A Place Beyond Courage (23 page)
‘Mama said we were.’
John gave Aline a hard look and she shrank from him. Her face was ghost-white, her bones sharp beneath her skin and her eye sockets bruised from lack of sleep. Her hands shook as she crumbled the bread on her dish and ate none of it. He could imagine her self-indulgent hysterical outburst and its effect on the child. ‘No one is going to harm you or your baby brother while I am by,’ he said quietly, ‘nor your mother. If I have to yield this castle, you will be allowed to leave without being harmed; I promise you that.’
Gilbert fixed him with an anxious gaze. ‘Does that mean we’re not going to win?’
John sighed and looked at the trestle. This was more difficult than talking to his knights. ‘It means I have planned for everything that might happen so I don’t have to worry. If God chooses differently then so be it, but I have generally noticed that God helps those who help themselves.’
Aline’s lips quivered. John inclined his head to her. ‘I give you leave to retire, madam,’ he said frostily. ‘I can see you are unwell.’
As she rose to her feet, he noticed how loosely her gown hung on her body. She was as emaciated as an over-wintered heifer. The willowy slenderness of her wedding day had become gaunt and brittle, and the shy, sweet gentleness had mutated into something self-pitying and barren. He nodded at one of her women to go with her and signalled the nurse to take care of Gilbert. Then he lifted his cup to finish his wine.
One of the watch soldiers entered the hall and hastened to the dais, hand on sword hilt to stop the weapon from banging at his side. ‘My lord, my lord, come quickly,’ he said. ‘They’re leaving!’
John put his cup down and hastened from hall to battlements. Peering down he saw that the trebuchets were being dismantled and loaded into carts and the tents demolished in haste. Already some of Stephen’s troops had ridden off and what they were seeing was the slower baggage-cart detail preparing to leave, although still protected by knights and footsoldiers.
‘We’ve beaten the bastards. Hah, we’re too good for them!’ a serjeant shouted and clapped a companion on the back.
Along the ring wall, John’s men were jeering and shouting. A couple of the archers loosed arrows, but in exultation rather than hope of hitting an enemy. John smiled with the men, but his eyes remained calculating as he studied the activity. ‘I agree we’re too good for them,’ he told Benet, ‘but we certainly didn’t defeat them and they hadn’t tested the half of our mettle yet. Something has happened to make them leave.’
‘Perhaps the Empress has landed, or the Earl of Gloucester?’
‘Very likely. It has to be something important to make Stephen abandon the siege without another push. Don’t stand the men down. Keep them all on alert.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
An hour later, Stephen’s army had gone, leaving behind smoking firepits, latrine middens, bits of broken equipment it would have burdened them to carry and two whores who had decided to try their luck in Marlborough rather than follow the army. Neither woman was clean or attractive. John would certainly never have admitted them within the gate when he had been Henry’s marshal, but he was interested to find out what they knew and he had them brought to his chamber.
The women looked around, plainly impressed by the luxury of their surroundings and ill at ease to be out of their habitual territory of hovel, tent and guardroom and facing the lord of the castle and his senior knights.
John folded his arms and leaned against a trestle. ‘I grant you leave to ply your trade among my soldiers,’ he said, ‘but before you go about your business, I need to know where your former employers are bound.’
The whores exchanged glances. ‘I don’t know,’ one of them said, screwing up her face in thought. ‘Said something about the Empress and some castle called . . . Ar . . . Ard . . . summat.’ She looked at her companion for aid, but the other one just shrugged and twiddled the end of her straw-coloured braid.
‘Arundel,’ John supplied. ‘Was it Arundel?’
‘Aye, my lord, that were it.’ The whore gave an enthusiastic nod of recognition but didn’t attempt to say the word after him. ‘Empress has landed there, and her brother, so I heard.’ She wiped a grimy sleeve across her nose. ‘The King’s troops’re going to lay siege to them.’
John dismissed the women to whatever trade they could pick up. ‘We are all at a crossroads,’ he said to his knights. ‘I can ride after the King and throw myself on his mercy - although I doubt mercy is what I would receive. I can go on crusade until all this resolves itself, and hope that if a Saracen doesn’t put an end to my life, I’ll have something to return to.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Or I can go to the Empress and offer her my services.’ The words sent a ripple down his spine. Eight years ago, the notion of swearing fealty to a woman had filled him with deep unease. Even now, it went against the grain, but he knew there was no choice if he and his family were to survive.
‘And what of us?’ Benet asked.
John gave him a steady look. ‘Either stay with me or renounce your oaths and leave now. If you stay, I expect your loyalty to the death. If you go, I promise not to have my archers shoot you in the back on the way out.’
Benet said quietly, ‘I am your vassal, sire. My eldest son is your squire. My father served yours; my grandsire rode beside yours against the English on Hastings field. I would be dishonoured if I abandoned you.’ Abruptly he knelt to John, his hands extended in the gesture of paying homage. ‘I will double my oath to you, my lord. Where you ride, so do I.’
Like a breeze rippling through corn, the others bent the knee too until John was the only one standing in his solar. He found himself having to swallow hard, which was ridiculous. He prided himself on his control; his ability to remain collected whatever the pressure. He was tempted to tell them all not to be so stupid and get up, but their gesture demanded one of equal gravity from him. They were making a pact and it had to be sealed. ‘Then I had better be careful where I ride,’ he said. Stepping forward, he took Benet’s clasped hands between his own palms and gave him the kiss of peace, and thought it a strange thing to call such a gesture when they were in the midst of an escalating war.
16
Salisbury, October 1139
‘Idiot!’ spat Walter of Salisbury, striding into the domestic chamber. ‘Purblind, stupid idiot. If Stephen ever had brains, they trickled out of his ears when he became King!’
Sybilla looked up with a start from the braid belt she was weaving on her frame. Her father had gone out into the town shortly after sext to talk business with some of the merchants and burghers, but either the discussions had not been amicable, or something else had seriously upset him. He was red in the face, almost purple in fact, and his eyes were ablaze.
‘What is it?’ Patrick rose from the bench where he had been drinking wine. He had recently returned from business at their manor of Mildenhall. His older brother was still elsewhere, also dealing with the affairs of the estate.
‘What do you think?’ Walter unhitched his belt and threw it at a coffer. It missed and struck the floor with a thud. ‘Stephen had the Empress trapped in Arundel and the fool has only gone and let her go. What is wrong with the man? He could have ended it now in one fell swoop, but no!’ He kicked a leather foldstool out of his way and threw himself down in his barrel chair, breathing hard.
‘What do you mean, he’s let her go?’ Patrick asked. ‘Where?’
‘Hah, here’s the rich part!’ Walter’s jaw worked. ‘Only to Bristol. Only to the Earl of Gloucester’s chief castle in the region, the one that Stephen’s been trying to take for more than a year.’ He wagged his finger. ‘Why couldn’t he have kept her holed up at Arundel?’ He made a sign of slitting his throat. ‘He even provided an escort for her when she asked him for it. He hasn’t got the brains not to piss into the wind!’
Sybilla listened with interest. They had heard all about the Empress and her brother landing at Arundel at the invitation of the old King’s wife and her new husband who had promised them succour. Robert of Gloucester had ridden on to Bristol to gather more troops, and Brian FitzCount of Wallingford had immediately defected to the Empress’s cause. But then Stephen had arrived at Arundel, trapping her there.
Patrick cupped his chin in thought. ‘Arundel is not exactly an easy nut to crack. What if Stephen got himself bogged down in a siege there and the rest of the country under Robert of Gloucester rose against him? What would he do then? What would people think of him, besieging two women, one of them the old King’s wife? I’d say he’s been clever.’
‘Clever!’ his father spluttered. ‘God’s balls, your own wits must be addled too! How can it be clever to have something in your fist and then let it go!’
‘Because he’s making the situation seem less than it is. He’s telling everyone he’s not bothered by the Empress’s landing. She’s a weak and foolish woman. What happened to Arundel? Did he make them yield as part of the terms?’
‘Yes, but that isn’t the point.’ Walter struck his fist on the side of the chair and the hue of his face darkened. ‘You have your enemy in your hand, you don’t let her go!’
‘That’s as may be, but with them both in Bristol, he doesn’t have to keep his left eye on that and his right on Arundel. He can deal with them in a single place.’ Patrick opened his hands. ‘I think he’s weighed up the odds and made a shrewd move, myself.’
‘And I still say he’s an ass,’ his father scoffed. ‘That move looks as shrewd to me as picking a cauldron off the fire with your bare hands.’ He shook his head. ‘Nor do I know what he was thinking not to finish the siege at Marlborough. It’ll make FitzGilbert twice as arrogant now, the whoreson.’
‘He was committing too much to it in time and men.’ A gleam lit in Patrick’s eyes. ‘Besides, we can take care of that for Stephen.’
Walter made a rude sound through pursed lips. ‘Do you think I have the time and resources to besiege Marl—’ A look of astonishment suddenly crossed his face. He stared down at his left hand, tried to move it. ‘I can’t . . . I c . . .’ His words slurred and gobbled together while saliva dribbled from the side of his mouth. Sybilla looked at him in shock. Patrick strode forward and grabbed their father as he fell.
‘Fetch Mother,’ he cried. ‘Quickly!’
The command, the urgency in his voice, galvanised Sybilla and she ran.
Sybilla sat at her father’s side, holding and rubbing his limp left hand. He was conscious but confused, and couldn’t focus properly. The left side of his face dragged downwards and he had little movement down that side of his body. Saliva shone at the corner of his mouth and more dribbled out as he struggled to speak but made only garbled, nonsensical sounds. Dutifully, Sybilla wiped away the spittle on a napkin. Ralf, their physician, said he had suffered a seizure - too much choler, he said. Her father had always had an imbalance in that area. Ralf had bled him to try to redress some of that imbalance, and had said that either her father would recover over the next few days, or he would die. The best they could do was to try to spoon bland foods into him if he could swallow, and keep him quiet.
Patrick came to stand at the foot of the bed. ‘It’s not good, is it?’ he said with a grimace.
Sybilla glanced round, but her mother was seeing Ralf out and taking more instruction from him. Wordlessly she shook her head. Her father had always been a constant in the background of her life. Big, warm, strong. Someone she could run to for protection when her brothers’ teasing got out of hand; someone who gave her security. Nothing bad could happen while he was around to save her. But now something bad had happened and to him. Even if he did survive, the physician said he would be permanently weak on the damaged side. He wouldn’t be able to conduct affairs as sheriff for a while and certainly not lead men in battle or take major decisions. It would be up to her brothers to do that from now on. Sybilla shivered. A bitter wind of change was blowing through their household, and it frightened her.
17
Bristol, October 1139
‘Well, my lord Marshal. You come to do me homage and put yourself at my command?’
John knelt at the feet of the Empress. Her voice was as cold and strong as the channel current beyond the castle walls. She was wearing the crown she had brought from Germany, its pearl strings beaded with opalescent light. The hand John kissed was well tended and rich embroidery shone with a diffused gleam upon her wine-red gown. She looked older, with lines pursing her mouth and a new hardness in her eyes.
‘Domina, I do,’ he replied in a neutral tone. Even if he was here seeking her favour, he would not humble himself beyond the standard formalities. He had three strongholds to offer her and control of the Kennet valley. He possessed the abilities to fight and administrate. He needed her, but equally she needed him.
‘And how do I know you will not change your mind as you changed it before?’ Her voice remained cold, but she flicked her fingers, bidding him rise. ‘You were swift enough to break your oath to me and swear for Stephen.’
John stood up. ‘Because, Domina, I cannot change my mind even should it be my greatest desire. I have enemies at Stephen’s court who would see me dead rather than restored to favour. I will not couch my reasons for being here in falsehood. You are my only chance of survival. Stephen has shown he has neither the strength nor the inclination to curb those around him who wish me ill.’
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