A Place Beyond Courage (28 page)
Stephen was being brought to Bristol under heavy guard and the way lay open for the Empress to make her bid for the throne. Sybilla’s brothers had to choose whether to support Stephen’s Queen, who was continuing to fight on her husband’s behalf, or to give their allegiance to the Empress and hope for a good outcome. Patrick wanted to stay with Stephen and what they had always known. William was of the opinion they should go to the Empress.
‘You want a woman to rule over us?’ Patrick scoffed. ‘You might as well ask our sister to don a hauberk and swing a sword.’
Sybilla gritted her teeth and suppressed the urge to tip the jug of wine she was holding over Patrick’s head. There was more to governance than the ability to fight. Who did they think had organised the household in their absence and dealt with the estate? Or perhaps they preferred not to think about it. It was easier to pretend that their father was still capable of directing operations on a local level than accept that Sybilla might be the driving force behind everything.
‘With Stephen in prison, his wife commands, so either way, we have to bow to a woman,’ William retorted. ‘You should be asking yourself which you would rather - de Beaumont or Gloucester? Gloucester’s nearer. We can’t afford to stand in the path of the storm.’
‘Hah, so you’d desert at the first blow like all the others you called fickle?’ Patrick sneered. ‘I say it’s too early to go to the Empress. She’s not Queen yet.’
William clenched his fists. ‘I’m the head of this household. Our father’s not capable of making a decision like this. I say we go to the Empress.’
‘You’ll regret it,’ Patrick said curtly.
‘My mind is made up. Let that be an end to it.’ Rising to his feet, William stalked from the room.
Patrick swore in his brother’s wake. ‘Men won’t follow a woman who behaves like a man,’ he growled. ‘I’ll not be governed by such a one. I don’t know why Gloucester supports her.’
‘He’s her half-brother,’ Sybilla said. ‘Would you not support me?’
He coughed at the notion, but then conceded her the point with a raised forefinger. ‘I suppose I’d have to, but Gloucester didn’t do it for love, you know. He wasn’t receiving the patronage he desired at Stephen’s court, so he turned to the Empress instead. The same with John FitzGilbert. Brian FitzCount’s another matter. He worships the ground she treads on, the fool. He could have gained plenty by being Stephen’s man.’
‘So it is better to betray those you love than to hold by them?’ Sybilla said neutrally.
Patrick glowered at her. ‘You prattle of things about which you know nothing. Love is a conceit of women encouraged by troubadours. A man’s loyalty is to his family first, and then his lord. He cannot afford to be softened by devotion to a mistress - whether he beds her or not.’ He gave an impatient wave of his hand. ‘Enough of this fond talk. I have better things to do.’ He strode out in William’s wake.
Sybilla cast a fulminating glance at the door, but then the anger dropped from her face and she heaved a deep sigh. She should know by now that banging one’s head against a stone wall only caused headaches. What Patrick said was partially true. She and her women did sometimes discuss FitzCount’s devotion to the Empress and harbour secret longings that a man would one day show them the same chivalrous loyalty. To that extent, it was indeed a conceit of women. It was also true what Patrick had said about loyalty. Family and the ties of homage were of paramount importance - but surely there was a little room for the lightning jolt in the gut, for the moment when the room lit up because of one person’s presence? Not that such had ever happened to her, but she lived in hope, and if it did, she intended to seize it in both hands and hold on for dear life.
21
Westminster, London, Summer 1141
Lying on his bed, her thick fair hair cloaking her naked body, the young woman regarded John out of wide blue eyes. Her lips were swollen and a pink flush was slowly receding from her throat and bosom. ‘I would have sought among the Empress’s lords earlier if I had known what I do now,’ she purred.
John pillowed his head on his hands and studied her through heavy lids. The intensity of his release had momentarily drained him. It had been too long; too much tension, both physical and mental, kept on a tight rein. The girl had come to the gates, seeking employment, claiming experience. She had been the mistress of one of the town burghers until his sudden demise last month. The thorough interviewing of prospective new concubines for the court was one of the perquisites of John’s position. The Empress pretended such women did not exist, even while she understood the need for their services. He gave a sardonic smile. ‘Ah, sweetheart, but you have to be prepared to take the rough with the smooth.’
‘And which are you?’ She gave him a pert look.
He chuckled, liking her spirit. ‘That depends on the circumstances. Just remember that your duty is to please your customers and be discreet.’ He could apply that to his own position with the Empress, he thought wryly.
‘And did I please you?’
‘You shouldn’t need to ask.’ Making the effort, he rose from the bed. For once, he would like to have stayed there and closed his eyes, but knew he would be expected in the hall to keep order when the Empress sat down to dine.
Two days ago Stephen’s brother, Henry, Bishop of Winchester, now in Matilda’s camp, had requested of the Empress that Stephen’s eldest son, Eustace, be allowed to inherit his father’s county of Mortain. She had snapped an immediate refusal and the Bishop unsurprisingly had chosen to sulk about it, Eustace being his nephew, and a claimant to the throne.
‘My name’s Oswith,’ the girl said, fiddling with a strand of her hair. ‘I thought I might change it to Petronella.’
John rolled his eyes as he pulled on his shirt. ‘Stay with Oswith if you want the custom,’ he told her.
She pouted. ‘Why?’
‘Because your clients would rather have an English wench under them in the bed and play Hastings all over again than futter a substitute for their Norman wives. You’ll be unusual too. If I had a shilling for every courtesan who goes by a fancy name, I could have bought London by now.’
He watched her frown and absorb the advice. Perhaps she’d last, perhaps she wouldn’t, but the flaxen hair, deep blue eyes and ripe curves would ensure a steady stream of clients at the outset.
Once she was dressed, he gave her into the custody of the usher in charge of the concubines and bade him escort her to their lodgings.
William, eldest son of Walter of Salisbury, paused to watch the exchange on his way to dinner, and gave John a salacious grin, his tongue stuck in his cheek. ‘Recommended?’ he asked.
‘Potential,’ John answered with a laconic shrug. He was always civil to William of Salisbury when he saw him, but he was not a bosom friend. Salisbury had changed sides and bowed to the Empress following Stephen’s defeat at Lincoln, but John was still wary. From what he had heard, the other brother, Patrick, had wanted to continue supporting Stephen. William was popular among the men, and a decent soldier. John afforded him respect, was civil, but never exchanged more than a few words with him. The matter of Ludgershall was still a bone of contention between them.
‘At least she’s got a smile on her face, which is more than you can say for the rest of them.’
‘What - the whores?’ John looked surprised.
‘No, the Londoners.’ Impatience swirled in William’s voice. ‘I thought we were going to have a riot yesterday when they came here and she said she would fine them for supporting Stephen and how dare they ask her for concessions.’ He touched his sword hilt for reassurance and grimaced.
John said nothing. He would not discuss the Empress with Salisbury, who was not a familiar, even if the latter was soliciting reassurance. Matilda was preparing for her coronation and a grand entry into London complete with a magnificent procession, but at the same time was treating the citizens like dirt under her feet. He knew Matilda neither liked nor trusted them. Their support had given Stephen his crown. In their turn, the Londoners were tepid in their support of her and it was proving impossible to have the two sides meet halfway with Matilda in her current mood. It didn’t help that Stephen’s Queen had mustered an army and was ravaging the land south of the river dangerously close to the city.
Excusing himself, John went to speak with his other ushers, watchmen and serjeants, then took up his position in the hall. With a sinking feeling, he realised that Matilda’s mood had not improved since yesterday. The vertical grooves between her brows were deep and her mouth had a sullen droop. She ignored the servants attending to her and paid scant attention to those seated at the board with her, including Robert of Gloucester and the Bishop of Winchester. Even Brian FitzCount didn’t merit the lift of a smile.
Probably her time of the month, John decided. Policing the whores, one learned more about the affairs of women than most men did and it was worrying to think of the unevenness such a state of affairs might create in governance. For all that he had put Devizes in her hands, Matilda had rewarded him with little more than tepid courtesy, taking his efforts on her behalf as no more than her due and worthy of small comment and even less praise. Since there was no alternative, he had to dig in his heels and stand his ground.
Henry of Winchester seemed to be trying to persuade her of something. He was talking earnestly, opening and closing his hands, gesturing. Her expression carved in stone, Matilda was leaning slightly away from his movements. John was not close enough to hear, but he could guess the talk was of Eustace again and that the Bishop was receiving short shrift.
Becoming aware of urgent whispering behind him, John turned round and saw an Angevin merchant, who lived in the city and was one of Matilda’s spies, talking rapidly to an usher.
‘What is it?’ John demanded.
‘My lord, the citizens are on their way to invade Westminster.’ The merchant looked at him with panic-filled eyes. ‘They are going to denounce the Empress and declare for the Queen. Her army is very close. If the people break into these precincts . . .’ He licked his lips. ‘It’s a mob, my lord, a frightened, angry mob. There is no telling what they will do. I have brought my wife and babe and goods . . . I dare not stay.’
John hesitated for an instant then summoned a serjeant and told him to check the details. ‘Go,’ he said to the merchant and slapped him on the arm. ‘If you have a woman and child with you, you need to be free and clear.’ Without waiting to see if the merchant took his advice, he heeled about and strode to the dais.
‘Domina, there is grave news.’ He flourished her the deep bow she expected of her retainers, but without waiting on protocol for the rest, told her what he had just heard.
She drew herself up and gave him a scornful stare down her nose. ‘You interrupt me for this? For a mob?’
John looked at her, then at Gloucester who at least seemed perturbed. ‘A mob that will swarm over this place like a nest of ants and we will be unable to stop them. A mob that will open London to the forces of Stephen’s Queen and William D’Ypres. We cannot hold Westminster; we are not prepared. Domina, with respect, you will be captured if we stay.’
Her lip curled. ‘I will not flee.’
John mentally clenched his fists in exasperation. ‘No, Domina, but a strategic withdrawal might be in order.’
Brian FitzCount leaned towards her. ‘The marshal is right and he is not one to cry danger unnecessarily. It would be prudent to withdraw until we better know the situation.’ Even as he spoke, they all heard the distant sound of church bells tolling from the direction of the city. A call to arms if ever John had heard one.
Henry of Winchester had risen to his feet; so had Robert of Gloucester. John bowed again. ‘With your leave, Domina, I will have the horses brought.’
She gave him a stiff nod. ‘Do so,’ she said, her lips barely moving to articulate the words. John bowed again and hastened outside, snapping his fingers to his ushers and subordinates. In the hot, midsummer air, the sound of the bells tolling in the city was clear and loud. A rallying cry, a tocsin . . . a knell.
Salisbury Cathedral had been filled to capacity for the mass celebrating the Assumption of the Virgin. The day was fine and bright and sunlight streamed through the painted glass windows, creating a mosaic of coloured patterns on the nave floor. Folk stood in groups, talking, gossiping and catching up. Patrick of Salisbury had joined a handful of cronies and stood with arms folded, cloak thrown back from his shoulders, very much acting the lord in his brother’s absence with the Empress.
Sybilla was preparing to follow the servants who were helping her father into the litter that would carry him back to the castle when she saw a small, slender woman sitting on the benches at the side with her maid and two young children. Sybilla bade the servants continue to the castle and went over to speak to them. Aline Marshal gave her a sweet smile, but her face was pinched with tension and Sybilla noticed how her delicate hands shook. Her right one clutched her prayer beads as if they were as important as her soul. She was wearing a blue robe and plain white wimple, the latter draining the colour from her complexion.
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