A Place Beyond Courage (12 page)
As John unbuckled his belt and laid it across the coffer, Aline saw him frown at the dust there. She had meant to tell one of her women to see to it, but had forgotten in the hectic rush to prepare the hall and the chapel for her churching and the feast. At least that seemed to have gone well and their guests had enjoyed themselves. Most of the conversation had been beyond her, but then it was men’s talk.
She watched John strip his rings and place them in the wall niche, then his tunic brooch and the jewelled cross from around his neck. Just looking at him stopped her breath. He had spoken little to her since his return, but had seemed genuinely pleased by their infant son, and proud.
‘I told Father Geoffrey that I would ask you about a new silk chasuble for him,’ she said in a breathless rush.
He swung round. ‘Do you know how much a single ell of silk costs?’ he asked. ‘I don’t dress in silk to serve the King.’
‘He’s serving God,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Yes, but God sees people, not their clothes.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘Silk is wasted on a priest who is not going to further our family. By all means let him dress to suit his station, but he’s hardly a bishop, is he? You wouldn’t clad a beggar in the robes of an earl.’ He came to the bed and stopped beside her. Aline’s stomach clenched with a mingling of fear and anticipation. ‘I need to do something about Hamstead itself. Better new walls and defences than gauds for the clergy.’ He reached across to examine the cloth of the bed hangings. ‘Come to that, we need new curtains for the chamber. These are full of moth holes.’
Aline swallowed. ‘I was thinking of our souls.’
‘Our souls will be saved because I dress my priest like a court whore?’ John gave a bark of laughter. ‘Oh, that is funny!’
Aline gasped in horror. ‘You should not mock!’
‘
I
should not mock?’ he snorted. ‘God on the Cross, woman, if cladding a common priest in silk is not a mockery, I don’t know what is. Small wonder he was all over you at the dinner table. He knows when his daily bread has honey on it.’ He clamped his jaw.
I
should not mock?’ he snorted. ‘God on the Cross, woman, if cladding a common priest in silk is not a mockery, I don’t know what is. Small wonder he was all over you at the dinner table. He knows when his daily bread has honey on it.’ He clamped his jaw.
‘Don’t be angry,’ she whispered tearfully. ‘I’m sorry.’
He closed his eyes for an instant. Then he sighed and looked at her. ‘Aline, you do not know,’ he said with laboured patience. ‘I wish you did.’
‘Know what?’ She searched his face, feeling desperate.
Very gently, he removed the pins from her wimple and unfastened the brooch at her throat.
‘I . . . please, I . . .’
‘No more,’ he said, kissing her. ‘It’s late. Stop being sorry.’
Aline closed her eyes. The candles were still alight. Perhaps if she didn’t protest about that, it would atone for annoying him. Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned the priest’s robes as soon as they retired. It was so important to her - but obviously not to John. He didn’t see things in the same light. Determined to be a good wife, she let him disrobe her and take her to bed. She even managed not to hide herself from his gaze.
He was slow and thorough, making a banquet of his pleasure, and she spread herself for him, eager to please. It had been a long time since they had lain together and she had not realised how much she ached to have him touch her. Even if it was a sin, her body answered the smooth motion of his. He kissed her as he moved within her and she writhed, digging her fingers into his arms, holding on to him for dear life.
When it was over, he stroked her hair and continued to nuzzle and kiss her. Torn between guilt and ecstasy, Aline lay in his arms, scarcely daring to move.
From beyond the curtain in the antechamber, Gilbert started a hungry wailing. The nurse’s rope-framed bed creaked as she left it and shuffled over to the cradle, her voice pitched to a soothing croon. Aline had been glad to give the duty of breastfeeding to the woman. Some said it was essential a child should be nourished from his mother for the first weeks of his life at least, but Aline hadn’t liked the feel of the baby suckling at her breast, especially when she thought of the detail that a mother’s milk was formed from purified blood just like the essence in a man’s loins. Feeling squeamish and afraid, she had been glad to give Gilbert to the wet nurse and bind up her breasts. She loved him, of course she did, but preferred others to do the handling.
His cries quieted to soft squeaks and then a sudden spluttering cough as he choked. She heard John give an amused grunt at the sound. He eased his arm out from beneath her and quietly left the bed. Aline reached for him in panic. ‘Where are you going?’
He glanced round at her, his lids heavy with satiation, his expression and posture relaxed. ‘Only to blow out the candles,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to see to sleep.’
Aline lay in the dark with his arm around her, his palm loosely spread across her belly, and his breathing quiet at her neck. She tried so hard to please him, but it was difficult when she knew nothing of men . . . of this man. He lived a different life beyond the small boundaries of Hamstead, Tidworth and Clyffe, one populated by royalty, great magnates and bishops. What did she know of such a world, except for a few faint glimmers? Perhaps she should learn, but she didn’t want to; it was too daunting.
When she woke just before dawn, Gilbert was crying again to be fed, and the place at her side was empty.
8
Lyons-la-Fôret, Normandy, November 1135
A crisp silver frost glittered on the roof shingles of the hunting lodge and a red dawn was rising out of the trees as the King set out to hunt with his courtiers. Watching him leave the hall, John noticed the bounce in his stride and heard his laughter as Robert of Gloucester said something amusing. There was no sign of the irritation that had gripped him earlier that week on hearing that the Empress’s husband and some malcontent Norman barons had been fomenting rebellion along his borders. Henry was keen to go to England and instead was having to stay in Normandy and keep an eye on his troublesome son-by-marriage. John suspected the vigour of the hunt was what kept the King’s temper from erupting; besides which, he could use the chase for informal discussion with his advisers without too many eavesdroppers.
John had joined yesterday’s gallop through the forest, but today he had matters to attend to. Henry still wanted to be in England for Christmas if possible and that involved organising stopping places on the road, hiring horses, carts and drivers, making sure there was accommodation for the royal household and sufficient fodder and provisions en route. If the King decided the situation in Normandy was too critical to leave, then Christmas would be spent in Rouen, and that meant John had to plan for both contingencies. Leaving the hall, he went out to the stables in search of the head groom, who would tell him how many horses he was expecting to feed over the next three days and at whose expense.
Two small children were jumping on the frozen puddles in the yard, making crazed fretwork patterns, their squeals as loud as colours on the raw silver air. Nearby a messenger stood picking his teeth with a dagger while he waited for an attendant to saddle up his mount. Straining in the traces, a cob hauled a two-wheeled cart into the courtyard. A pungent smell of raw fish struck John like a wet slap of sea spray. The cart’s interior was lined with straw, but even so, a trail of odorous moisture dripped from baskets of lampreys, oysters, mussels and assorted fish. John grimaced. The King was particularly fond of lampreys, although God alone knew why. John disliked eels in any form. Even smoked they failed to inspire his palate. He watched the cart rattle off in the direction of the kitchen quarters. If the oysters were fresh, they’d do, cracked open with the edge of a broad knife and swallowed whole.
He spoke to the groom, went on to the keeper of the hounds, then the head falconer. He sent messengers out, and received messengers in with details of supplies and news about accommodation. He checked the tallies as to who was eating in the hall, who was on duty and who wasn’t, then took time to make a quick meal of bread and cold venison, washed down with decent wine, before going to sort out the ushers, the guards and the collection of petitioners hoping to put their pleas before the King. Some women were parading at the gate, eyeing up the soldiers and swinging their hips. John took in the tawdry copper rings on their fingers, the unpinned neck-lines of their gowns and the flash of dirt-spattered calves. One had increased the length of her braids with horse hair, but the colours were badly mismatched and the effect was jarring and incongruous. John knew a certain bishop who had a penchant for sluts, but since he wasn’t currently at court, he had no demand for such women in the enclave. Even had they possessed the silver to bribe their way in, he had his own reputation to maintain. ‘No,’ he said to the guard. ‘If the off-duty soldiers want to take their chance, fair enough, but I don’t want them in the hall . . .’
‘My lord.’ The soldier dipped his head to John and began moving the women along with the haft of his spear. They squawked and protested like poultry, but John well knew how to deal with hens and lightly laid his own hand to the hilt of his sword.
The hunt returned as the winter sun was setting in streamers of molten gold, casting long shadows over grass and stone. The dogs ran low-tailed and panting; the horses steamed as if drawn out of a boiling cauldron. Grooms came at the run to take bridles and prepare to rub down the sweating, mud-caked beasts. Waleran, Count of Meulan, flung from his stallion, waited for his twin brother to dismount, then, arm in arm, the pair of them headed off to the hall. Robert of Gloucester was grinning too as he leaped from his own horse and hastened to hold his father’s bridle.
‘I can manage,’ Henry growled. ‘I could still outride any man of you here, if I chose - and make a night of it while you were all snoring exhausted in your beds.’
‘I do not doubt it, sire,’ Robert said diplomatically. ‘If I hold your rein, it is only out of respect.’
Henry grunted as he set his foot on the bailey floor. ‘You’re a good son.’ He slapped Robert’s arm, then noticed John, who immediately flourished a bow. ‘You should have come with us, Marshal.’ Henry indicated the three stag carcasses occupying the baggage cart that was rumbling into the courtyard through the open gates.
John bowed again. ‘Sire, I doubt I would have been able to keep up.’
Henry snorted. ‘I don’t believe that, FitzGilbert. You’re always well ahead of the chase.’
In fine mood, the King walked on into the hall, arm in arm with his son. John followed them. A glance at the cart of bloody carcasses informed him that venison in its various forms was going to follow fish on to the menu for the next several days.
Saving a few lamps kept burning so men could see their way to the privy, the hall was in darkness, the fire banked and covered. John glanced over the sleeping forms of the servants and retainers. The dark mounds under blankets formed a familiar landscape and the mutters, snores, and pockets of soft conversation reassured him all was well. Stepping lightly, he went to the door, spoke with the guard and slipped outside. The weather had warmed during the evening and, although still bitter, was damper and misty. The ice in the puddles had turned to liquid and there was a slick of mud underfoot. John hoped none of the morrow’s supply carts would get bogged down. The winter months were a perennial nightmare for such incidents.
He was passing the royal apartments on the way to his lodging when the door opened and one of Henry’s attendants ran out and collided with him.
‘Apologies, my lord!’ The youth’s expression was frightened and preoccupied. ‘The King is not well. I have to fetch his physician.’
‘Not well?’ John caught the young man’s arm as he prepared to run on. He recognised him as the dogsbody attached to Rabel, Henry’s chamberlain. ‘How not well? He was hale enough when he retired.’
‘Sick,’ the servant said. ‘Puking up his guts. Bad fish, Master Rabel thinks.’
John let him go and went to the door the youth had left open in his haste. Henry’s chamber boiled with activity. A lackey was tugging fresh bedsheets out of a coffer; another was airing a clean chemise in front of the fire and all were exchanging worried glances as they went about their duties. A pile of soiled bed linens had been deposited near the door and was sending up a vile waft that made John hold his breath and move away. ‘Take that to the laundry,’ he snapped at a lad who was pumping bellows at the hearth. ‘Now.’
Henry was kneeling over a slop bowl, doing exactly as the messenger had described. A blanket had been draped across his spasming shoulders. His complexion was the hue of his nightshirt. The sight filled John with alarm. The King was close to seventy years old and anything of this ilk was dangerous.
‘What are you doing here, FitzGilbert?’
John swung to face William Martel. Henry’s cup-bearer had materialised out of the darkness, still fumbling to fasten his belt, his hair standing up in untidy tufts. A scowl furrowed the space between his brows.
‘My rounds,’ John replied. ‘When folk are abroad in the middle of the night, it is my duty to know their business.’
‘That’s as may be, but the King’s chamber isn’t in your remit. You attend to your duties and leave me to attend mine.’
John decided Martel was in a temper because he had just woken up and had arrived to find his domain invaded by another court official with whom he was on tepid terms at best. ‘Make sure you do,’ John said and, with another glance at the King, went back out into the murky night. He didn’t think the court would be moving on the morrow. He retired to his lodging, but only to wash, shave, and change his shirt and braies. Sleep could wait.
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