A Place Beyond Courage (44 page)
‘My lord.’
John strode into the courtyard, set his foot to the stirrup and swung to horse. ‘Gentlemen, we have some property to retrieve,’ he said, and gave his stallion the spur.
John rode hard for Cricklade, which lay nineteen miles to the north-east of Marlborough, but broke off to camp for the night and rest the horses when he was within striking distance. He discussed the situation with the men and ordered everyone to check their equipment. Around the camp fires, his troop sharpened their swords and axes, inspected shield straps and talked with desultory camaraderie. John was still astonished that Henry was here at all. Fourteen years old - barely of squiring age. He kept trying to imagine his son Gilbert in a similar position and failing. Either Henry was entirely precocious for his age, or they were all in deep water.
By dawn, John had the camp fire doused and once more set out at a brisk pace. As they approached Cricklade, the scent of smoke veered in the wind and they heard shouts and the clash of fighting. At the roadside, the skeletal remains of a dwelling thrust charred wooden bones towards the sky. A bucket lay on its side beside the well and the ground was trampled and reddened. Too much blood for a human, probably cow, John thought, absorbing the detail with one part of his mind, while the other focused on the sounds ahead of them. He thrust his left hand through his shield grip and braced his lance. God knew what they would find, but the chances were they were going to have to fight.
They came upon the castle and the sight of soldiers battling on the open ground before its gates, or rather, John discerned, men being routed and giving battle as they tried to grab their baggage and flee. His trebuchet was there and John noticed a particularly vicious swirl of combat around it. A slight figure, waving a sword, was trying to control John’s Spanish stallion. He was yelling something in a cracked, adolescent bellow - attempting to rally his troops, who were ignoring him. John fastened his aventail across his jaw, signalled to Jaston at his left shoulder, levelled his lance and spurred the grey.
Prince Henry turned at the thunder of hooves, fear leaping in his eyes. He had been so busy doing one thing that he hadn’t noticed the approach of the new force. Had John been the enemy, he could have taken the lad on the point of his lance and ended everything there and then with a single thrust. Instead he pounded past Henry with a bellow of ‘
Maréchal, Maréchal, Dex ai le Maréchal!
’ and brought down a serjeant who was chasing one of the fleeing men.
Maréchal, Maréchal, Dex ai le Maréchal!
’ and brought down a serjeant who was chasing one of the fleeing men.
‘
Maréchal!
’ Jaston howled in response as he smashed aside another serjeant with his mace and ploughed after John. The fighting renewed around the trebuchet as John’s troop engaged hard and took command of the situation. John threw down his lance and took up his own mace for close-in work. The aim was to crush, to disable, to overpower. Trusting Jaston to stay on his blind left side and deal with any assault from that periphery, he attacked hard. Knowing that attitude was as important as ability at a moment like this, he used himself and the snapping, kicking horse to instil fear in his opponents. As he roared his battle cry again, pricked his grey into a rear and struck with the mace, they broke. A horn sounded the retreat and the knights of Cricklade’s garrison disengaged and ran for the safety of the keep.
Maréchal!
’ Jaston howled in response as he smashed aside another serjeant with his mace and ploughed after John. The fighting renewed around the trebuchet as John’s troop engaged hard and took command of the situation. John threw down his lance and took up his own mace for close-in work. The aim was to crush, to disable, to overpower. Trusting Jaston to stay on his blind left side and deal with any assault from that periphery, he attacked hard. Knowing that attitude was as important as ability at a moment like this, he used himself and the snapping, kicking horse to instil fear in his opponents. As he roared his battle cry again, pricked his grey into a rear and struck with the mace, they broke. A horn sounded the retreat and the knights of Cricklade’s garrison disengaged and ran for the safety of the keep.
‘Hold!’ John roared as a couple of over-eager men gave chase. ‘Hold, you dolts. Ware their archers!’
Even as the men pulled back, a sally of arrows hissed overhead, plummeting short by a whisker.
John reined the grey around and rallied his men. ‘Get this dismantled - fast as you can,’ he snapped, gesturing to the trebuchet, and trotted over to Henry, who had removed his helm and coif and was staring at John with flushed face and bright eyes. His red hair stood up in flaming tufts and an embryo copper moustache fuzzed his upper lip. Beneath him, John’s stallion Aranais sidled and stamped.
‘You should have arrived earlier, my lord,’ Henry said with a defiant thrust of his chin. ‘We might have taken the castle then.’
John could feel his temper hammering in his skull with each stroke of his heart. He had never been so furious in his life. ‘With what, sire?’ he snarled. ‘The men defending it are seasoned troops, battle-hardened in the forge of war. Do you think a single trebuchet, a straggle of mercenaries led by a stripling and my personal conroi are going to unseat them? God’s cock, you’re lucky they didn’t take you prisoner and hang you in chains from the keep walls. It’s what I’d have done were I their commander. Nor am I at your beck and call. I’m here to retrieve my trebuchet and my horses, including my destrier.’ He gestured to Aranais. ‘Are these all your men . . . including the ones I saw running into the forest?’ Behind him, the rapid chunk of mallets on wood told him his soldiers were dismantling the trebuchet.
Henry glowered at him. ‘I sent a detail to Purton.’ His jaw worked. ‘Someone has to do something,’ he burst out. ‘You all need stirring up.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly poked your stick into an ants’ nest, sire. What your mother and uncle are going to say, I don’t know, but I can guess.’
To his credit, Henry dismounted from Aranais and held out the reins. Not that John felt like giving him credit at the moment. A good thrashing was the mildest of his notions. ‘How much are you paying this rabble?’ he asked as he made the exchange, settled himself in the saddle and ran his hand down Aranais’s powerful silver shoulder.
Henry compressed his lips and said nothing. ‘I thought so.’ John nodded. ‘Unless you keep them happy, they’ll evaporate like autumn mist in sunshine. If you ask men to give their lives, then you pay them well and you attend to their welfare.’
‘They’re promised their wages,’ Henry said sulkily.
‘Out of what, sire? Your gains?’ John gave him a scathing look. He glanced over his shoulder at the castle. Jeers and insults were being hurled at them from the ramparts. ‘Come. I’ll escort you to your mother’s court at Devizes.’
Henry gave a stubborn shake of his head. ‘My troops at Purton could have taken the victory.’
John took up the reins. ‘We’ll soon find out, won’t we?’ he said with heavy scepticism.
35
Hamstead Marshal, Berkshire, April 1147
Sybilla clenched her teeth, gathered her strength and bore down. The contraction was extremely painful and progress slow. She knew the child was large and that the midwives were anxious - although not yet panicking. She had been pushing since the hour of terce and it wasn’t yet sext.
Her women had opened the shutters to let the bright, late April morning stream into the room, bringing with it a blessing of cool fresh air and even a scatter of blossom from the apple trees in the garth. Sybilla strained and bore down, determined that this wasn’t going to be her dying day. God grant her and her as-yet-unborn child their lives.
Another contraction swept over her. Supported by her women she heaved and struggled. Planting the seed was one thing. Harvesting it quite another. Gundred bathed her brow with rose water and gave her a cup of honey and warm water to sip. ‘It’ll be all right, my lady,’ she said, her voice warm with the kind of reassurance Sybilla herself used to those in extremity.
Sybilla closed her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she panted. ‘One way or another it will. Either I’ll give birth or I’ll die. I . . . ah!’ She broke off to strive and push again . . . and push . . . and push. The midwives urged, and Sybilla wept and screamed and swore. And at last the baby’s head crowned at the end of the birth canal and the midwives busied themselves, bringing warm towels, a basin of water, swaddling bands, a knife.
John stood out on the sward beyond the manor and watched the villagers of Hamstead preparing for their May Day celebrations. The great pole had been erected in the meadow near the river and decorated with braids of red and white. A crown of May blossom would adorn it on the feast day, but this morning was by way of a rehearsal for the children and youngsters. He folded his arms and watched the dancing, heard the bright laughter, the giggles, and felt a little detached from it all. If only his cares could be as easily dispelled by the grabbing of a coloured streamer.
The shepherd had brought his bagpipes to make music and his son had joined him with a bone whistle. A village woman was jogging a baby in her arms and watching two older children binding the streamers around the maypole. John glanced briefly at the infant, then looked away.
They had told him the child in Sybilla’s womb was big and strong - which was all to the good, but he wasn’t a fool and knew the other side of the coin. Not in so many words, they were warning him Sybilla might struggle to give birth. He remembered the time on the battlements in Rouen, awaiting news of the Empress when she sickened after bearing her second son. At the time, he had not fully comprehended the anxiety of those who cared about her, but he well understood it now. If he lost Sybilla, he would be like a boat with a hole torn in its keel and the sea bleeding in to sink it. He’d still exist, but not as he was now. He had even been to church to pray for them, although he despised men who made bargains with God because of their own dire needs. Why should God listen? Such pleading reminded him too much of Aline.
He had been home for most of Sybilla’s ninth month of pregnancy. Prince Henry’s attempts to seize castles in the keeping of Stephen’s men had proved a debacle. By the time he and Henry had reached Purton, the Prince’s rabble was fleeing from it in disorder and demanding pay for risking their lives. John had escorted the youth to his mother’s court at Devizes and left him there to face the consequences. Thus far, from what he had heard, the Empress and the Earl of Gloucester were refusing to pay for the expedition out of their own funds and had given Henry short shrift for his folly - which was as it should be. You had to discipline an unruly pup to get the best from it. Henry’s coming to England with a small band of mercenaries was seen in a few quarters as a courageous gesture, but most folk thought it the act of a foolhardy young idiot. Certainly it had made the opposition shake with hilarity rather than terror. However, he supposed it had also made men aware of Henry. He was no longer some unseen whelp, coddled in Normandy, but a young prince, pulling on the reins and eager for his opportunity.
He noticed his chamberlain coming round him in a wide loop so as not to approach on his blind side. The consideration irritated him while he acknowledged its necessity.
Osbert bowed. ‘Glad tidings, my lord. Your lady has been safely delivered of a strong, healthy son.’ He straightened, a smile beaming across his face.
John’s gut churned with relief. He thanked Osbert with a more restrained smile, although inside he was bursting. ‘My lady is well, you say?’
Osbert nodded. ‘So Mistress Gundred said when she gave me the news. She said my lady was in good spirits.’
John thanked and dismissed Osbert and turned to make his way back to the manor. He wanted to run but, conscious of his dignity as lord, he walked with a measured stride. He was aware of the villagers whispering between each other and knew that in the way of things, the entire population would know the news in minutes - and expect free ale to toast the event, and bread to soak it up. He paused at the kitchens to give that order before entering the hall. Servants and retainers smiled at him. Benet and Jaston were familiar enough to clasp his hand and slap his back. Others bowed and murmured congratulations, which he accepted with preoccupation.
Lecia was waiting at the foot of the stairs and curtseyed. ‘My lord, your lady asks that you will come to her chamber and see your new son.’ She spoke formally, but her eyes were glowing with emotion - much of it relief.
‘Willingly,’ John replied and followed her from the hall to the long chamber above.
Sybilla was sitting up in bed, the covers tidy around her and the sheet folded back over the top quilt. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in a rich brunette skein, glossy from recent combing. The scent of rose water filled the air from the basin used to bathe the baby. Snuffling, squeaking sounds came from the direction of the cradle.
John went to Sybilla, stooped over to kiss her, but was careful of touching her body lest she was in pain. Emotion welled within him at the sight of her strong colour and the life dancing in her eyes. ‘You had a difficult time,’ he said.
Sybilla made a face. ‘It was like birthing a baby whale,’ she admitted, but then her expression grew proud. ‘He’s going to be tall and strong - a fine knight. He’s already fed once - as if he was starving. He has a strong appetite for life!’ She smiled. ‘Are you not going to look at him?’ she prompted gently.
John glanced towards the cradle, then back at her, most of his being caught up in the concern that she was safe after the ordeal. However, to please her, and out of mild curiosity, he went to look at what the sowing of nine months earlier had wrought.
The baby lay on a soft lambskin fleece and was as yet unswaddled so that his father could examine him, and the sight suddenly made him smile. Sybilla was right; he was indeed a fine little man. His new son had dark hair, still damp from his first bath, and good, long limbs. Once they had muscle on them and adult strength, he’d be an excellent warrior.
‘I thought to name him William,’ Sybilla said, ‘for my brother - if that meets with your approval.’
Other books
Ralph Compton The Convict Trail by Ralph Compton
Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series) by Cookman, Lesley
Hold the Light by Ryan Sherwood
Three-Day Town by Margaret Maron
An Unholy Alliance by Susanna Gregory
All Change: Cazalet Chronicles by Elizabeth Jane Howard
Thomas & January by Fisher Amelie
Among the Shrouded by Amalie Jahn
Cain's Salvation (Passion in Paradise - The Men of the McKinnon Sisters) by Sarah O'Rourke
Above the Waterfall by Ron Rash