A Place Beyond Courage (20 page)
John nodded stiffly and controlled his temper. He was standing outside Martel’s tent as Stephen’s army finished pitching camp in the sinking afternoon. Beyond their lines, Ralph Luvel’s timber keep rose against the roseate skyline. He had expected just such a response from Martel and thus was prepared for it. ‘If you do not, my lord, I will. As the King’s marshal, it is within my remit to discipline the troops on the road. A more suspicious man might take their behaviour for treachery.’
‘Be careful what you say, Marshal.’ Martel drew himself up.
‘Be careful what you do,’ John retorted, meeting Martel stare for stare. ‘Don’t underestimate me. I have your measure down to the final dreg in the cup and the last lamprey on the salver.’
Martel laid his hand to the hilt of his sword. ‘If you have an accusation to make, then do it. Otherwise hold your peace.’ A dark flush rose from his throat and into his face.
John looked pointedly at the fist Martel had made around his sword grip. ‘I can see that you are holding yours,’ he replied. ‘Tell your men. I assume they obey your orders.’
Sybilla knelt on the floor, using one of her outworn shoes to play tug of war with a hound pup. Her brothers had returned from the Welsh Marches an hour ago and, having washed and eaten, were sitting in the private chamber, regaling their father with all their news, most of it good from the sounds of it. Sybilla knew her brothers considered it unseemly for a woman to listen in to masculine conversation, so she was being circumspect. The pup was a good distraction. As long as her brothers thought she was just playing with her dog, she’d be allowed to remain as an extension of the surroundings.
Bristol was still under guard from the garrison at Bath and the castles at Cary and Harptree had surrendered. Shrewsbury had rebelled and been retaken. The Scots, led by the Empress’s uncle King David, had been defeated by the English barons of the north in a decisive, bloody battle at Northallerton the week after the Assumption of the Virgin. Also, Ludlow had been given to one of Stephen’s Breton mercenaries along with the right to marry its widow. Sybilla’s ears pricked up because the widow’s name was Sybilla too.
‘Lucky bastard,’ Patrick grumbled. ‘We don’t get given castles and widows.’ There was a petulant note in his voice.
‘Joscelin de Dinan is related to the Counts of Brittany,’ said her father, ‘and he’s a strong soldier. I don’t envy him holding Ludlow for Stephen. It’s not going to be an easy ride - and neither is that woman.’
There were some salacious masculine chuckles. Sybilla wondered why her namesake was not considered an ‘easy ride’? Was she difficult in the bedroom? She knew when men spoke of mounting and riding women, the connotation was sexual. But it did have other meanings too.
‘Put her in a scold’s bridle and she’ll be easy enough,’ said Patrick. ‘Show her who wears the chausses like we’ve been showing the other whoresons who’ve declared for the Empress. Her plans have come to naught this year.’
‘Women never know when to give up,’ Walter said wryly.
‘Mark me, she’ll keep trying. All she needs is somewhere to land. Stephen will have to watch all the ports, and still keep the garrison at Bristol pinned down.’
‘I heard a rumour that John FitzGilbert was thinking of defecting to the Empress when she lands,’ Patrick announced.
There was a brief silence. Sybilla stopped playing with the puppy and turned round to stare at her father and brothers.
William snorted ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘I was playing dice with some of Martel’s knights.’
‘And you believed them?’
Patrick made a face at his brother. ‘Why shouldn’t I? Martel’s got his finger in every pie at court. His woman used to bed with John FitzGilbert and she’s a known spy. Who knows what she sees and hears in the course of a night’s work.’
Sybilla’s eyes widened. The pup took advantage of her distraction to seize the shoe out of her hands and nestling it between his paws, began to chew in earnest. The last she had heard about John FitzGilbert and his concerns was that his wife had recently borne another son they had christened Walter after Lady Aline’s father, but this was much more interesting!
‘I can’t see the King’s marshal jeopardising the castles he’s just received in order to rebel in favour of the Empress,’ her father said, looking sceptical. ‘He’s too shrewd for that.’
‘And shrewd enough to see where he stands if Robert of Gloucester does invade. He’s on the edge of Gloucester’s territory. It might make more sense to form an alliance with him than withstand his assault.’
‘And then he’d have us to contend with for a start,’ her father said.
‘We might be able to get Ludgershall back.’ Patrick’s eyes gleamed. ‘And who knows what might happen to Marlborough . . .’
‘Indeed, but let us not get too far in front of ourselves.’ Her father made a settling motion with the palm of his hand. ‘Still, there’s no harm in being vigilant. If John FitzGilbert does make a false move, we’ll be ready to deal with him.’
Looking at her father and brothers seated around the fire, Sybilla thought they looked a little like the hounds from the pack to which her pup belonged. Eager for the chase, pulling at the leash, anticipating a kill.
14
Oxford, June 1139
‘Christ on the Cross!’ John muttered to his usher, Bonhomme. ‘I need eyes in my arse today.’ Hand on sword hilt he gave a passing soldier a hard look. The court gathering in Oxford was a large one, involving many of King Stephen’s tenants-in-chief and a goodly salting of the most important ecclesiasts, including Bishop Roger of Salisbury and his nephews the Bishops of Lincoln and Ely. Finding suitable lodgings for so many would have been awkward at the best of times and this wasn’t one of them with the country on a knife edge and rebellions still flaring up like little marsh fires all over the place. Bristol was still defiant, bloody but unbowed, and rumours continued to grow that the Empress was planning to invade England with an army of Normans and Angevins. Men’s swords were quick to clear the scabbards and tensions were rife.
‘Indeed it’s bad,’ Bonhomme agreed with a glint of morose relish. ‘Like being in the midst of six hostile dog packs all at once. Someone’s bound to get savaged before the day’s much older. Speaking of which . . .’ He gave an infinitesimal nod towards the courtyard.
John swore under his breath, then bowed as Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, approached the King’s hall. The elderly prelate was leaning on his crosier and not walking well, although that could have been due as much to his bulk as the condition of his legs. In the June heat, he was glistening with sweat as if someone had basted his face. Behind him, amid an assortment of deacons and clerics, the Bishops of Ely and Lincoln walked in jewelled magnificence like living marchpane subtleties. Rumour had it that Alexander of Lincoln was in fact Roger’s son rather than his nephew and there was indeed a resemblance about the noses, although Bishop Alexander was of slighter build.
Salisbury presented John with his ring to kiss - a fat sapphire set in a hoop of gold. His flesh puffed around it like pastry. John and Bonhomme knelt to perform obeisance. Salisbury’s breath wheezed in and out of his chest and the incense of his sweat hung in the air with breath-stopping pungency. The Bishop had a mistress of a similar size to himself, although he had left her behind at Devizes. John hoped their bed was a sturdy one.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing here, FitzGilbert,’ Salisbury said as John rose to his feet. ‘At my age the court no longer holds the attractions it used to. I’m as much use as a colt on a battlefield.’ He gave a phlegmy laugh. Behind the smile, behind the superficial crinkling of his eyelids, John saw the pride, the fulsomeness, the anger. Roger of Salisbury had ruled England in the old King’s day, acting as the justiciar when Henry was out of the country. Together he and Henry had built the exchequer and made it into an efficient department for collecting revenue. Money had flowed into it and stayed. Stephen had inherited a treasury brimming with silver and was setting out to spend it like water.
‘The King would not have summoned you to court had he not thought it necessary, my lord,’ John said.
Salisbury snorted. ‘You’re not naive, Marshal. If he has summoned me to this gathering, and my nephews with me, it is not because he desires to fold me to his bosom - but he needs me nonetheless. How else will he stay solvent?’ The last word was spoken with superior contempt.
He moved on into the hall and, as he did so, straightened up and walked tall. Bonhomme puffed out his cheeks so that for a moment he almost seemed to be aping the Bishop.
John looked amused but quickly sobered. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s a warm day and set to grow warmer yet. Stand upright and don’t make faces at the King’s barons.’
John returned to his own lodging room before the dinner hour, intent on donning his best tunic and more formal attire for the later court sessions. Walchelin, his cook, was sitting on an upturned bucket by the door, performing the dual duties of guarding the house and preparing a pottage for the men.
‘Visitor,’ he said succinctly. ‘Didn’t want to be seen loitering in the street.’ He made an eloquent gesture with his hands, describing a feminine outline.
John answered with a raised eyebrow and entered the house. Damette was sitting in his chair, her hands folded in her lap, but as he entered the room, she sprang to her feet. A gown of crimson silk clung to her figure, accentuating her curves as Walchelin had described. Her braids had been augmented by additions of false hair in the latest style, woven with silk ribbons, and dangled almost to her knees. Rings glittered on every finger and a gold brooch the size of a griddle cake adorned her mantle at the shoulder.
John flourished his hand towards her attire. ‘If I may say so, you would outdo the sugar subtleties at a Christmas feast - but in an entirely edible way.’
She made a gesture of her own, sweeping aside his flippancy. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said. ‘If William finds out, he won’t be pleased.’
‘And it wouldn’t do to put William’s nose out of joint,’ John replied sarcastically, thinking that he’d enjoy doing so and using force. Then he looked at her face. ‘What is it?’
She bit her lip. ‘John, you’re in danger. Keep away from Roger of Salisbury and his nephews if you value your position and the King’s favour.’
He felt the space between his shoulder blades go cold. ‘What?’
‘There’s going to be trouble. Waleran of Meulan has been brewing poison for Salisbury for weeks now. He’s told the King that Salisbury is going to declare for the Empress and turn over his castles to her and her knights.’
‘I suppose he has evidence for such claims?’ John folded his arms. ‘How is he going to prove such a thing?’
Damette shook her head. ‘He doesn’t need to prove it; the King will listen because he’s afraid. Salisbury rules the finances. You’ve sat at the exchequer yourself. You know the kind of power he commands. He has most of the sheriffs in his pocket too. He has served his purpose and people want rid of him.’
‘By “people”, I assume you mean the likes of the Earl of Leicester and his brother, and your own paymaster.’
‘Who else would I mean?’ A look of urgency crossed her face. ‘It’s not good, John. If you’re not careful, they’ll make you part of it. You keep too close an eye on what goes in and out - you see too much . . . You know too much. They’ll bring you down with him if they can.’
Her words struck through him like a thin bolt of lightning, but he maintained an impassive countenance. ‘Thank you for the warning. I’ll bear it to the fore.’
She made an exasperated gesture. ‘You don’t understand. The game’s afoot. Waleran has hired men to do his bidding. It’s going to happen today. Salisbury and his nephews are in grave danger, and so are you.’
‘Do you have details?’
Damette shook her head. ‘William wouldn’t say and he’d have grown suspicious if I’d pressed him. I shouldn’t be here now; I have to go.’ She gave him a long, steady look as if bidding farewell to something she would not see again. ‘Have a care, John.’ She kissed the index and middle fingers of her right hand, placed them to his lips, then left in a rustle of silk and a subtle waft of musk.
John let out his breath on a hard sigh. He wasn’t surprised that Roger of Salisbury was about to be tackled. He had served his purpose and he was too powerful - both of which were strong reasons for bringing him down. He was like a fat spider at the centre of the treasury, guarding the stockpile of wealth that others wanted for their own use, weaving strands of sticky silver thread to enmesh men. Rumour abounded that his castles were stuffed to the rafters with coin and plate. His web extended everywhere and the sheriffs were indeed mostly his appointees. It was inevitable that others would try to break the strands and use webs of their own to net power and influence for themselves. If men of lesser degree became tangled up and suffocated along the way, what did it matter - especially if such men were not allies?
Salisbury had never evinced interest in the Empress’s cause though. Indeed, years before, he had argued strongly against her being Henry’s successor. Were John ever to point the finger of suspicion at the individual responsible for King Henry’s demise, it would be at Roger of Salisbury. But suspicion wasn’t proof. As Damette said, it was as well to keep clear.
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