A Place Beyond Courage (45 page)
‘Name him as you will,’ John said. ‘It’s small enough reward for your ordeal.’
She thanked him.
Gundred said, ‘Four sons you have now, my lord. You are blessed.’
John gave the maid a wry look. ‘Finding them occupations will be interesting.’ He turned to Sybilla. ‘It’s useful nonetheless to have a few arrows in the quiver. King Henry had no shortage of bolts, but none of them counted at the target. It’s a pity he didn’t marry Gloucester’s mother.’
‘Perhaps he should have stayed longer in his wife’s bed than the begetting of a son and a daughter,’ Sybilla said waspishly.
‘Indeed he should,’ John replied and gave her a mischievous smile. ‘How many do you think is a good number?’
The baby started to cry and it wasn’t a fractious wail, but a full indignant bawl like a young bull. John winced. ‘Fine lungs on him too for bellowing commands,’ he said, aware that his previous remark had caused Sybilla to regard him with amused irritation. Now probably wasn’t the time for such teasing. The howls were deafening. He abandoned his stance by the cradle to let the midwives pick up and swaddle the yelling, red-faced baby. Returning to the bed, he kissed his wife again. ‘I’ll come back later,’ he said. ‘I can see your women still have things to do.’
Sybilla gave him a tired smile. ‘It has nothing to do with noise,’ she said. John laughed and acknowledged her perception with a salute. Before he reached the door, he paused by two of her women. ‘Tend your mistress well,’ he said in a tone that carried a warning. ‘She means the world to me.’
Hearing his words, Sybilla gave a small shake of her head and indulged in a little weep. She knew he valued her, but to hear him say so meant the world to her too.
John propped his bare feet upon a stool and sat before the fire, cup in hand. Doublet had settled on the bench beside him and was resting her head in his lap, eyes half closed but watchfully adoring.
He gently fussed her silky ears in an absent manner that filled Sybilla with a stirring of affection that would in other circumstances have held a surge of lust. Being only a week out of childbed, such an appetite was not to the front of her mind. If it was to John’s, he was either controlling it or making discreet arrangements elsewhere, and she was pragmatic enough not to go poking around to find out.
She sat down at his side, as content as he was to be still for a while as the spring dusk gathered outside. She could hear the soft chatter of her women in the inner chamber as they changed the bed from day couch to sleeping space. Gilbert and Walter were playing chess in the embrasure and John’s namesake had just been carried off to bed by his nurse, having fallen asleep at his father’s feet like one of Doublet’s pups. The baby slept in the cradle, his breathing catching quietly. John gazed into the flames, something he often did when he was thoughtful. It had disturbed her at first and she had harboured a concern that perhaps he still felt he was trapped inside the inferno of Wherwell Abbey, but she had come to realise that her fears were ungrounded. The random patterns of the flames helped him to think, sending him into a half-trance and shutting out the world. He would go to the riverside to ponder too, the fluid patterns on the water having the same effect on him as the fire.
Sybilla reached in her sewing basket and took out the soft fabric ball she was making for William. Fashioned from leftover scraps of material and stuffed with wool, it would be perfect for when he started to reach out and grasp things - although that wouldn’t be for a while yet. He had a rattle too, with a pea in the middle, and a small silver bell dangled and shone at the side of the cradle, tinkling when she or the nurse rocked it.
John took another drink of wine. ‘Newbury,’ he said thoughtfully. Sybilla raised an eyebrow at him. He obviously wasn’t referring to anything to do with her sewing. ‘Newbury, my lord?’
‘It’s one of your family’s manors. Your sister took it with her to her marriage to the Count of Perche, God rest his soul.’
Sybilla stitched quickly at one of the segments, winding her needle in and out like a dance. Hawise had been widowed, but still dwelt in France where she had recently made a second marriage with King Louis’s brother, Robert. ‘Indeed, what of it?’
John stroked the dog’s glossy black head. ‘I was thinking that if Newbury was fortified, it would give the Empress another stronghold in the vicinity.’
‘Ah,’ said Sybilla. ‘And who would fortify it, or need I ask?’
‘It would give us a strategic advantage. It would guard the place where the Reading road crosses towards Oxford. I’ll speak to Patrick, of course.’
‘After all, with Ludgershall and Mildenhall under your belt, you don’t want him thinking you’re taking over Salisbury lands piecemeal,’ she said with a sharp look.
John was insouciant. ‘It would be to his advantage as well as ours. It will tighten our control over the river valley and give us a further layer of protection.’
‘And be an outpost,’ Sybilla said.
John resumed fire-staring. ‘That’s how it begins,’ he said softly. ‘With outposts and daring. I have four sons to provide for, and perhaps more in the fullness of time.’ He met her troubled stare. “Do you have objections?’
‘I have worries,’ she temporised. ‘You will be courting trouble from King Stephen; you will have to find the resources to build at Newbury as well as maintaining our other holdings; and our sons are only babies. There is time. But I know you are not the kind to sit with your feet in the hearth except by way of novelty. Your ambition is restless.’
‘Not as restless as some.’ His expression grew harsh. ‘I’ve seen murder and foul play committed aplenty by those who would have all. Little good it has done them - or those of us who didn’t cry hold when we should have done.’
Sybilla opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, but was forestalled by Osbert’s arrival. ‘Sire, my lady, Henry, FitzEmpress, is here requesting a night’s lodging for himself and his retinue. Messire Benet asks what he should do.’
Sybilla hastily set her sewing aside. John ceased fondling the dog and sat up, already reaching for his boots. ‘How large a retinue?’
‘Just his personal guard, I think.’
Irritably John stamped into his footwear and lifted his folded tunic from the back of the settle. ‘Yes, admit him. Put his men in the hall and escort him up here. He can have my chamber for tonight. Go and tell Walchelin to provide food and drink. The grooms should use the back stable. It was swept out yesterday and there’s room for the horses and tack.’
Osbert bowed and departed.
John rubbed his forehead. ‘God’s teeth, why me? What does he want now?’
‘A night’s lodging apparently.’ Sybilla moved to the sideboard to find a cup suitable for England’s heir to drink from. Not delicate glass, but the silver gilt one set with gems that John told her had belonged to the Bishop of Ely.
‘Hah, and I believe in talking donkeys and flying pigs too.’ John donned his tunic and pulled it straight.
‘Do you want me to retire?’ She gestured towards the bed which her women had finished preparing. She knew that some folk - usually purse-lipped clerics - considered a woman who had not been churched after childbed unclean.
John shook his head. ‘Henry’s not the kind to be sensitive about fraternising with a woman recently out of childbed and it’s my chamber and my rules apply.’ His mouth curved in a dry smile. ‘Besides, you’d only eavesdrop behind the curtains. If I’d wanted to keep things private from you, I’d not have directed the chamberlain to bring him here.’
She made a playful face at him and swiftly directed her women to help her don a loose gown over her chemise and cover her hair with a wimple. She had a stool brought and set a little apart from the bench and close to William’s cradle so that she could hear what was said without seeming to intrude and also so that she could watch the baby.
Having never seen Henry FitzEmpress before, Sybilla was surprised at the stocky youth whom Osbert ushered into the room. Had he been with others, she would have mistaken him for someone’s groom or lackey. His red hair stood up in tufts where he had removed his cap and not smoothed it down and his clothes were well lived in and a little faded, although a closer look revealed that the embroidery on his tunic was exquisite. Swiftly she curtseyed to him. John had already knelt. Doublet, completely ignoring propriety, wagged up to Henry and licked his hand. The Prince laughed and patted her, while gesturing his hosts to rise. His complexion was slightly flushed, which might have been the exertion of clambering the stairs, but Sybilla suspected might also be a touch of discomfort. He was only fourteen years old and had arrived on the verge of nightfall at the keep of his mother’s marshal. John had given him short shrift over the affair at Cricklade and, from what they had been hearing, Henry’s mother and uncle had been no less angry.
‘Sire, you do us great honour,’ John said. He gestured to the settle. ‘Will you be seated?’
Henry glanced at the cushioned bench and shook his head. ‘I’ve been riding all day. I’d rather stand.’ He took the wine Sybilla poured for him and went to glance into the cradle at the sleeping baby.
‘My new son, William - a week old as of this morning,’ John said.
Henry raised the cup in toast. ‘God grant him a long and prosperous life.’
‘Amen to that.’
Silence fell. Henry contemplated the baby, then his cup. Finally, ending the procrastination, he fixed John with a bright, pale grey stare. ‘I’m returning to Normandy,’ he announced.
John tried to look grave rather than utterly relieved. ‘I think it a wise decision, sire.’
‘You want rid of me too?’
‘Normandy would seem safer for you at the moment, sire. You have shown your face and reminded your followers why they should hold true. You have proved you are no coward and willing to lead men, but the time is not ripe. That is why I say I consider it wise.’
Henry flushed. ‘I would stay if I could. I promised my soldiers reward and booty if they followed me to England, but now I can’t fulfil that promise.’
Now they came to the crux, John thought. ‘With respect, sire, I know your lady mother cannot fund you. I am her marshal; I know the state of her finances. She and your uncle barely have two pennies to rub together this side of the Narrow Sea. I certainly cannot support you.’
‘But you are a good and feared soldier,’ Henry said with a calculating look in his eyes.
John was having none of it. ‘Yes, and a tactician, which is why I say you must return to Normandy for a while longer, unless you have your own resources and a strong body of loyal men rather than the rabble of adventurers you have brought with you. You are welcome to my hospitality on your way to your ship, and I acknowledge your right to be King, but I must go by the advice of your mother and the Earl of Gloucester.’
Henry’s colour remained high. ‘I don’t have the silver to pay off my men, nor even the fee for taking ship back to Normandy.’
John’s expression remained impassive. If the Empress was teaching her son a harsh lesson about the consequences of rash unthinking behaviour, John wasn’t going to undermine her. ‘I am prepared to account for the wages of two of your soldiers and take them into my garrison, but I can do no more for you than that.’
‘Thank you, my lord, but it is a drop in the ocean.’ A spark of defiance edged Henry’s chagrin. ‘I will have to send to my father for funds and hope he provides them. Without them I’m stranded here.’
John inwardly grimaced. He didn’t want Henry on his hands for days on end, draining his resources and attracting enemies. But he certainly didn’t have the finances to bale him out.
The baby woke and began to cry. Sybilla scooped him up and cradled him in the crook of her arm. His wails quieted for a moment, then were renewed with a hungry, fractious edge. ‘Who else has the funds to pay off a troop of mercenaries and would be interested in seeing my lord Henry leave the country?’ Sybilla asked as she turned towards her women.
Henry swung to stare at her. So did John. ‘You mean Stephen?’ John’s voice rose a notch on the last word.
‘He is known to be chivalrous, is he not?’ she asked dulcetly and, bowing her head, retired behind the bed curtains to feed William, who was now bawling in earnest.
Henry stared after her, his lips slightly parted. With difficulty, John swallowed his pride and amusement. ‘She does have a notion,’ he said. ‘What would Stephen give to have you safely out of the country? He’d be rid of you, he’d be showing others he makes nothing of the threat you pose, and he’d be making your mother and uncle look miserly for refusing you - while he’d be cast in the role of benevolent lord.’
From behind the bed curtains, the sound of the baby’s wailing was replaced by choking splutters, the soothing tones of Sybilla’s voice and then small, gratified sounds as William settled to feed. ‘I knew Stephen before he was King,’ John continued, ‘and I served as his marshal for several years afterwards. Go to him with open boldness in the same wise that you came to England and ask him. He can only refuse you.’
The servants arrived with trenchers of bread, smoked sausage and some of Sybilla’s famous cheese. Henry set to the meal with a voracious adolescent appetite and a new gleam in his eyes.
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