To Defy a King (25 page)

Canterbury.'

'He was right to defend his choice of candidate,' Hugh agreed, 'but he has chosen not to be conciliatory. He is often his own worst enemy.'

'He will not stand for this, I know he will not.' Turning on his heel, Longespee strode back to the hall.

Hugh sighed and glanced towards the solar window as the women closed the shutters. At least Longespee would definitely be leaving now, which was a personal positive thing to come out of this, but having an excommunicate King on top of the interdict was like ripping a wheel off an already damaged cart. It was unlikely to stay on the road for much longer - and Longespee must know it.

Sitting on the bed with Hugh in their private chamber, the baby slumbering in his cradle beside them, Mahelt said thoughtfully, 'What would happen if the King were brought down?' She held one of Matthew's clear garnet stones up to the light and shivered as the notion struck her that it was like looking through a clot of blood. 'Who would take the crown?'

'Well, John's infant son would be the figurehead, but someone would have to make all the decisions,' Hugh replied. 'Or the King of France would invade. Some men might welcome him to the throne, especially in the North.'

'Would you?'

'Would your father?' He took the garnet out of her hand and as she had done, held it up to filter the light through it.

'That isn't what I asked.'

'No, but I gave you an answer. Would you welcome a French king who will set up his own favourites? Would you want to see the earls and barons squabble over who rules in John's stead? To remove John would not make matters simpler, mark me.' He handed the garnet back to her. 'Do you want blood on our hands?'

'No, but when I think how much there is on John's, and all the wrongs he has done to people . . . to my family . . . Things might not be simpler, but they have to be better.'

Hugh moved closer. He slowly unbraided her hair and then ran his fingers through its thick brunette strands. 'John is still an anointed king. Your father recognises that and you are surely no less than your father's daughter.'

Mahelt tossed her head, making her hair ripple over his fingers. 'I am a Bigod now, so I am told.' In a mercurial change of mood she pushed Hugh down flat and sat across his body, her eyes gleaming. 'A dutiful, submissive Bigod wife. What would you have me do?'

Hugh slid his hands under her dress and ran them over her calves and up her long thighs. Suddenly he was tight to bursting. 'Your duty,' he muttered in a congested voice.

Mahelt gave a breathless laugh and with a few quick movements had him free of his braies and inside her. It was completely shocking for a woman to be on top of a man during lovemaking; indeed it was a sin because it upset the world order, but Hugh found such daring behaviour arousing and it certainly kept that surprise element in their relationship. There was always that edge. He never quite knew what to expect. It was something his father would not do; he knew with absolute certainty that it would shock Longespee and such knowledge only served to increase his desire.

Mahelt closed her eyes and clenched upon him in climax, crying out, and as she finished, Hugh with a tremendous effort wrenched her off him and spilled himself outside her body. It might be another terrible sin to waste one's seed, but he had seen what happened to women who bore children in rapid succession and he wasn't going to let that happen to Mahelt, whatever the strictures of the Church. He didn't want to see her body slacken into a series of shapeless sacks, and her beautiful hair grow thin and sparse. Even if the pleasure of coupling was lessened because he could not let go within her, he had chosen to forbear, at least until their son was walking.

Mahelt fetched a cloth dampened in rose water to clean them both off and they curled up together in the contented afterglow. 'Was that duty enough for you?' she purred.

Hugh grunted sleepily. 'I suppose it will do for now.'

Mahelt leaned over and nipped his ear, making him yelp and swat at her with a fatigue-heavy hand. 'That was not so dutiful,' he grumbled, and thought that her deed was a perfect reflection of her personality - a mingling of sweetness and thorns. The honey and the sting. The notion made him smile.

She was mettlesome and he loved her for it, and for the moment he was too pleasantly tired and sated to think further on the news that Matthew had brought. For now it was enough to watch from a distance and observe how matters unfolded.

Mahelt sat at her weaving frame making a long strip of braid to edge one of her gowns. She was in a reflective, contented mood and rather enjoying the work. The pattern was turning out well; the colours were strong but subtle at the same time, being varying shades of blue like the sky, the mere and Hugh's eyes. Their son's eyes had changed from their first kitten colour to hazel-brown, and his dark natal hair had been replaced by a softer mid-brown tinged with gold. He was a vigorous, energetic baby, always reaching and grasping for things when released from his swaddling. Just now, for once, he was taking a respite from hurling himself at life and was asleep in his cradle, although there was an intensity about his slumber that reflected the vigour of his character when awake. Marshal and Bigod. It was a devastating combination. Every now and again, Mahelt glanced at him, her heart bursting with pride.

Firm hands suddenly gripped her shoulders and she half turned with a little jump and a cry to meet Hugh's smiling gaze. He pushed her veil aside and stooped to kiss her behind the ear. 'What are you doing?'

She leaned back a little, enjoying the touch of his lips against her skin.

'Milking a cow,' she said pertly. 'Does my lord not have eyes to see?'

'Well I do,' he chuckled, 'but I am not sure I believe them when I see you weaving of your own free will.' He had spoken quietly in order not to wake the slumbering baby. Now he stepped lithely over the bench and sat down beside her so that their shoulders were touching. For a while he watched her weave, and then said, 'You move your hands like reeds in water. It's beautiful to watch.'

She laughed and blushed and became a little self-conscious.

'Those blues blend perfectly . . . Let me have a try.'

Mahelt eyed him askance to see if he was being serious and saw that, although he was smiling, he meant it. She showed him what to do, how to turn the tablets and knock down the weft to secure the pattern into shape. He grasped the technique swiftly, his fingers deft and dextrous. He understood the language of the textile and he had a good memory for the pattern.

'There,' he said as he completed another turn and beat it into place. 'Now this length will have a part of you in it and a part of me, for always - like our son.'

A jolt of love shot through her like lightning. She lifted her face to his and they kissed, sealing the moment, although by far the most intimate part lay on her loom, winding in a river of sunlit blue. The sound of a throat clearing behind them caused them to leap apart on the bench and turn guiltily to see the Earl standing in the doorway. He was red-faced with embarrassment and also, Mahelt thought, shock. To see his son sitting at a weaving frame must sorely upset his sense of order. Colour had flooded Hugh's face, but he gave his father a direct stare.

Mahelt rose from the bench and curtseyed. 'Sire, would you care for wine?'

Her father-in-law shook his head. 'Thank you, daughter, no. Hugh, I need to speak with you.' He was already turning towards the door and Hugh had perforce to follow him, the implication being that it was men's business to be discussed in private. Mahelt clenched her fists. Her own father never excluded her mother from discussions. Hugh gave her an eloquent look over his shoulder as he left.

Mahelt heaved a deep sigh and looked at the piece of braid she and Hugh had just woven together and a sour smile curled her lips. Her father-in-law didn't have a say in
everything,
even if he thought he did.

Sitting down in his own chamber, the Earl rubbed his leg and winced. Of late his knees felt as if they had toothache in them. He was also recovering from a head cold and his skull appeared to be stuffed with wet fleece. Seeing Hugh at the weaving frame with Mahelt had shaken him. It was completely outside of the manly order of things, unless one was a professional weaver.

Next thing Hugh would be taking up an embroidery needle, or worse still a distaff. But there had been something so tender and nurturing in the sight of his son and young wife sitting together, the baby cradled at their side, that Roger was filled with a feeling that would have been grief had he allowed it to settle. Once he and Ida must have been that close, but the detritus of the years had built a wall between them. There were times when they had knocked it down, but never to the foundations, and now the accumulations were too thick and the wherewithal lost. To see his son and wife shoulder to shoulder, kissing so affectionately, made him feel almost bereft.

Hugh had remained standing, and his gaze was wary. That saddened Roger too. Everywhere he looked these days there were barricades. 'The King has called a muster of his tenants-in-chief in Pembroke at the beginning of June,'

he said. 'He is taking an army to Ireland to deal with de Braose, his de Lacey kin and, if necessary, the Marshals. We are summoned to answer our military obligations, and our sailors are to man the ships.'

Hugh eyed his father in dismay, although he had suspected for some time that this news would come.

'It was always likely,' Roger said dourly. 'The King is determined to secure his grip and he has William of Scotland's money to fund the expedition.

We've to muster in Bristol by the fourteenth day of May.'

'But what about Mahelt's father?'

'What about him?'

'He has sheltered and succoured de Braose. What if he chooses to defy the King?'

Roger's mouth twisted. 'William Marshal can take care of himself, and I mean that both as a reassurance and a warning. He will do what he must to survive. I do not believe he will openly declare against John. He is a man who stands by his word, even if the interpretation of that word is sometimes open to question. That part is out of our hands. Your part is to take the men to this muster.'

Hugh stared. 'You want me to lead the men?'

His father's tone was caustic. 'It's a bit late to declare yourself incapable, but if you would rather sit at home and weave pretty patterns, say so and I'll send one of my other sons.'

Hugh stiffened at his father's tone. 'I am quite capable of leading the men and I have never shirked my duty, sire, but I thought you would want to oversee things yourself.'

Roger shook his head. 'It is time you had the responsibility of absolute command on a campaign. I have aches and pains like any man of my years. I may not be in my dotage, but I do not relish riding all the way across England, crossing the Irish Sea and spending the summer fighting and sleeping in a tent when there are younger men fully capable of performing the task. I've got the scribes working on summons to our vassals and orders for supplies. You'll be on the road within the fortnight.'

Hugh was still reeling as he returned to Mahelt. His head was full of apprehension and expectancy. He had never been to Ireland before, nor been in sole command of the Bigod troops. A large part of his trepidation was knowing he might have to face his wife's father across a battlefield. Such a position was untenable.

Mahelt no longer sat at her loom, but was standing by the window looking out. He studied her outline, slender and taut in her red dress. 'Do you want to come out riding?' he asked.

She regarded him with knowing eyes. 'Your father must have told you something serious.'

'Please, if you will. I'd like to.' He opened his hand in a gesture of courteous request, knowing she would not refuse him because she loved riding over the demesne.

While she was donning her riding dress and boots he had their horses saddled: Hebon for him and a black mare with a white star for Mahelt. Side by side, escorted by a pair of grooms and accompanied by a motley assortment of enthusiastic dogs, they rode out of the postern entrance and past the garden and the mere that his father had had landscaped to show off Framlingham at its best. Not just a defensive fortress, but a home of grandeur and elegance built from the wealth of the East Anglian grain exported from the bustling ports of Ipswich, Yarmouth and Hunstanton.

Hugh looked over his shoulder at the crowning turrets. They could live a richly fulfilling life if only circumstances would let them.

They rode out into the deer park, their mounts trotting almost knee-deep through clearings of lush grass, and threading through broad woodland, the tree canopy still wearing the delicate pale green of spring. The dogs snuffled at their heels and chased along the trails. In the distance several does and fawns bounded into a thicket and Hugh whistled his gazehounds to heel.

Then they rode in silence for a while. Since carrying and bearing a child, Mahelt had learned to better control her impatience and bide her time.

Nevertheless, she was concerned, because whatever he had to tell her must be dire if he needed to bring her out riding in order to broach the subject.

At length Hugh pointed down to the left and said casually, 'I was thinking that when I return from Ireland we could put in some lime trees for shade and divert that stream over there.'

Mahelt swivelled to stare at him. 'Ireland?' she said. 'What do you mean when you return from Ireland?'

He made a face. 'The King is going there to deal with his Irish vassals.

We've to muster in Bristol by the fourteenth of May.' He hesitated. 'My father wants me to lead the men because his health is failing.'

Mahelt looked sick. 'When you say the King is going to "deal" with his Irish vassals, does that include my father?'

'That will depend upon your father's actions.'

'Am I to see you and him in opposite camps?' Hugh shifted in the saddle and avoided her furious, frightened gaze. 'It won't come to that.'

'Then why else has a muster been called?'

'There was a muster called to Scotland too, but there wasn't a fight. John wants to set down a new constitution for Ireland, so that everyone is clear on the boundaries.'