A Place Beyond Courage (36 page)
By the time the woman returned with a cup and platter, Sybilla had regained her composure. She sat in the window, looking out, and made a slow pleasure of her meal. The buttermilk was fresh from the churn and the bread was fluffy and just a little moist, the way she liked it. She savoured each mouthful as if was years since she had eaten anything this good.
The maid returned. ‘Mistress, Lord Patrick asks if you are ready.’
‘I haven’t finished eating,’ Sybilla said, although in truth there was only a swallow of buttermilk and a morsel of bread remaining.
‘He says you have to come now. The messenger has to leave.’ There was a worried note in the woman’s voice.
Sybilla sighed and rose to her feet. ‘If I must,’ she said. She ate the bread, drank the last mouthful of buttermilk, fetched her seal from its casket and, documents in hand, returned to her brother who was pacing the room like an agitated hound.
Sybilla scowled at him. ‘You are forcing me to make a decision without due time for consideration,’ she told him with her head held high. ‘Furthermore, you are forcing me to marry a man who turned over his first wife. But for the good of our family and your honour, I agree.’ From the corner of her eye, she was aware of Patrick closing his eyes and swallowing with relief. Once she had pressed her seal into the hot wax, Father Geoffrey took the document and hurried from the room.
‘It’ll be for the best, you’ll see,’ Patrick said, trying to be conciliatory.
‘That remains to be seen.’ She went to the door.
‘You’ve forgotten your apron.’ He pointed to the garment draped over a coffer.
Sybilla gave him a strong look. ‘I’m not going back to the dairy,’ she said loftily. ‘If I’m to be married as hastily as I’ve been betrothed, I’ve a wedding gown to make. Let others see to the cheese.’
27
Salisbury Castle, Wiltshire, May 1144
Sybilla’s wedding gown was cut from a bolt of shimmering red silk damask, purchased in Winchester by one of Patrick’s merchant contacts. There was also a bolt of teal-blue wool. Although both colours suited Sybilla’s rich dark hair and hazel eyes, the red was stunning and she had chosen it for her wedding. She suspected Patrick had offered her the fabric as a sweetener after springing the marriage contract on her; he wasn’t usually so generous and there had still been some good pink twill in the cloth cupboard that would have sufficed. Whatever the reason, she was delighted. She would go to her new husband with garments suitable for the wife of the Empress’s marshal. Two of her women were accomplished seamstresses and they had been charged with making the gowns and putting the stitches in the crucial parts of the garments. Sybilla’s task was hemming since she was competent enough at plain sewing. The wedding day had been set for the feast of Saint John the Baptist, a month hence, and the celebrations were to be held at Ludgershall in token of the new alliance between Salisbury and Marshal. Sybilla felt excited and apprehensive as she worked. Very soon, her life was going to change for ever, and she didn’t know what to expect. All she could do was imagine and that was by turns delicious and terrifying. Sometimes, she would think of Aline Marshal, and the brightness of her feelings would be dulled by guilt and pity.
Leaving her sewing for a moment, she went to the trestle where her maid Lecia was cutting out the blue gown.
‘The red will contrast well in the sleeve linings, my lady,’ Lecia said, indicating a length of spare cloth from the wedding dress. ‘Or do you want it all blue?’
‘No, use the red. Then there’ll be enough blue for—’ She stopped and looked round as her brother’s chamberlain entered the room. ‘Hubert?’
He bowed. ‘The lord Marshal is here and wishes a word, my lady.’
Sybilla’s stomach plummeted. ‘What, here and now?’ ‘Yes, my lady. He specifically requested to see you. Lord Patrick desires you to come down.’
Sybilla swallowed her panic. This, she hadn’t expected. Not with the suddenness of the nuptial agreement. She had thought he would wait. ‘Tell him I am coming,’ she answered in a tight voice.
When he had bowed from her presence, she summoned Lecia and Gundred from their tasks to attend her. In her private domain she was wearing a working gown of unembellished grey wool and no head covering. ‘The brown dress, quickly,’ she said and immediately changed her mind. ‘No, the green . . . and the veil with the yellow stars.’ She felt dithery, scared and embarrassed. The young women helped her into the gown. She folded back the hanging sleeves, double-looped a braid belt at her waist and tried not to fidget while the maids pinned the veil to her hair.
‘Oh, it’ll have to do,’ she said, suddenly impatient with herself. ‘If he wanted more, he should have given me fair warning.’ Before her courage could desert her, she took a deep breath and sallied from her chamber.
The men were seated before the hearth in conversation, but as she approached, they looked up, and John FitzGilbert rose to his feet. Sybilla hesitated for a step, then went forward, forcing a smile on to her face.
‘My lord, welcome.’ She made herself look at him rather than at the safer option of the floor. The scarring across the upper left quadrant of his face was worse than she had expected in her naivety and for a moment, her gaze faltered over the livid red tissue. Then she pushed herself through the initial recoil. The rest was still as she remembered: the firm mouth, straight nose and strong, clean jaw. He was of a height with Patrick and straight as a lance. His tunic was of the finest, softest blue wool with not a speck of dust or drip of candle grease. ‘Had I known you were coming, I would have made better provision.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I would usually have sent word ahead, but I didn’t want to trouble you . . . I do not usually act on sudden impulse, which is what today’s visit is.’
His voice was cultured and quiet but, despite the latter, each word was enunciated clearly and she had no difficulty hearing him. She did not doubt it could bite when its owner wished it to, or soften like honey. She murmured a platitude and lowered her gaze.
‘I wanted to say that you do me great honour, my lady, in accepting my proposal of marriage, and I will endeavour to live up to the duties of a groom.’
A note that might have been amusement entered his voice and Sybilla, looking up again, saw she had not mistaken it. There was a definite gleam of humour, perhaps even challenge. Her breath shortened. ‘I am sure you will, my lord,’ she answered, ‘as I will endeavour not to disappoint as your bride.’
‘I doubt that . . .’ Softer now. Sybilla almost shivered.
‘You’ll have no reason to complain, my lord, I can assure you,’ Patrick interrupted heartily, speaking about her as if she wasn’t in the room. ‘She’s been well trained.’ He grinned. ‘She’s very good with the dairy; she’ll put meat on your bones, even as you’re putting a belly underneath her girdle.’ He spoke in proprietorial fashion, but Sybilla was mortified and could have slapped him.
John Marshal said nothing but the glance he cast her was wry and his half-smile apologetic.
‘Of course, you may find that she talks too much for your taste, especially after the lady Aline,’ Patrick continued. ‘If Sybilla has a fault it’s that she’s inquisitive and wants to poke her nose into men’s business. You might have to bridle her tongue, but otherwise she’ll do very well.’
‘I am sure we will get along in fine fettle,’ John murmured.
‘Aye, well, she’s easy on the eye and she sings very prettily if you’ve a mind to music. Good dancer too. Her sewing’s not up to much, but she has other women to do it for her and she’s good with the servants. She knows how to make them work for her. Show her what you want of her and she’ll do it.’
By now, Sybilla was fuming, almost tearful. She wanted to smack Patrick and shout that she was not a brood mare to be paraded in the ring before the man who had just bought her. A glance under her lashes showed her that John’s face was impassive, but she could sense his internal laughter.
‘Then I am indeed to be blessed,’ he said. ‘A month will seem a long time to wait.’
Sybilla inclined her head to his statement. ‘And not long enough, my lord, if my women are to accomplish all the sewing and duties without me by to “make them work”.’ She cast a fulminating look in her brother’s direction. ‘You will excuse me to my tasks.’
John took her hand and bowed over it. ‘Thank you for coming down, my lady. I appreciate you have much to accomplish between now and the feast of Saint John. Now I know what to expect, the time cannot pass quickly enough for me.’ He gave her a slow smile and a look that in less fraught circumstances would have melted her bones.
Sybilla curtseyed to him, ignoring her brother, and went from the hall. Halfway back up the stairs, the awfulness and the humour of the situation struck her like a delayed blow and she began to laugh.
‘My lady?’ Gundred touched her arm. ‘Have a care, you will fall.’
Sybilla compressed her lips, swallowed, got herself under control and, with brimming eyes, climbed the rest of the way to her chamber. When asked by her worried ladies if she was all right, she laughed some more, and wept a little too, but finally composed herself and retired to the window-seat to continue with her sewing. Her hands were trembling and she almost started laughing again. God, he would think her as much of a milk custard as his first wife! The scarring was bad but, once over her initial shock, she had felt no revulsion. Beyond it lay John FitzGilbert the man, and she still found him very attractive. The voice, the dry humour, the courtliness, the firm touch of his hand. That playful, mischievous gleam from his good side. Her hands steadied. The urge to laugh became a smile instead. She took several stitches, then paused to look out of the window. So short and long a time, a month. She already felt as if she had lived a lifetime in less than an hour.
28
Ludgershall, Wiltshire, June 1144
The sun was setting in a basin of liquid gold when Sybilla arrived at Ludgershall on the eve of her wedding. They had covered the eighteen miles from Salisbury in good time, using pack ponies rather than a baggage cart to bear Sybilla’s possessions and trousseau.
They had been sighted and the word given, for the gates were wide to admit them and they were ushered within the compound by John’s porter who was spruce in a russet tunic and cap. As they were dismounting, John himself emerged to greet them. He saluted Patrick with a warm handclasp and a polished smile, then turned to her. This time Sybilla was more prepared for the juxtaposition of beauty and ruin on his face and didn’t flinch. She gave him her hand and curtseyed demurely.
‘Welcome to Ludgershall, my lady.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked around. ‘It’s different from last time I was here.’
He laughed. ‘I should hope so, since it was little but rubble and timber then. I have allotted you a chamber above the hall for tonight. I hope it meets with your approval.’
‘I am sure it will, my lord.’ Sybilla felt herself growing tongue-tied under the stilted formality. That too was different from her last visit when Patrick had lost his hawk; but back then she had been a child and not about to give herself in marriage to this man.
John was clearly perceptive of her mood, for he had an attendant show her and her maids to the chamber and left her in peace to unpack her baggage, bidding her come to the great hall when she was ready.
The room smelled musty and stale, although someone had opened the shutters to let in air and daylight, of which there was still sufficient left to show cobwebs clinging to the shutter edges. The bed was sturdy and of a decent size with two mattresses - a lower one of straw topped by another of down - but there were no hangings and there was evidence of moths in the coverlet. Dust motes hovered in the air, speaking of recent attention, and there was a ewer and a jug of fresh water for washing. The general air was one of a room little used and even less considered. Sybilla wondered about Aline. Had she not taken an interest or chivvied the servants? Perhaps she hadn’t been here in a while. One thing was certain, this room was crying out for a woman’s touch.
In thoughtful mood, she washed her hands and face, changed her travelling gown for the one of green wool she had worn when John came to Salisbury, and returned to join the men.
Dinner was served later than usual to accommodate their arrival. The shutters had been closed, the candles lit and the atmosphere was convivial, the tables in the well of the hall crowded with guests and retainers. The dais was reserved for immediate family, worthies and clergy, including the new Bishop of Salisbury, Joscelin de Bohun, wearing dark colours tonight, although on the morrow Sybilla knew he would blaze like a peacock. She had seen his official robes of office on several occasions now.
John had seated Patrick on his left, Sybilla on his right - which she found interesting since it defied convention and he should have put Patrick to his right. She wondered if he had placed her thus out of deference to her feminine sensibilities or because he was being defensive and wanted her to see his good side. Perhaps he was doing it to unsettle Patrick, or it might be all three. John Marshal had a reputation as a cunning and subtle tactician.
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