Savary.

“I hope the King remembers that as well, the loss of the treasure has quite turned his mind” grunted de Mauléon.

“God, one moment I am riding on the crest of victory, next devastation.”

The two soldiers looked gravely at the King who was staring wild-eyed from place to place. He seized his sword withdrawing it from its scabbard and looking keenly at the naked blade. With one tremendous effort he tossed it through the air seeing it land some yards away. De Mauléon strode forward and wiping the weapon on his cloak handed it back to the monarch.

“Come, my King. We can do little here let us make tracks to the Abbey where we can at least rest for awhile.”

“You know I spent years and years collecting some of those pieces of plate. I had one of the finest collections in the World, and now all gone what a waste what a disaster.”

“I understand my good lord but we really must accept realities. A good long rest at the Abbey is the best solution in the circumstances.”

“I suppose so, you always were a good counsellor de Mauléon. Lets make progress we’ve little else to do anyway.”

Reluctantly John slapped his horse’s flanks and with his two retainers in close attention lead off back on the road to Swineshead.

Coughing and spluttering, shivering and hacking, spitting, gasping, every distressful condition it would seem was almost continually being experienced by the King on his journey. At last the Abbey loomed on the horizon and at least this seemed to provide the King with some mild enthusiasm. De Mauléon and de Buissant both inwardly expressed a sigh of relief, they had been genuinely worried about the middle-aged monarch.

One of the King’s retainers helped John to dismount as the feverish brother of the Lion-Heart half stumbled on contact with the ground. Fortunately the Abbot, none other than Roger that faithful ally of the Plantagenet monarch, stepped forward to catch him and lead him gently along the patch to the Abbey gate.

“You look a trifle weary and not in the best of health if I may make so bold” commented Roger.

“Straight talking as always” grunted the King. “Still I cannot disagree with you on that point. Just give me a short rest at your Abbey Master Abbot and I will be as good as new.”

“I trust so. We provide a very pleasant rest here free from the troubles of the World.”

John Looked up to see the charming and beautiful Reasea stood by the Abbot’s side.

“Yes, I should have realised” half-smiled the King “Reasea would be here. I hope that we have got over our little misunderstanding girl?”

“My Lord, have we ever been but good friends, as far as a subject and a King could be?”

“Eh?” mused Lackland furrowing his brow “You are a cautious one, Reasea. Still I admire you for your numerous abilities, as indeed do I appreciate the staunch qualities of your friend the Abbot.”

The King allowed himself to be led to a comfortable seat where he slumped down and let out a huge sigh of relief. After all the exertion and travelling, all the stress and turmoil at least now he could count on a short period of rest. On reflection, however, he wondered how much spare time he had. Although the war was going well, he needed to relax and unwind a bit. God though all his treasure lost, what a blow, he really needed some activity to take his mind off that. A pity his lovely Queen Isabella of Angouleme was not here, or Brythec for that matter. Reasea was lovely but on past experience not obliging, still just to look at her exquisitely beautiful, divine body why that was enough for any mortal. A kind, considerate lass she was and intelligent. Still enough of this reverie, the growing pain in the stomach seemed to have eased. A little wine and some sustenance that would be sufficient for the day.

“Have you any cider Abbot Roger?” enquired John of his host “some succulent peaches would also not come amiss. God, I’m famished, I would almost promise you an Archbishopric if you could deliver. Still the Pope would probably not be too happy.”

“Who knows?” smiled Roger “Our old friend Innocent is dead and Pope Honorious rules in his stead. Mayhap he has a sense of humour.”

“One prating priest is much the same as another” snarled John. “Although considering that my Kingdom is in hock to the Holy See I suppose I should restrain my comments. Also, of course, I make exceptions in my condemnation not all clerics are worthy of approbation especially your good self Roger. Anyway enough of this tittle tattle get me some food and drink.”

“Certainly, your Grace” nodded Roger “But please do not overdo things. Moderation in everything is a wise course to follow. Your body will be weak from your recent exertions. Sip gently and do not put too much pressure on your stomach.”

“Alright Roger, don’t treat me like a spoilt brat, I can behave with moderation and even decorum when the occasion demands.”

Roger ordered the cider and peaches and left the King to his own devices while he took de Mauléon and de Buissant to one side.

“How bad is the King?” he enquired “He has a pasty, sick look about him.”

“I think the loss of his treasure on the way has affected him as much as his medical problems.” voiced de Buissant “He has a strong physique.”

“So had his brother the Lion-Heart” suggested Roger “But even he fell victim to a severe wound.”

“Yes but that was at least due to the physician botching-up the job in trying to extract the arrow. John, here, is merely suffering from a severe case of belly-ache and the flux.” added de Mauléon

“Merely?” enquired Roger raising his dark eye-brows “I have seen the bloody flux see off more soldiers in war than the direct impact of cold steel into the vitals”

“Well yes” admitted Savary “you probably have it there. It’s safer being in the midst of battle with axes and maces swinging past your head, than drinking foul ale or rancid meat.”

The rest of the day passed uneventfully and Roger was on the point of getting his head down for the night when he noticed a dark figure leaving the King’s room. The personage looked vaguely foreign, yet other than that barely significant, one of life’s nonentities, a body slipping backwards and forwards from one nondescript event to another. Yet this time there seemed something decidedly sinister about this “non person”.

“Excuse me my friend what message are you delivering?”

“I am going to the kitchens on behalf of our good King. He is desirous of some more peaches.” This was spoken in clipped almost accented, tones.

“I would not advise” muttered Roger “The King has a weak stomach at the moment.”

“If the King requests , it must be done” was the reply.

Ignoring the man’s comments the Abbot advanced swiftly to the door of John’s room and knocked sharply. “Your Grace may I enter?” he enquired hoarsely.

“Come in!” growled a voice from inside betraying evidence of slight intoxication.

Roger entered the semi-darkened surroundings and puckered his brows in irritation. The King had been eating and drinking as if there were no tomorrow. This was about the worst that he could have done.

“Sire, is this wise? All this food and drink?”

“Oh God in Heaven Roger, is all enjoyment censured here? I’ve had a hard time recently, I need to unwind.”

“Yes indeed my Lord but not at the expense of your health. I am willing to risk your anger but as far as I am concerned no more food and drink will pass your lips until the morrow. Even then it will be the mildest of breakfasts.”

With this statement Roger left the room leaving his monarch suitably chastised. Amazed at the Abbot’s effrontery of his Royal dignity John was totally speechless.

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