A Place Beyond Courage (16 page)
Since it had been quelled and John was on top of the matter, Stephen hadn’t noticed, but John was beginning to think it time he did. Despite his show of munificence at this great Easter gathering, Stephen had yet to bestow anything on John other than his standard wage of two shillings a day and vague promises. John understood that first he had to prove his loyalty to Stephen. It was not as if he had ever made a point of fraternising with Stephen’s camp before King Henry’s death. Beneath the bonhomie, he knew Waleran of Meulan and Robert de Beaumont were suspicious of him and undecided. William Martel was openly hostile.
He had been at court continuously since December, setting up the new Marshalsea from the remnants of the old, constructing a solid framework. He had attended Henry’s funeral at Reading and had watched a tearful Stephen lay his shoulder to the coffin. Significantly, Robert of Gloucester had not been present, pleading delays in Normandy. How much longer he could hold off swearing allegiance to Stephen when most others had done so was a frequent point of conversation in guardroom and alehouse.
John had ridden north with Stephen to the Scots border, where the latter had negotiated a peace with King David, a peace that this Easter feast was supposed to be cementing, but where policing the rivalry of the different factions was giving John a thundering headache.
Walter, sheriff of Salisbury, limped into the latrine for a piss and complained to John about the state of his knees. ‘Be glad when it’s summer,’ he said. ‘My body’s wearing out faster than an old mill grindstone. I’d leave things to my sons, but they’re still striplings and I wanted to test our new King’s mettle for myself.’ Having emptied his bladder, he adjusted his clothing, eased himself down on the seat and, folding his arms, lingered to talk. ‘Different from Henry, isn’t he?’ John nodded. ‘Wears his thoughts on his face,’ Walter continued, ‘and mostly they’re of the happy-to-see-you kind. Reminds me of a friendly dog - wagging his tail, eager to please. Henry would bite off your bollocks if he thought you were overstepping your authority.’
John smiled at the crude but apt analogy. ‘No bad thing,’ he said.
‘Indeed not. You knew how far you could go . . . and how far everyone else could go as well. Now it’s every man for himself and devil take the hindmost. Good horseman though,’ he admitted judiciously, ‘and knows the business end of a sword.’
Bonhomme, John’s youngest usher, appeared in the latrine doorway, panting from his run. ‘My lord, the Earl of Gloucester’s just ridden in with his mesnie. I thought you should know!’
‘Interesting.’ Walter of Salisbury rose laboriously to his feet. ‘This is going to ruffle some feathers.’
John didn’t answer except by way of an eloquent look. With a nod to Bonhomme, he strode from his malodorous sanctuary back into the murky waters of the court.
Robert of Gloucester was dismounting in the courtyard, surrounded by several knights and a troop of Flemish mercenaries armed to the teeth. John eyed up the leader of the latter group, one Robert FitzHubert, small in stature but as broad as a barn with muscles bursting his hauberk and the kind of neck that almost wasn’t there. You’d have to find his throat before you could cut it.
‘Welcome, my lord.’ John flourished a bow and beckoned grooms to take the horses.
Gloucester didn’t smile and his eyes were guarded. ‘Perhaps not the right word in the circumstances, John. We shall see. Being as you are here, you may as well conduct me to the . . . to the King.’ His mouth contorted on the word.
John appraised the knights and mercenaries. ‘Your men will have to disarm.’
Gloucester scowled. ‘I know the routine. Being absent from court doesn’t mean losing my memory.’ He gestured and the knights and mercenaries began handing over their weapons, although FitzHubert was plainly disgruntled by the demand.
‘No, but last time you were at court, it was your father’s.’ John set out for the King’s chamber, holding his rod of office before him.
News had already run ahead and instead of waiting in the dignity of state to greet the Earl of Gloucester, Stephen was already on his feet and striding across the chamber, arms wide. ‘Cousin!’ he cried, beaming from ear to ear. Inwardly John grimaced. Either Stephen was playing a brilliant game of bluff, or the man was a buffoon.
Gloucester bent one knee to Stephen and bowed his head. John wondered what it had cost him to do that. Stephen immediately raised him up and kissed him heartily on both cheeks.
‘I am glad you have come. This truly makes today one for celebration and rejoicing!’
Robert forced a smile in return. ‘I am pleased to be here, cousin, but you will understand why I took my time to come to you.’
Stephen’s smile remained, but it fixed a little at the corners and John did not miss the assessing glitter in his eyes. Not quite the buffoon then. ‘Indeed, my lord. You are an honourable man and I rejoice that you have chosen this path. Come, sit, take wine.’ He gestured to the dais table where he had been drinking and discussing affairs with his senior magnates. ‘Waleran, make a place. William, the flagon.’
The lord of Meulan shifted sideways on the bench, making room. His own smile was wide, but he had a way of clenching his teeth that made it hard to tell if it was a snarl or a grin. Martel fetched the wine and poured it, his expression watchful.
Gloucester hesitated. His head had remained down, but not so much in deference as in preparation to do battle. ‘Cousin, if I give you my allegiance, it is with the proviso that if you take away any of my lands or act dishonourably towards me, I have the right to renounce that allegiance.’
Stephen gave him a man-to-man nod. ‘Any of my vassals has that right,’ he said. ‘There has to be trust between us.’
‘Yes, there does,’ Gloucester agreed in an arid voice, ‘and part of that trust is knowing precisely where we stand from the beginning.’
‘I am surprised at you, John,’ Gloucester said in a reproachful voice. ‘I never thought you would be so quick to do homage to Stephen.’
They were standing in the courtyard in the spring dawn. The King wanted to go hunting and the horses were being saddled up. John was assessing horse fodder requirements, given that Gloucester had arrived with his retinue and the Bishop of Salisbury had left on episcopal business. He watched the groom lead out Stephen’s roan courser. ‘What else could I have done?’ He gave a practical shrug. ‘Some of my lands are held by serjeantry of my post as King’s marshal and the ones that are not are still in England. Whoever controls the country controls them. If I had sworn for the Empress, I would have lost everything. I have neither castle walls behind which to hide and fight nor the resources to resist. What could your sister give me in recompense when all she has to her name are a few border fortresses in Normandy still holding out for her?’ He had started to breathe hard. Until now, he had not realised how much anger and anxiety had built up inside him. ‘Yes, I took the oath to serve the Empress as my Queen when the time came, but again I had no choice. None of us did except to obey your father. He never confirmed his wish when he was dying. All he said, and you heard him, was: “Stephen’s a man.” ’
‘Even so, that vow was made, twice over by some, and to my sister, not to Stephen.’
‘The Archbishop of Canterbury has absolved all men of that vow,’ John said. ‘It was obvious even from the start that it was untenable.’ He looked at Robert’s tightening jaw and angry eyes. ‘If you are so strongly opposed, what are you doing here? Should you not be with the Empress? From what I heard, you lingered in Normandy to offer the crown to Stephen’s brother, not put the Empress on the throne.’ He stalked into the stables and looked at the empty stalls. A youth was forking soiled straw in a desultory fashion that earned him a rapid clip around the ear.
Robert had reddened at John’s words. ‘That is not true. I said in all the councils that my sister’s son should be the next King.’
‘A child of three?’
Robert’s flush deepened. ‘His mother could sit in regency, guided by trusted advisers. There is nothing wrong in such a plan. It is what my father intended.’
‘Except he could not bring himself to utter the words on his deathbed. And if you are saying that Matilda could have sat in regency, you are saying she is not fit to be Queen in her own right.’
Robert threw up his hands. ‘I cannot swim against the tide. My sister is full capable of ruling England and Normandy. The only bar is men’s acceptance of her sex and the belief she could possibly have it in her to govern. Be honest, John. If Matilda were male, would you have bent the knee to Stephen?’
‘No, but then this situation would never have arisen, would it? We would all have been certain.’
Robert looked morose. ‘When my nephew is grown up, how will I look him in the eyes and tell him I gave his birthright away - that I did not fight for him?’ His voice was harsh with self-disgust and suddenly John felt smirched too.
‘There are many years between now and then,’ he said. ‘You say you cannot swim against the tide. Even less can I and we’re only a mile out from shore as yet. I hazard it’s going to become rougher and deeper for all as time goes on.’
A few weeks later, John remembered his conversation with Robert of Gloucester as he drank wine from a flask before the walls of Rougemont Castle at Exeter. Its castellan, Baldwin de Redvers, had rebelled against Stephen. After Henry’s death, de Redvers had declared for the Empress, but had lost his nerve and come later than anyone else to yield grudgingly to the new King. Egged on by his advisers, Stephen had refused to accept the latter’s tardy homage. Baldwin had fled to Rougemont and now he, his troops, his wife and sundry rebels were holed up in the city defying Stephen with every fibre and dried-up sinew of their beings even as their water supply dried up in the desiccating summer heat.
John thought the siege interesting from a tactical viewpoint and had been watching and learning with keen interest and natural aptitude. During his employment as King Henry’s marshal, opportunities to practise the theories of battle strategy had been few for Henry had usually chosen diplomacy over war and mostly been successful. John knew he had the coordination, speed and skill for individual combat, that he was an efficient quartermaster and organiser, but there was more to being a good commander than that, and he was taking pleasure in testing his strengths and improving his weaknesses; mentally putting himself in the position of the besieger and the besieged.
Earlier in the day, de Redvers had sent some of his officers out under a banner of truce to negotiate terms, but Stephen had looked at the state of them, gaunt with hunger, lips drawn back from dry gums with thirst, and refused to bargain. The end was obviously near and agreeing to any terms but abject surrender would be both foolish and weak. Robert of Gloucester had argued that agreeing to let the garrison leave unharmed as de Redvers was requesting would mean a cessation of the fighting so they could be within the castle by nightfall, but Stephen, bolstered by Meulan, Martel and his brother the Bishop of Winchester, had chosen to stand firm on his initial decision.
The knights had been escorted out of the camp and Stephen, dusting his hands and looking pleased with himself, basked in the approval of those barons who had counselled him to be stern, but John was troubled. Having observed the manner in which the King listened to the differing advice and having seen the expression on Robert of Gloucester’s face, he could tell trouble was brewing.
Thirst quenched, he handed the flask to a squire and, hands on hips, watched the crew of a trebuchet prime their machine to hurl another boulder at Rougemont’s ruddy sandstone walls. A woman alone and on foot emerged from Rougemont’s gatehouse and crossed the ditch. Her rich brown hair blew loose around her shoulders and as she drew closer, John saw that her feet were bare.
‘God’s blood,’ swore Benet softly, his eyes growing round. ‘He’s only sent his wife now!’
‘I thought de Redvers was a fool earlier when he sent those suffering knights to treat for terms, but he knew what he was doing,’ John said with admiration.
Benet looked puzzled. ‘He did?’
‘Think about it. De Redvers has resisted Stephen for three months. That’s not the mark of a fool, but a strong soldier. He deliberately sent his men in a desperate condition to play upon the sympathies of the lords not as committed to the King as Martel or the Beaumonts. Now he’s increasing the discomfort and putting more pressure on Stephen’s conscience. To send his wife into the enemy camp barefoot with her hair unbound and no women to attend her is a fine strategy. Many here are her kin. Seeing her humiliated and reduced to begging will appal them and fuel their unrest against Stephen and his advisers.’
Benet gave a judicious nod. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’
‘De Redvers certainly has.’ John stored away the tactic for further perusal. He couldn’t imagine Aline doing the same as de Redvers’s wife. She would probably hurl herself from the battlements first - if she hadn’t already descended into madness.
He went to escort the woman into camp and silenced the jeers of some of the King’s Flemish mercenaries with a quelling glance and a hand to his sword hilt. He was no soft-heart but there was such a thing as courtesy.
Adeliza de Redvers was shaking, and when he offered her his arm, she leaned on it with gratitude, but she was resolute too, and John admired her courage. It wasn’t going to hurt her cause either, he thought, that she was a beautiful woman.
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