A Place Beyond Courage (32 page)
Gilbert nodded and dashed out. John dropped the sliver of glass and turned away. He would never look in a mirror again. With grim determination, he went to lift his tunic off the clothing pole. Donning it over his head was agony, but he steeled himself to absorb the pain.
Outside the strong September sunlight dazzled his good eye. The left side of his vision didn’t exist and the warmth of the sun was like someone raking their nails in his flesh. He was aware of the men of the garrison looking at him and looking away, not knowing what to say or do. He would have to do it for them.
He gave a brusque nod in their direction to indicate he was out of his sickbed and in command, no matter his private thoughts on the state of his mind, and went up to the horse-coper.
The man bowed to him a tad too obsequiously and his gaze shifted and darted over John’s face, unable to fix.
‘I am told you have some beasts for sale,’ John said curtly.
‘Yes, my lord; fine destriers. I’m on my way to Salisbury to sell them, but I thought you might want a look first. I reckoned you’d be in need after . . .’ He broke off and cleared his throat, indicating he was too tactful to say the rest.
John raised his right eyebrow. The left tried to follow and the pain sharpened. He looked at the string of horses tethered near the trough in the stable yard. They were a motley collection, some no more than spavined pack beasts, or long in the tooth and hollow-backed. Others bore evidence of hard riding and many had superficial cuts and abrasions. A few were glossy and in good condition. Then John saw a chestnut stallion that had belonged to one of his knights who had fallen at Wherwell. There was no mistaking the rosette of white hair between its eyes and a jagged pink strip on its otherwise dark muzzle.
He looked at the coper with revulsion. ‘You are trying to sell me dead men’s horses,’ he said in a husky voice.
The trader gave a shrug. ‘Dead men have no need for mounts and living ones do. I came by these animals honestly. If you don’t want them, I’ll take them on to Salisbury.’
John swallowed on rage. He was tempted to seize the man and string him up but instead forced himself to be as pragmatic as the coper. His men did need horses and he would have to recruit more of both to replace the missing ones. He didn’t know what the situation was at Salisbury just now, but it would be foolish to let them have the pick of the animals rather than the cast-offs. Plus, if he treated the horse-trader well, he would return and might prove a useful recruit into John’s network of informants throughout Wiltshire and the south. ‘I will take the chestnut, those two browns and the grey if you name the right price,’ he said, and settled down to haggle.
He knew horses; he knew what they were worth and how to drive a hard bargain, and while doing so, the pain and anger became less vivid. By the time the deal was completed and a sum agreed, John was sore, exhausted, but felt better. Nor, now that he had been outside and reattached himself to life, could he just reel back to his bed and shut everything out. He had been doing that for too long already.
He told the servants he would dine in the hall that night at the dais table. Then he called a meeting of his knights and conferred about what was to be done concerning those who were prisoners. He discussed the situation they were in and made plans to deal with it. He would tighten his grip on the Kennet valley, lock down and hold fast against all comers while playing a waiting game.
John bade Aline come to the hall and eat with him, and in deference to her squeamishness, had her sit at his right hand. He also had his physician bind clean bandages over the damaged left side. Even so, she perched on the edge of the bench as if about to take terrified flight, picked at her food like a bird and avoided looking at him. There was no conversation. As soon as the meal was over, she begged leave to retire to her own chamber.
John granted it with a wave of his hand and was relieved. He had no intention of seeking her chamber later either. His inclination to render his debt to their marriage bed was dead. Procreating with her had been a sporadic chore since long before Wherwell and he had no desire to resume relations. He knew she would lie with him if bidden because it was her God-ordained duty to do so, but he also knew she would be thankful to be spared the obligation. They had two sons; it was enough. Let it rest.
When he retired it was to the solitude of his own chamber. Doublet padded after him and, heaving a sigh, flopped down at the side of the bed, occupying the same position she had taken up during his recuperation. The end of her tail thumped on the floor rushes. John smiled wryly. Aline had opted to absent herself in prayer and the dog had chosen to stay in devotion.
He spoke softly to her and sat on his bed to remove his shoes, but had gone no further than unfastening the first toggle when Jaston banged on the door and burst into the room. Doublet sprang to her feet with a startled bark of alarm, then wagged her tail harder.
‘Sir, great news!’ Jaston’s eyes glowed with excitement. ‘Benet has returned, and Hubert and Alain. They’re alive, sir, they’re alive!’
John looked at the dazzle of excitement on the young knight’s face. It took a moment for him to digest the words, and then suddenly he was refastening his shoe, rising to his feet, striding from the room with Jaston and Doublet hard on his heels. He shouldered his way through the group surrounding the three knights and stared.
‘Dear Christ.’ His voice was as raw as it had been on the day after Wherwell for suddenly there were tears at the back of his throat. ‘You took your time getting here!’
Benet rose to his feet, looking gaunt and exhausted. A healing but ugly red burn marred one cheek, another had made a raw mess of the back of his left hand. The others too bore various bruises and mending superficial wounds.
Benet looked John straight in the face. ‘I am sorry, my lord. It was a small matter of breaking free from our captors. We didn’t want to hang and we wanted to spare you the expense of the ransoms.’
‘What makes you think I’d have paid them?’ John asked. His throat had almost closed by now and the words emerged as a dry whisper.
Benet shrugged. ‘We knew you’d have to be dead not to. They said you were, but we didn’t believe it.’
‘Hah!’ John turned away. There was a blur of moisture in his right eye, a dreadful dry burning in the place where his left one had been. He tightened his fists, controlled himself, and turned round again, his jaw set like stone.
‘You’ll have to take your ease tonight while you can. There are new mounts for you all in the stables and you’ll be out on them tomorrow at dawn.’
Benet gave him a bleak smile. ‘You fall off, you climb back on,’ he said. ‘I trust you’ll be leading us, my lord.’
‘Who else?’ John answered, and wondered when it came to the crux if it would be a case of the blind leading the blind.
23
Salisbury Castle, July 1143
Sybilla bent over Patrick’s hand in consternation. While out on patrol, he had been involved in a bloody skirmish with John Marshal’s men not far from Ludgershall and had taken a wound to the fleshy pad running from the base of his thumb into the palm. ‘It needs stitches,’ she said and sent one of her women to fetch Ralf the physician from his house outside the walls.
‘Was FitzGilbert with them?’ William demanded, pacing the room like a restless lion. His cheekbones were gaunt and flushed. He had been unwell for several days with a low fever and lack of appetite - ever since his return from the latest skirmish in the campaign between Stephen and Matilda. Another abbey had burned to the ground: Wilton this time. William hadn’t wanted to talk about the atrocities committed but Sybilla knew about them anyway. Gytha had told her what had happened to the men who had taken refuge in the church and to the nuns who had been caught between the armies. She also knew more than usual because Wilton was on their doorstep and William had woken up screaming every night since his return from the battle.
Grimacing in pain, Patrick looked up. ‘No . . . it was Benet de Tidworth.’
‘God’s blood, I don’t know why you went there!’ William growled. ‘You’re like a little boy, Patrick. You just have to poke your stick into a nest of ants, don’t you?’
‘They attacked me, not I them!’ Patrick gasped and went rigid as Sybilla washed out the wound with hot water.
‘Yes, but knowing you, you rode too close and provoked them.’
‘Do you know how hard it is to get hold of a good horse these days?’ Patrick snapped. ‘FitzGilbert has got the supplies stitched up to Sodom and back and he’s not for sharing!’
‘Christ, Patrick, yes I do know!’ William retorted. ‘But I’m not idiot enough to go and beat down a castle wall with my head.’
‘No, you’d rather be ravishing nuns!’
William’s complexion whitened and he clenched his fists. ‘You’ll take that back,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I touched not one of them! If we hadn’t cleared Stephen out of Wilton, Salisbury would now be under siege. If you weren’t my brother I’d—’
‘You’d what, swing me on a gibbet and let the crows pick out my eyes?’
‘Given enough rope, you’d hang yourself! Take it back now!’ A muscle twitched in William’s cheek and his eyes glittered with unspilled tears.
Patrick reddened. ‘Very well, brother.’ He scowled. ‘I retract my words. If you say so, you were the flower of chivalry at Wilton.’
‘Stop it!’ Sybilla cried. ‘You are brothers. If you tear each other apart, what will be left if we do have to face the wolves!’
There was a brief silence. Then Patrick grimaced and offered a more sincere apology, albeit mumbled, and William sat down on the bench nearby and, groaning, put his head in his hands.
Sybilla’s stomach swirled with anxiety. Her brothers were constantly sniping at each other. Ever since being ransomed from the debacle at Winchester, William had been on edge, as if being captured in the first place had devalued or unmanned him in his own eyes. What had happened at Wilton had only served to compound his edginess and increase Patrick’s needling.
‘We have to do something about FitzGilbert,’ Patrick muttered. ‘He’s a scourge - robs from the church, takes from the merchant trains. He’s got a grip on everything that moves between Marlborough and Newbury. Last week the Abbot of Gloucester complained about him stealing grain out of one of his tithe barns. Root and branch of hell, he calls him, and I agree.’ He exhaled down his nose. ‘Like to die from that injury at Wherwell, my arse. He’s ten times worse one-eyed than he ever was with two, and you let him get away with it!’
‘I’ll speak with him when he returns from court,’ William said stiffly. ‘I’m sure he’s amenable to negotiation. ’
‘Don’t be so certain. That stunt at Wherwell means he can do no wrong in the Empress’s opinion and look what happened to Robert FitzHubert when he tangled with the bastard. He needs putting in his place.’
‘He did us a service with FitzHubert. There are ways and means of getting around obstacles other than butting them down with your head. FitzGilbert knows it; so do I. Leave it with me . . . that’s an order.’ William rubbed his hand across his forehead.
Patrick made chewing motions with his jaw. ‘If we had been allied with Stephen, we could have asked him for mercenaries and taken the Kennet piecemeal, starting with Ludgershall. Wilton wouldn’t have happened either.’
‘Leave it, Patrick. I’m in no mood.’ Making a weary gesture, William headed to the door and Sybilla frowned to see how leaden his tread was. She decided that when Ralf had finished with Patrick, she would have him look at William too.
‘He’s right,’ she said to Patrick. ‘It will be better if we can negotiate a truce.’
‘Mind your distaff,’ Patrick snapped. ‘You’re a woman and this is men’s business. What do you know of such things?’
Sybilla bit her tongue on a facetious retort and, murmuring that she had affairs to see to in dairy and kitchen, left the room as Ralf entered with his phial of leeches and his satchel of nostrums.
Prince Henry rode his sorrel pony with aplomb, his spine straight and his hands relaxed on the reins. At ten years old, he was a sturdy boy, stocky and robust, although not tall and showing none of his father’s long-limbed grace. Indeed, John thought as he rode a little behind him, apart from his auburn colouring, he most resembled his grandfather King Henry. If he was going to develop similar capabilities, then all to the good. The child’s precociousness amused John. Henry could converse in Latin as easily as in French and knew how to swear in a multitude of languages - courtesy of the mercenaries swarming over his mother’s court.
After the rout at Winchester, Gloucester had been exchanged for Stephen and everything had returned to what it was before Lincoln, with neither party holding the advantage. There had been continuing defeats and successes on both sides. The Empress had almost been caught at Oxford and had had to escape across the frozen river in the snow. Stephen had nearly been taken again during hard fighting at Wilton. Currently the scales were evenly balanced. The Empress kept court in Devizes and to boost the morale of her supporters and remind them why they were fighting, had had ten-year-old Henry brought from Normandy to join her for a season. Now he was being escorted back to Bristol to embark for the safer shores of Normandy and his father’s custody.
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