To Defy a King (55 page)

'Christ, woman, I did not abandon him and I did not abandon you or Hugo or Isabelle. You might as well say your father abandoned your mother in Ireland - but of course, that wouldn't be the same thing, would it? It's one rule for ordinary mortals and another for the Marshals!' His voice was raw and breaking with pain. 'I am a man too, trying to find a way through this morass. Yes, I make mistakes and I stumble in the mire, but in God's name, Mahelt, why can you overlook it when others fall down, and not have the same compassion for me? Or am I the one who has to take the blame for everyone else who has let you down in your life? Am I your scapegoat? Is that the truth of it?' His eyes glittered like sapphire chips. 'If I abandoned you, then you betrayed me! Or would you have the grace and humility to see that perhaps it is neither.'

Mahelt's throat was painfully obstructed by a bolus of grief and anger. At Hugh, at herself, at the world. 'How dare you,' she mouthed.

Roger burst back into the room, still busy play-fighting with Hugo. Two other small boys had joined in, and a daughter of one of the knights.

Hugh exhaled and looked at Mahelt and she returned his scrutiny, feeling as if they were two fighters disengaging to reassess one other, both bleeding hard, but both with swords at the ready. The space between them was taut with the potential for renewed assault.

The children swooped around the room like a flock of sparrows, assaulted the honey cakes, and darted out again, their voices bright across the courtyard.

'Ah God,' Hugh said in a cracking voice. 'I am your husband, not your enemy. Think on it.' He strode out, but left the door open behind him. She watched him walking away through a wide bar of light that trapped the gold in his hair and brought out the bluebell shade of his mantle, and then she closed her eyes.

44

Friday Street, London, September 1216

Standing in the courtyard, Hugh inhaled the scent of the autumn night. It was too early in the season for a frost, but the air carried a cold warning and the smell of woodsmoke and damp were prevalent and he was glad he had grabbed his thick cloak from the peg on his way outside.

From the house there came different varieties of silence: that of sleepers lost in oblivion; the taut silence of breath being held so as to make no sound that would carry emotion; and that where each breath drawn was a victory.

London was quiet under curfew but he could feel the life of the city heaving beyond the walls like a stealthy giant.

He was making preparations to leave London in order to protect Lincolnshire and the North from further depredations by the King.

Longespee and Ralph were with Louis besieging Dover and his father was remaining in London with Ida, Mahelt and the children.

There was a sour taste in Hugh's mouth. John had ripped their family apart.

He had winkled his way into the mortar with a sword point and brought all the good things tumbling down and Hugh did not know if they could be rebuilt, as his father had once rebuilt Framlingham.

He did the rounds of the stables, checking the horses, taking comfort from the sound of their stamping, the warm gusts of their hay-scented breath. He fed Hebon a crust of bread from the flat of his palm. Pie kicked in his stall and played up as he always did when he knew there were titbits around.

Smiling ruefully, Hugh went to him with two apple cores he had saved from earlier. The pony crunched them greedily and sought more. Hugh thought about the day Pie had tried to eat Mahelt's wimple, remembered the stomach-gripping laughter, the mutual spark. First he smiled, and then he squeezed his eyes shut and cursed under his breath. Mahelt had kept him at arm's length since Roger's return. She was civil, courteous, attentive, and she was not Mahelt. It was like having a fine wax candle that refused to light by his hand, and it would have been unbearable had he thought about it too often. He kept himself busy - there was plenty to do - and sustained his emotional life at a superficial level. Mostly it worked, but sometimes, like tonight, the pain would heave up from the depths and attempt to swallow him whole.

Returning indoors, he tiptoed to the curtained alcove off the hall where the children were asleep under a coverlet of pale, fluffy sheepskins. The shutters were open and he gazed on his boys, washed in blue moonlight and curled up like puppies. Their little sister slept in her cradle, close by the string-framed bed of the nurse. Hugh felt a pang of heart-searing love and the burden settled across his shoulders with increased weight. How could he be all things to all people?

With dragging steps he turned bedwards, although he had wondered about sleeping in the hall tonight with the men. It would be easier, but it would be admitting defeat and, given the state of the country, he might never see Mahelt again. Heartsick and apprehensive, he entered the chamber, intending to join her and see whether she turned towards him or not.

However, the bed was empty and there was no sign of her maid. His chest tightened as he wondered if she had run away - put a ladder over the wall and galloped off as she had done before. Then he shook his head and told himself he was being foolish. She might leave him, but she would not forsake the children.

A light still burned in his mother's chamber and he found Mahelt there, sitting in vigil at the bedside. She wore her cloak over her chemise and her long, dark braid hung over her shoulder, although the top of her head was covered by a loose scarf in respect. Father Michael was present at the other side of the bed, his hands clasped in silent prayer.

She looked up at the doorway. 'It will not be long,' she said quietly. 'Those who are going to make their farewells had best come soon.'

Morning light poured through the shutters, gilding the woven matting on the floor and shining on the red silk coverlet. Outside the children were playing in the orchard, the sound of their laughter vivid and joyous.

Ida opened her eyes. A faded smile curved her dry lips. 'I am glad to hear my grandsons at play,' she whispered. 'It is balm on a sore place.'

'Try to rest,' Mahelt replied. Her mother-in-law had survived the night and had rallied with the dawn, but she was very feeble.

'Time enough for that later,' Ida said. 'A long, long time.' But her eyes closed and for a moment she drifted into sleep. The shouts of the children grew loud as they ran past the window, and then they ceased.

Apart from the priest, Mahelt was alone in her vigil. Hugh had left briefly to give orders to the men in preparation for riding north, and the Earl had yet to put in an appearance at all. A message had been sent to Longespee and Ralph, but they were four days' ride away and, even with fast horses, Mahelt knew they would not arrive in time.

Ida's eyes were open again and she said weakly but with clarity, 'Daughter, you must forgive Hugh and move on from all this blame. It does no one any good, least of all you and the children.'

Mahelt said nothing and sat up, which gave the effect of drawing back.

'I ask it as a boon to a dying woman,' Ida said huskily. 'I want you and my son to live in harmony, not as enemies. You must not let the King drag apart this family because then he will have won.' She gave a dry swallow and Mahelt helped her take a sip from the cup of watered wine. 'You are stronger than that.' Ida laid her head back on the pillows, the wine shining on her lips, most of it unswallowed. 'Stronger than I was . . . so much stronger.' Her voice faded. Mahelt looked at her in sudden fear, but Ida was only gathering herself. 'Promise me.' Her grip on Mahelt tightened.

There was a dragging sensation in Mahelt's stomach. What Ida asked was impossible; yet how could Mahelt refuse. 'I promise,' she said, and squeezed Ida's hand.

'Good.' Ida nodded. 'Now bring Hugh to me.'

Mahelt went in search of him, but it was the Earl she came across first, seated at the far end of the hall, busy dictating messages to a scribe. Mahelt felt sick. This was the man she had to call father. The man who sat composing letters while his wife lay dying. The man who was ultimately responsible for what had happened at Framlingham. Did he not care for anyone?

Roger and Hugo were sitting beside him and the Earl was allowing them to press the seal into the warmed green wax, watching them carefully and showing them what to do. There was gruff tenderness in the old man's voice and manner and the boys were being touchingly serious.

'Sire,' Mahelt said and dropped a stilted curtsey.

'Daughter,' the Earl said without looking at her.

'The Countess...' She raised her chin. 'Will you come to her?'

He continued to be busy. 'She knows I have things to do. All is being done for her that can be done. She lacks for nothing.'

'Save your presence, sire.'

The Earl's jaw made a chewing motion. He waved away the scribe and rose to his feet. 'You still do not know when to hold your tongue.'

Mahelt glared at him, thinking him uncaring and vile. And then, as before, she saw the glint of fear in his eyes and realised that they were not just wet with rheum, but glittering with tears, and that his jaw, sprouting with an old man's silver stubble, was trembling. 'Sire, I do,' she replied. 'The Countess thinks herself of little consequence to you, but I say she is of great consequence and if that is not knowing when to hold my tongue, I will not apologise.'

The Earl told Hugo to return the seal to its box and without a word strode from the room.

'Why is Grandpa cross?' Roger asked.

'Because I reminded him of a duty he would rather avoid,' Mahelt said, putting her hands on his shoulders. 'He's not cross with you.'

'I've been helping him seal things,' Roger said importantly. 'A charter to a nunnery. He said it was for Grandmother's soul.'

'Did he?' Charters were all very well, she thought, but making pacts with God, sending physicians, paying for prayers, such measures were not the same as being there. It was running away. Had the situations been reversed, she knew Ida would not have left the Earl's side. She sent Roger and Hugo to their nurse and then continued in search of Hugh. Rounding the corner of the stables, she stopped abruptly, for her father-in-law was leaning against the wall, crying deep wrenching sobs as if he were weeping his heart blood.

Hastily Mahelt backed away and changed direction, knowing that her presence would be met with a snarl, and that she would never be forgiven for seeing him thus. She doubled back and took the long route to the garden, intending to pick some late-blooming roses and greenery to take to Ida's chamber. Then she stopped, because Hugh was emerging from the wattle-surrounded garth with a gathering of flowers already in his hands.

They stopped and looked awkwardly at each other.

'For my mother,' he said. 'I thought they would give her ease and pleasure.'

'I was going to do that myself.' She decided not to tell him about his father.

'Then we can both take them to her.' He didn't move, but squared his shoulders as if bracing himself to fight. 'I have been doing a deal of thinking.'

Mahelt raised her brows. 'About what?'

He let out a long breath. 'I have done everything I can think of to set matters right between us. Some of those things may have been wrong, but I have no more remedies and I am losing the will to keep trying. Perhaps I cannot bear to dwell in a garden that once flourished but is now choked with briars, knowing I have not been a diligent gardener and that the one for whom I made it no longer comes there.'

Mahelt's eyes stung and her throat was so tight that it ached.

He lowered his voice. 'If you do not want me . . . if you want a separate household . . . I can arrange it.'

The enormity of his suggestion hung between them like a heavy, dark cloud and Mahelt could almost feel her body tensing against the imminent deluge.

'I am a Bigod wife,' she said stiffly. 'My responsibilities are here, to this household and these people. What would such an action say to the world?

To our children? That you have sent me away? Again, that you do not value me?'

He looked appalled. 'Dear God, no! Why must you twist everything?'

'I don't. It was twisted from the start.'

'Then let it unwind . . . I beg you.'

'Is that what you want? To separate?'

He shook his head. 'Never! I thought it was your wish, and I wanted to give you that choice in honour. You would not be disparaged.'

'You expect me to thank you or think well of you for this?'

Hugh gave her a desolate look. 'No,' he said. 'I don't expect that at all, but I hope, perhaps in vain. Just think on it. I shall ask you again when I return from the North.' He turned towards the hall and Mahelt fell into step beside him and they were silent with each other. Her life was indeed twisted, she thought, but instead of unwinding, it was unravelling.

Ida's breath scarcely stirred the covers and her hands were as cold and fragile as the claws of a winter sparrow. Hugh held them and remembered their dexterity with a needle. He remembered all the embraces, all the times when she had drawn him close, or else sent him forth with strong, unconditional love, and now it was something he would never have again.

Beyond the open window, the autumn day was as bright as an illumination.

The flowers from the garden stood in a jug in the embrasure and a fresh breeze wafted an outdoor scent above the aromas of incense and sickness.

Father Michael knelt at the bedside, his rosary beads woven between his fingers, his rich voice strong but subdued as he led the prayers for the dying.

Hugh's other brothers had quietly entered the room, but there was still no sign of his father. Roger and Hugo were ushered within the chamber by Orlotia and joined their parents, their eyes wide and solemn. Hugo started to pipe a question, but then remembered and shushed himself with a finger to his lips. Ida's head moved on the pillow and it was plain that she was still aware but too tired and faded to open her eyes. But she did whisper a word.

'She wants Grandpa,' Hugo said loudly.

Mahelt had been sitting at Hugh's side, saying prayers, occasionally murmuring words of comfort. Now she rose and left the room.