A Place Beyond Courage (14 page)
He had been born when Henry was the King. He was thirty now and had never known a different rule. He and his father had risen from the ranks of the serjeantry on the back of reward and promotion for efficient, unquestioning service. Now all that effort was threatened. He possessed more lands than his father had done, and he had wealth and chattels hoarded from the good years, but there was no guarantee of continuing favour.
In sombre mood, he drew his sword from its scabbard and inspected it. The weapon was as much a part of his authority as the rod he bore in the hall when keeping ceremonial order. The blade was Cologne steel with a grip of plaited silk cord over a core of padded whale-bone. The King had presented it to him at his knighting nine years ago with a gilded scabbard and belt. Since then he had used it in trial by combat to put down two challengers for the Marshalsea. The grip had been bound in green back then, but, after succeeding in the arena, he had changed it to blood-red. He had not been challenged since, but still he kept the edges oiled and sharp and he wore it as a matter of course to maintain familiarity with its weight and remind men that his authority was borne out by more than just words.
A soft tap on the door roused him from his contemplation. He rose from his chair and went to lift the latch, the sword still bare in his hand. Damette’s gaze widened at the sight before she slipped past him into the room. Raindrops gleamed like crystals on the fur collar of her cloak. ‘Already preparing for war, my lord?’ she asked.
John sheathed the blade. ‘Just testing my edge.’ Having closed the door, he leaned against the coffer and folded his arms. ‘I wondered how long you would be.’ He watched her help herself to his wine. ‘You might as well drink it while I can still offer you the best.’
She studied him over the goblet rim. ‘You’re a cat, John,’ she said. ‘You’ll land on your feet.’
‘A cat? Safer to be a wolf these days.’
‘You think so? I say a fox would be better.’ She sipped daintily. ‘Emma’s crying buckets in the whores’ lodge. She thought she was going to be his permanent mistress and now he’s dead. Silly wench; he only wanted her because she was a fresh tumble.’
John’s mind filled with the vision of a creamy-skinned country girl. Big blue eyes, bigger breasts, about as much wit as a plantain leaf. He eyed Damette. ‘So where has your own lord gone galloping off in such haste?’
‘You saw him?’
‘Riding out on a fast courser as if a devil clutching a basket of lampreys was snapping at his heels.’
Colour swept into her face. So she knew as well.
‘I suppose he’s ridden to the Count of Mortain?’
‘As far as I know.’ She made a rapid recovery. ‘Others will have gone to the Count’s brother - Theobald is the eldest, after all, but it is Stephen who will succeed.’
‘Does Stephen know?’
‘About what?’
He folded his left hand towards himself and scrutinised his fingernails. ‘Baskets of lampreys.’
She shook her head. ‘He’s not the kind to deal well with such information.’ She put her empty cup on the trestle against which he was leaning, and rested her hand there, close to his hipbone. ‘I had better pack my coffers.’
John made a gesture of negation. ‘The court won’t be moving for a few days yet. The King’s body has to be prepared for burial and his magnates have sworn to escort him to Reading and see him interred.’
She trailed her hand over his hip close to his groin, raised it to run up his arm and finally laid her palm against the side of his face. ‘No, but the court of a dead king is not the same as that of a living one. I will not tarry, and neither should you if you want to remain a king’s marshal.’ She rose on tiptoe to kiss him slowly on the mouth, using her tongue, then drew back. ‘The weather is calm for a sea crossing if you’re of a mind.’
With a farewell glance over her shoulder, she went to the door and quietly let herself out. He tasted wine and felt the lingering, moist imprint of her lips on his. A week ago, life at court had been predictable and mundane, the routines settled for the winter season. Now, suddenly, the world had tipped upside down, scattering certainty like spilled beans, and it was every courtier for himself.
Sybilla drew back her arm and threw the stick as hard as she could so that it splashed well out into the river. The two dogs, already wet from the last bout of fetching, plunged into the water and paddled in pursuit, tails ruddering the surface. They were strong swimmers and although it was December, there hadn’t been too much rain and the Kennet still flowed within its bounds.
Her family’s manor of Mildenhall lay two miles east of Marlborough, close to the Salisbury road, and they visited it at least a couple of times a year, usually in late spring and late autumn before returning to Salisbury for Christmas. The manor raised fine geese and other poultry and her mother liked to select the ones that would dress the feast table herself, as well as gifting some to the clergy and favoured vassals.
The yellow hound, having won the race for the stick, waded on to the bank and shook himself vigorously. His brindle companion sloshed out after him and tried to snatch the prize, thus initiating a tussling match punctuated by ferocious growls, of which Sybilla took little notice, for it was all show and no substance. As the dogs vied over the stick, Sybilla heard horses on the track and, looking round, saw a party of riders approaching the manor. Whistling the dogs to heel, she went forward to greet them and recognised the lady Aline, wife of John FitzGilbert the marshal. She had an escort of serjeants with her and a woman attendant. A nurse rode with Aline’s infant son in her care, all bundled up and warm in a side pannier. Sybilla curtseyed as her mother had taught her and murmured words of welcome.
Aline nodded in return. Sybilla thought she didn’t look very well. Her face was pinched and pale and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked nervously at the dogs as if she expected to be set upon.
‘They don’t bite,’ Sybilla said, to which Aline gave a faint smile that immediately faded from her lips.
‘My horse has cast a shoe,’ she replied in a slightly breathless voice. ‘Do you have a farrier here?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ Sybilla replied. ‘He’s at the manor now, shoeing the plough oxen. My mother will be pleased to see you.’
‘And I her . . .’ Aline’s voice was hesitant and uncertain.
Sybilla brought the guests to the manor, walking cheerfully beside Aline’s limping palfrey, glad for the novelty of having guests to entertain.
Aline looked at her curiously. ‘Your mother lets you out on your own?’ she asked.
‘I took the dogs for a walk,’ Sybilla said. ‘It’s one of my duties.’
Aline blinked and looked a little taken aback. ‘Does she not worry about you?’
Now it was Sybilla’s turn to look nonplussed. ‘She knows I am safe with the dogs to protect me. She knows where I go; I have to tell her.’
‘How old are you, child?’
Sybilla tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. ‘I was eleven years old at the feast of Saint John, my lady.’
‘Eleven,’ Aline repeated and bit her lip. ‘I wish I . . .’ She swallowed and looked as if she was going to cry and suddenly Sybilla was glad to arrive at the palisade entrance leading into the manor courtyard.
One of Aline’s escorting serjeants helped her down from the mare and the animal was led away to be shod. The men trooped into the main hall and Sybilla took Aline, her women and the baby to the domestic chamber on the floor above, accessed by a steep outer staircase. Her mother smiled to see Aline and, abandoning her sewing, rose to greet her with kisses on either cheek, before sitting her down by the hearth with an offer of hot wine and griddle cakes freckled with dried fruit.
The nurse settled Gilbert on her knee and gave him one of the griddle cakes to chew while Sybire commented with admiration on how much he’d grown since last she had seen him.
‘He’s walking now, and chatters like a magpie,’ the nurse said proudly.
‘I can see his father in him,’ Sybire said, ‘but there is much of his mother too.’ She smiled round at Aline, and then her face fell with consternation. ‘My dear, what is it, what’s wrong?’
Sybilla’s gaze widened in shock as their guest burst into tears and began to weep as if her heart was broken in pieces. Sybire sat down at her side and took Aline in her arms.
Through a storm of tears, Aline sobbed out the detail that her mother had died at Clyffe three weeks since of congested lungs and she was returning from lighting candles for her soul at the cathedral in Salisbury. ‘It was what she wanted. She asked me to . . .’
‘I am so sorry,’ Sybire said, ‘we did not know, God rest her soul. You should have sent a messenger.’
‘I . . . I did not think . . . everything was too much . . .’ Aline wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
‘Have you written to John?’
Aline nodded tearfully. ‘But he is with the court and I do not know when the news will reach him. I never know where he is and he’s been gone so long . . .’ Her voice developed a cracked, thin edge. ‘They told me in Salisbury that the King is supposed to be returning to England before Christmas, but they said that about the autumn too and it never happened . . . without God, I would be alone . . .’
Sybire hugged and comforted her, but also pointed out with gentle asperity that she had her son to cherish and nurture, and the responsibility of a household and estates to run in her husband’s absence. Aline said little to either remark; she just shrank in her seat. As the storm of tears passed, she withdrew into herself and stared into the fire, one hand shaking on the wine cup, the other toying with the string of prayer beads looped at her belt. Sybilla found herself gazing at them intently. Even though it was five years ago, she still remembered discovering them in the hall at Salisbury and being tempted to take them for her own. It was one of those vivid recollections that would stay with her always, just like her memory of the torchlit walk from castle to house on the day Aline married John FitzGilbert.
Aline declined the offer of a meal and a bed for the night and as soon as a servant arrived to announce that her mare was shod, she was in haste to be on her way. Sybilla had been playing with Gilbert and had to hand him back to his nurse so that he could be settled in the pony’s pannier, which was lined with sheepskins to keep him snug and secure. The heat from the fire and the cold of outdoors had turned his little cheeks a shiny apple-red and, in contrast, his eyes glowed like silvery flints. Apart from a glance at him to make sure he was safe, Aline paid him no more attention than any other piece of baggage.
‘I will have prayers said for your mother and I will light candles; she was a good and gentle lady,’ Sybire said as she and Sybilla stood at the gate to make their farewells.
‘Thank you, my lady, you are kind.’ For a moment Aline’s chin dimpled, but then she pulled herself together, and with a brief nod to her hostess, rode out with her escort.
Glancing at her mother, Sybilla saw that she was watching Aline with the pursed lips and narrowed eyes she usually bestowed on her children when they fell short of expectations. ‘What’s wrong, Mama?’
Sybire shook her head and sighed. ‘Nothing, child, nothing.’ She set her arm around Sybilla’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head. ‘Come,’ she said, and there was a hint of sadness in her voice. ‘We have candles to light, and while we are about our prayers, we should say one for Lady Aline too - for she is in need of strengthening and comfort.’
9
Tower of London, December 1135
John’s tension relaxed as he passed through Aldgate with his mesnie and entered the city of London. The ambler hired yesterday in Canterbury was stumbling, for he had pushed it hard to reach the city before sunset. Not that there was any sign of sun. The sky was overcast with rain threatening in the wind and his riding cloak and boots were splattered with mud.
Arriving at Dover, he had discovered that Stephen had been there ahead of him but the constable, under orders from his lord, Robert of Gloucester, had refused him entry, having been told that under no circumstances was he to open to Stephen, Count of Mortain . . . who was not King of England, whatever he might claim. Staying only to hire horses, John had followed Stephen’s trail to Canterbury, to find that Gloucester’s men had rebuffed Stephen’s attempts to enter that city too, and Stephen had been forced to head for London.
John had silenced the anxious muttering of his men. He had been anticipating such a response. Canterbury and Dover might have closed their gates to Stephen, but London was a different matter. Mortain had a good rapport with its citizens and Gloucester’s influence did not extend there.
Once through Aldgate, he followed the city wall and ditch for a short distance, ignoring the urchins who were poking about on its periphery. Some of the cheekier ones clamoured for silver and went ignored, although Benet, who was always soft where youngsters were concerned, threw them a loaf from his rations.
‘It was going stale anyway,’ he said sheepishly to John who shook his head and restrained himself from remarks about encouraging vermin.
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