A Place Beyond Courage (60 page)
She watched his troop ride past, then returned to the lodging John had acquired for their stay - a property that was usually occupied by a wool merchant, who, with an eye to his profit, had moved in with relatives for the duration of the court’s visit. They were fortunate to have a roof over their heads in the fickle spring weather, but even so it was cramped accommodation and the servants and soldiers had to make do with straw pallets in goat shed and byre. Sybilla was glad they had left the younger children at Marlborough. Young John had sulked but his father had been adamant. Finding sleeping space in Gloucester for all who needed it would be nightmare enough without having to worry about his own household. Gilbert and Walter were here because in the fullness of time they would have positions at court and, with the latter in mind, it was useful to keep them in Henry’s awareness. She was here because John had wanted her with him, saying not in so many words that he needed her, and Sybilla was keen to be at his side.
A maid was stirring a cauldron of mutton haricot over the fire and another servant had been out to a cook-shop and obtained several simnel loaves. Sybilla had brought a stock of cheese and honey from Marlborough, and barrels of their own cider. She didn’t know when John would be returning but thought it would be late, especially if Leicester had only just arrived. The Prince was not one to keep regular hours either. She expected John to eat at court, and thus had the household summoned to dine; however, she had some titbits set aside under a cloth lest John should be peckish when he came back.
It was almost midnight when he arrived, and everyone was asleep apart from the watchman and Sybilla. His tread was soft, but she had sharp hearing and was alert. If not exactly on tenterhooks, she had begun to feel anxious. She started to pour him wine, then wrinkled her nose as he came to the trestle and lifted the cloth to see what was under it.
‘You stink of attar of roses,’ she said, anger uniting with her anxiety.
He sniffed his sleeve and grimaced. ‘That would be one of the whores. She douses herself in the stuff.’ He unfastened his tunic, pulled it over his head and tossed it on to the coffer.
Her grip tightened on the flagon. ‘Is there any reason why I should not throw this wine in your face now?’
He gave her a long, steady look. ‘The whores are part of my remit when I’m at court. It’s a duty, like any other.’
‘I am sure it is.’
He looked indignant. ‘Do you think I would bring you to court and then futter other women under your nose?’ Biting ravenously into a tart of minced venison and currants, he sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘She was trying to inveigle her way into Henry’s chamber and to do that she had to get around me and my ushers. She didn’t succeed.’ He added drily, ‘I’ve been offered several interesting bribes and propositions tonight, but I’ve managed so far to resist.’
She gave him a narrow look. ‘Just as long as you do not sample other wares when I am by.’
‘I would never do that,’ he said with affront. ‘It would be dishonourable and lacking all respect.’
‘Indeed it would.’ Sybilla suspected that if she wasn’t here, he might have been more susceptible to the goods on offer. By his code of honour, he was faithful to her. He didn’t flaunt other women under her nose. Unlike many of his peers, he had neither a mistress nor bastards, which meant that if he did satisfy himself with others during a dry spell, he didn’t give them his essence. Sybilla was pragmatic and knew how to value herself, but the overpowering perfume of attar of roses had still led to a moment of doubt.
‘So,’ she said, sitting beside him. ‘While you weren’t fending off whores who can afford to drown themselves in rose oil, what were you doing?’
He set his arm around her shoulders in a companionable manner that she suspected was an effort to be conciliatory. ‘Making sure Leicester’s household was shown to his lodgings, that everything was in order and that Leicester himself was given the warmest of welcomes.’ His mouth twisted. ‘He’s the most astute man I know. We’ve been enemies for fifteen years. He’s one of the reasons I swore for the Empress, but now I have to be practical and so does he. He no more wants to see Eustace take the throne when Stephen is dead than I do.’
‘So Leicester has agreed to support Henry?’
His grimace remained. ‘Not quite. Stephen, he says, is his liege lord and he will follow him until the day he dies, but he has agreed to swear for Henry as Stephen’s heir, not Eustace, and he has promised to support Henry with men and money towards that end.’
She pursed her lips. ‘What will Henry give him in exchange?’
‘A prominent place in his government. The position of justiciar, whatever other privileges de Beaumont thinks he can wangle.’
Sybilla frowned. ‘So if you have to be at court with him and in the fullness of time have to work with him . . .’
He sighed. ‘We’re both older and wiser. Robert of Gloucester is no longer alive to be a source of friction between us. I dare say with Henry on the throne we’ll find ourselves able to live and let live. We’ll be working for a common goal.’
‘So you are pleased?’ She studied him thoughtfully.
‘Cautiously optimistic. It’s too soon to be pleased. Leicester’s word isn’t law and Stephen won’t be prepared to acknowledge Henry as the next King.’ He took a swallow of wine. ‘Leicester’s supposed to be here to offer Henry money to go away. He’s not going to be returning with a message Stephen wants to hear - and Eustace will be incensed when he learns Leicester’s going to support Henry’s right to inherit the throne.’
‘And Stephen won’t turn against Leicester when he hears?’
‘He can’t afford to.’ John was silent for a moment, then looked at her with a smile. ‘Leicester had a private word with me before he retired to his lodging.’
‘About what?’
‘He tells me our son is doing well as the King’s page and that he’ll go far in royal service. Stephen apparently is very fond of him. Leicester says if William does not achieve his knighthood before next Christmas, it will not be for want of trying.’
Sybilla laughed, although her eyes filled with tears. ‘I want him home with us by next Christmas,’ she said with sudden fierceness. ‘If Stephen is so fond of him then he ought to return him. He belongs at home with us.’
‘I think it is perhaps because Stephen is not so fond of me.’ John’s smile faded. ‘I said one son more or less does not matter. Stephen probably thinks he is doing William a great favour by keeping him away from such a callous father - and who’s to say he’s wrong?’
‘John . . .’ She took his hand in hers.
He shook his head. ‘Ah, I’ve drunk too much tonight, and I’m tired - - I’m not as young as I was. Come to bed. I’ve no doubt Henry will be abroad early in the morning and Leicester with him. I need to rest.’
She joined him on their travelling bed. He didn’t often speak about William. Most of the time he guarded that part of him, but tonight, made vulnerable by weariness and drink, he had momentarily bared his fears and regrets.
‘If William is doing well, it is because we have taught him well.’ She slipped off her shoes, removed her dress and lay down beside him in her chemise.
He said nothing, but pulled her close.
‘Your sleeve still smells of that accursed rose attar,’ she complained.
He sat up and took off his shirt. ‘Better?’ he asked and she saw that although his face was tired, his smile was back. She looked at his musculature, which was still that of a young man: honed and smooth. Now her nose was filled with the scent of his skin, of healthy male sweat unadulterated by any flowery intrusions.
‘Perfect,’ she said, and leaned across him to pinch out the night candle.
48
Walling ford, Oxfordshire, August 1153
William liked riding with Stephen’s army. It made him feel grown up. He rode straight-backed, head high and expression steely, carrying his shield on his back by its long strap like a real soldier. There had been a gigantic thunderstorm the day before and more rain was threatening in the sky, but he didn’t mind. He knew if the weather worsened he could always join the baggage train and sit with one of the King’s carters, or find Mariette, who would shelter him in her laundry wagon.
King Stephen said he was going to fight Prince Henry for the right to England’s throne. His son Eustace was with him too and very badly wanted there to be a battle. Sitting before the hearth polishing the King’s belt buckles with a paste made from wine and cold ashes, William had heard Eustace arguing they should fight. Something about not being able to remove a deeply embedded thorn without drawing blood. Eustace had been as red in the face as Mariette on a laundry morning as he pounded the table with a meaty fist. William had kept well out of his way. Eustace was like Martel, swift to lash out in anger at the nearest victim, be it dog, small child or hapless servant. All the same, he liked to watch Eustace practise with his sword. He was very skilled with a blade and so strong he could cut the straw dummy on the training ground in two with a single blow.
The King had yielded to Eustace’s persuasion and the two of them had left the tent together, the King staggering slightly as if he was very tired.
William jogged along on his pony, pretending it was a destrier. Chancing his luck, he pushed him into a canter and headed up the column towards the knights.
A hard hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder. ‘Where do you think you’re going, young
meister
?’ Henk growled, looking down at him from the saddle of his lean brown rouncy.
meister
?’ Henk growled, looking down at him from the saddle of his lean brown rouncy.
William widened his eyes. He had learned which particular expressions were the most appealing. ‘I just wanted to look,’ he said, adding hopefully as Henk inhaled to speak, ‘I’m the King’s attendant.’
‘You’re his hostage and his youngest page.’ Henk was having none of it. ‘You should be in the baggage train with the other non-fighters. Trust me, there’s no place for shoe-warmers at the head of the line.’
‘Can I stay with you then?’
‘No, it’s too dangerous.’ Henk broke out of the column with a brief word to the mercenary riding at his side; taking William’s bridle, he headed him back towards the baggage lines. ‘There might be a big battle and the last place you want to be is among the fighting men. Stay with Mariette and if I see you coming riding up again, I’ll kill you myself.’
‘I heard the Earl of Leicester say to Arundel there wasn’t going to be a fight,’ William said.
Henk’s expression sharpened. ‘And just when did you hear that, my lad?’
‘This morning when we were mounting. I was running errands for the King and I had to wait to give a message to the Earl of Leicester because he was busy.’
‘What exactly did he say?’
William screwed up his face. ‘That it was a good thing to take the army to meet Henry because then they could set about neg . . . nego . . .’
‘Negotiating?’
William nodded. ‘A truce.’
‘You’re sure you heard him say that?’
‘Yes, sir. They were talking about how angry Eustace was going to be and Arundel said that he was sick of Eustace and didn’t care whether he got angry or not. There was a real chance for peace and they had to take it.’
Henk made a considering sound in his throat. ‘Well, that’s interesting, my boy,’ he said after a moment, ‘but still no cause for you to be riding at the front. It could be all talk and no deed. You’re to stay with Mariette. Understood?’
William heaved a resigned sigh, but nodded. ‘I thought I might see my papa,’ he said in a smaller voice.
Henk clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘If he saw you at the front of the King’s army among the knights, your father would—’ Henk bit off the rest of what he had been going to say. John FitzGilbert had already seen his son in positions far more compromising and turned his back, the bastard. He didn’t deserve the child’s devotion. ‘Go on,’ he said gruffly. ‘Go to Mariette. You’ll see that father of yours soon enough.’
William did as he was bidden. No one seemed to be very keen on his papa. Whenever his name was mentioned, their voices would fall to whispers if he was by, but he was still aware of the words ‘faithless’ and ‘mad’ and ‘hellspawn’ being bandied around and it gave him a nasty feeling in his tummy because sometimes he thought it might be true.
Once again two armies faced each other across fast-flowing water, this time the Thames, and once again Henry was outnumbered, although not by as many this time. John sat his horse close to Henry because he had recently been discussing the supply situation. They were dangerously low on fodder for the horses and with scorched earth all around them it was going to be nigh on impossible to find more. Stephen at least had all of Kent to supply his troops. Something had to be finalised today, be it through battle or a refusal to fight. They were all punch-drunk and exhausted, reeling from skirmish to skirmish, losing a little bit more every time - even when they made gains there was a cost to the soul in scars that did not fade.
John checked the fastenings attaching scabbard to belt. He had sharpened the blade last night. Not that he’d be in the front rank if battle was joined. He had cracked his collar bone in a recent skirmish outside Oxford. The injury made it difficult for him to control his shield and horse and since it was his blind left side, he would be even more handicapped. Jaston had suffered a slash to his arm which was healing, but neither he nor John was at full fighting capacity. They would be at the back, responsible for guarding the baggage with the other semi-able wounded and the squires. If, of course, it came to battle. Leicester and Arundel had sworn it would not, but they had Eustace to contend with, and Stephen’s Flemings for whom fighting was pay. Stephen’s forces held the bridge over the Thames, but to reach Henry they had to cross it and that would make them vulnerable. If Henry took the initiative, he risked the same. There was too much at stake; too much to lose. William of Gloucester and Reginald of Cornwall were counselling caution. So too was Patrick. He might be rash when roused, but he had played both sides down the long years of conflict and had a strong streak of self-preservation.
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