The Scarlet Lion (35 page)

***

A vigorous wind blew William's cloak against his body and whipped white crests on to the choppy waves striking Bristol's harbour wall. The smell of the estuary was a weedy tang in his nostrils and his eyes were stinging from staring into the harsh salt wind. He was ravenously hungry too—to the point where his legs felt hollow and weak. It was Lent, a time of fasting and privation, and he had been observing it vigorously this year. God was often taken for granted in the good seasons, but the harsh ones made men remember Him.

   There had been no news from Ireland throughout the late winter as the weather continued to thwart the passage between the two countries. John had carried out his threat and revoked the English lands belonging to William's deputies, although William wondered how the King expected them to have obeyed the summons when the dreadful weather of the past six weeks had meant that not a single ship had put into port from Ireland. A short while ago, however, his chaplain had interrupted William's morning cup of ale and breakfast of plain bread to tell him that a large ship had been sighted furrowing her way up the estuary. William had abandoned his meal and hastened straight to the harbour.

   His gaze was now fixed on a trading galley with a red sail and red round shields lining her top strake. She was gusting into port at speed, furrowing through the choppy seas like a greased plough. The men standing on deck were so bundled up against the weather that it was impossible to recognise any of them.

   "Certainly from Ireland," said Baldwin de Béthune, joining him. "Often as not they have the red shields."

   "Danish ones do too," William said, without taking his eyes off the ship.

   "But they'd come in up the Humber, not into Bristol. It's Irish all right."

   The crew clewed up the sail and the oars were broken out to guide her alongside the quay. Warps snaked out, were caught and made fast to bollards. Sailors lifted the gangplanks off the deck and slid them out on to shore. First on to dry land was Thomas Bloet, his legs as wobbly as a newborn calf's and his complexion a delicate shade of green.

   "My lord." He greeted William with a swallow and a stiff nod. "Your own man is behind…been sick in the deck shelter most of the journey. Is the King here?"

   "Yes."

   "Thank God. I'm not up to riding to find him…" Bloet made to walk on, but William caught his arm.

   "Yours is the first ship out of Ireland since the end of January. By your mercy, at least tell me if you bring good news or bad."

   Bloet shrugged. "Depends on who you are. For you it is good…at least for the moment." He tottered away in the direction of the castle.

   Several other passengers followed Bloet ashore, none of them known to William. Then came Hywel, his complexion making Bloet's look positively healthy in comparison. Normally William would have been sympathetic, but for the moment his anxieties overrode all consideration. Hywel wobbled on to dry land, saluted William, and dropped to his knees. "Safer than falling down, my lord," he said apologetically and leaned over to retch.

   William gave an impatient wave of his hand. "Never mind that. What news?" Searching the ship, he was relieved to see no sign of Jean, Jordan, or Stephen. He had harboured an enormous dread that the very honour and uprightness he valued in them would cause them to obey the royal summons rather than read between the lines and ignore it.

   "Two lots, my lord, both good," Hywel croaked weakly. "Your Countess sends you greetings and desires you to know that your men defeated Meilyr FitzHenry and Philip of Prendergast in battle at Drakeland. They have surrendered themselves to her and delivered up their sons as hostages for their word. She also desires you to know that on the day FitzHenry and Prendergast were captured, she was safely delivered of a son. He thrives and she has named him Ancel as you desired."

   William exhaled, feeling as if someone had punched the remaining strength from his body. He staggered as if he too had just stepped from a ship and Baldwin had to grab and steady him with an exclamation of alarm.

   "I am all right," William said, although patently he was not. "It was the news I hoped for but it has been a long time coming. I need…I want…Christ…" He put his hands over his face.

   Baldwin was sensible and pragmatic. He gave Hywel enough coin for food and lodging and told him to report to the Earl as soon as he was able. Then he escorted William back to his house and, seating him before the fire, pushed a cup of hot spiced wine into his shaking hands.

   "It is the best news," Baldwin said. "You've won and you have a fifth son to add to your quiver."

   William's teeth chattered against the rim of the cup. "I haven't won," he contradicted his friend. "John won't allow it. All I have done is stand my ground in the hopes that he'll tire of breaking his teeth on a nut that's too difficult to crack."

   Baldwin wrapped his hands around his belt. "Best to lie low for a while. The news is going to make him look foolish after what he said to you at Guildford."

   William drank again and felt the hot red wine surge through his veins. "What did he say?"

   "You know…"

   William shook his head, his expression blank. "No, I don't," he said. "I don't remember a thing."

   Baldwin looked baffled for a moment, then comprehension dawned. "No," he said flatly. "Neither do I."

                             *** Seated in the main room of their father's lodging house, Will and Richard absorbed their father's news. For Will, the fact that he had a new baby brother was neither here nor there, although he had given the obligatory pleased response. As the eldest Marshal child, he was accustomed to siblings arriving at regular intervals. The detail that Meilyr FitzHenry had been taken in battle by the Marshal knights was more interesting and brought a light to his eyes. His antipathy towards John had been growing steadily since the hunt in October, although this last month had really put an edge on it. How his father bore with the provocation and did not retaliate, he did not know, and was unsure whether to feel humiliated by the stoic refusal to react, or be proud.

   "Now you can rub John's nose in it," he said with satisfaction.

   His father shook his head. "No, son, that's the last thing to do. John is the anointed King and we owe him our allegiance."

   "They are the French," Will contradicted eagerly. "We owe Philip allegiance for Longueville."

   "Yes," said William, "but the French are not the rightful heirs to England and John now has an infant son. John will have heard the Irish news by now and he'll be smarting with humiliation. The last thing I am going to do is gloat at him."

   "But after all he has done—"

   William raised his hand to silence his son. "One day you will be the Earl of Pembroke and you will need every iota of wisdom and cunning to survive. I will not bow and scrape to John, but neither will I throw his defeat in his face. It isn't over yet by far; he could still destroy us."

   Will eyed him with incomprehension. "I still do not know how you stomach it," he said with the passion of adolescence.

   William's nostrils flared with curbed temper. "Because I must if we are to stay alive. Because in the end it is like an irritating scratch. Pick at it and it will get worse. Leave it alone and it has a chance to heal. Don't you understand?"

   Will mumbled assent, but his body remained stiff with disagreement.

   Richard looked quietly thoughtful. "What will the King do now?"

   William spread his hands. "Only he knows that. I hope he will give up his grudge against us and I intend to make it easy for him to do so."

   "You will lick his backside, you mean?" Will spat.

   William gave him an icy stare. "If you don't start learning soon, boy, it will be too late. God knows I could whip the lesson into your hide, but you'd probably be too stubborn to heed it."

   Will flushed red to the ears as if he truly had been struck. He felt angry, ashamed, and resentful. He was almost eighteen years old, on the cusp of manhood, yet his father still treated him like an infant whilst preparing to sell the family pride to the King. "I am listening and learning, sir," he said in a voice gritty with controlled anger. "Indeed I am."

***
Once their father had gone, Richard made a face at his brother.
"You shouldn't have pushed him," he said. "He's been at court
all his life. He knows what he's doing."

   "Don't you start," Will snapped. "You'd take his part whatever happened. You've always clung to his shirt tails and curried favour."

   Richard flushed with indignation. "That's not true, you know it isn't. I won't be a scapegoat for your anger at him."

   The brothers glowered at each other. Then Will heaved a deep sigh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it…but it sticks in my craw that we should still have to humour John after all he has done to us. Where does it end?"

   Richard shrugged. "I don't know."

   "You mean you don't want to."

   "No, I don't, except to know that I trust our father whatever happens." Abruptly Richard picked up the flagon and poured wine for them both. "To Ancel," he said and drank. "To our new brother."

   Will lifted his cup. "To Ancel," repeated and drank. "At least he's too far down the line to be taken as hostage."

                             *** William came at John's summons and made his obeisance. "Sire?"

   John waved him towards a cushioned window embrasure, the gesture catching the light on the several rings adorning his fingers. "You must have heard that a trader has arrived from Ireland?"

   William took his time about sitting down, hitching the knees of his hose, manoeuvring his cloak so that it was not trapped beneath him. "No, sire," he replied. "I've been asleep at my lodging. I'm afraid the days of a young man's vigour are far behind me."

   "I don't believe that for a moment, Marshal. If you've been napping, it's with one eye open, like a cat."

   "Even so, sire, I have heard nothing," William said obtusely. "What news is there?" He forbore to mention the last occasion when John had fabricated details in an attempt to break his composure.

   John took several paces, rubbed his jaw, turned on his heel. "Doubtless you will hear it from your own messengers very soon, but the gist of the tale is that my justiciar FitzHenry has unfortunately proven false and incompetent on all counts. It seems that he has been fomenting rebellion and unrest among the Irish barons. Your deputies, aided by Hugh de Lacy, defeated him in battle when he threatened your lands."

   William contrived to look interested and surprised. "Indeed, sire, I never thought when I came to your summons that my lands would face such jeopardy." He met John's gaze with a level stare. Each knew they were playing a game, but this was a time for diplomacy, not plain speaking.

   John picked up a book from the coffer, examined the bejewelled cover and clasp, then set it back down. "Since FitzHenry has proved unequal to the task of justiciar, I intend replacing him with someone more able and of clearer purpose."

   "I am pleased to hear it, sire," William said, hoping that a man "more able" would be one with whom he could work. One could not deny, for example, that a mercenary such as Gerard D'Athée was an eminently capable royal servant, but he was so steeped in moral corruption that dealing with him was like wading in sewage. He also knew that some tough negotiating lay ahead. He was going to have to make some concessions if he wanted to be left in peace and although the storm appeared to have broken, he was not yet clear of the outer edges.

   "My man also informed me that your Countess had been delivered of a son and that both are well."

   "That is indeed good news, sire. The bearing of children is as great a danger to a woman as the battlefield is to a man."

   "Five sons," John mused, eyeing William. "You may have need of them all, Marshal. I was a fifth son, born late in the day, and look at me, the only one remaining."

   "As God wills it, sire."

   John gave a dark laugh. "Then whatever the Church says of me, I must be in His favour, for He willed me to be King." His upper lip developed a disparaging curl. "My brother Richard rode all the way to the gates of Jerusalem for God—and for what? To die childless in the Limousin of a stinking wound. Geoffrey trampled by a horse, Henry dead of the bloody flux, and William gone in infancy before I saw the world. It is no wonder that God's plan passes all human understanding. Have I shocked you, Marshal? Do you think I'm a blasphemous danger to all of Christendom?"

   "Only to the peril of your own soul, sire," William answered impassively.

   John snorted. "My soul. You know that the Pope is threatening to lay the country under interdict because of our dispute over the Archbishop of Canterbury?"

   "Yes, sire." Most men were waiting to see which way the wind blew. There was sympathy for John, but some barons were seeing it as a cause célèbre which would help them foment rebellion, and many people were in true fear for their souls, or worried about what would happen if they died and could not be buried in consecrated ground. John had wanted the Bishop of Norwich for Archbishop; the monks of Canterbury had selected their own prior Reginald as candidate. The Pope had declined both men in favour of a protégé of his own, Cardinal Stephen Langton, a former teacher of theology. John, quite rightly in most men's minds, was annoyed at such blatant papal interference, but as the situation had escalated and tempers frayed, people were becoming increasingly uneasy.

   "I will give him interdict." John smiled at William, but it was not a pleasant expression. "If the Church refuses to cooperate with me, then the Church will find that it cuts both ways. I will make them bleed silver until they squeal."

   William said nothing. Under interdict and with several bishoprics empty, John would be at liberty to milk the churches of their revenues. It was a somewhat useful but dangerous way to fill the royal coffers. Morally disquieting too, but that would not bother John.

   Distantly a horn sounded to announce the dinner hour and an usher arrived to inform John of the same. The King clapped William across the shoulders as if they were bosom friends. "You've kept yourself absent too long from my table. Come and share a cup and a trencher with a damned man and we'll drink a toast to sons and the pleasure of their begetting, eh?"