Mirebeau

Yesterday, August 1st, 1202 was the occasion for King John’s one great military triumph. He’d gotten word from Eleanor that she was under siege at Mirebeau Castle by John’s rival, her own grandson Arthur, the young Duke of Brittany, with his de Lusignan allies. John’s father, Henry, and brother Richard had been famed for the speed of their campaigns, but even they would have been impressed by what John accomplished. He got word on Tuesday night, July 30th, and he and his men set out at once. It was eighty miles from Le Mans to Mirebeau, but he managed to reach the besieged castle at dawn on August 1st, catching his enemies utterly by surprise and capturing them all, including Arthur and the de Lusignans.
Here be Dragons, page 159-160
* * *
“And Arthur? What of Arthur, John?”
John’s eyes showed suddenly gold. “Arthur and Hugh and Geoffrey de Lusignan, all taken. They were breakfasting on pigeon pie, had not even time to draw their swords. And their faces….” He laughed again. “Ah, Madame, to see their faces!”
“You have indeed won a great victory,” Eleanor said, then put her hand upon his arm. “Come now, sit and I’ll send for food. Do you even remember when you’ve last eaten?”
“No,” he admitted. “Why? Think you that I’m in need of sobering up?” He grinned, letting her lead him toward the table, and then sopped without warning, swung about to face her. “Arthur and the de Lusignans were not alone in their disbelief….were they?” he challenged. “You never expected me to come to your defense, never expected me to reach you in time, never expected much of me at all, did you….Mother?”
Eleanor now saw how exhausted he truly was; his voice was slurred, husky with fatigue, his eyes hollowed and feverishly bright, at once triumphant and accusing. “It was not a question of faith, John,” she said carefully. “Do you not realize the extent of your victory? You have done what most men would swear to be impossible, covered some eighty miles as if you’d put wings to your horse, arrived in time to save me from capture, to take the town, all your enemies. That is a feat more than remarkable, it is well-nigh miraculous.” She paused and then said that which she knew he’d waited all his life to hear, what she could at last say in utter sincerity. “Not even Richard could have hoped to equal what you did this day.”
John looked at her, saying nothing for a time. “I should have known that the highest praise you could offer would be a comparison with my sainted brother. Well, that is an honor I think I’ll decline, Madame. I’ve no longer any inclination to compete with a ghost.”
“Ah, Johnny….” Eleanor was suddenly and overwhelmingly aware of her own exhaustion, of the toll these last days had taken. “I am proud of you, I swear it,” she said softly. But she’d waited too long. John had already turned away.
* * *
Sadly, John would soon tarnish the brightness of that victory by his subsequent actions. He treated the captured Breton lords so badly that it created a scandal; a number died in captivity, one of whom was his brother Richard’s closest friend, their cousin Andre de Chauvigny. Arthur’s sister, Eleanor, had fallen into his hands, too, and she would remain a royal prisoner for forty years. John has been criticized by this, but his son Henry deserves just as much censure, if not more, for he never felt threatened by Eleanor, not sharing John’s paranoia. Arthur, of course, survived less than a year, disappearing into one of John’s dungeons never to be seen again. It was widely believed by John’s contemporaries and later by historians, that Arthur was murdered in April of 2003 on John’s orders. I believe it, too.