A Place Beyond Courage (50 page)
A group of squires and young garrison knights had been practising their sword strokes and now stood around talking, wiping themselves down with their balled-up shirts and drinking ale from the jug on the nearby trestle. One of them grabbed his crotch and made a jest - something to do with pushing a sword into a scabbard - and the others laughed and jostled him.
Behind them stood a circular straw targe of the kind used to shelter behind in siege warfare. Someone had thrust his sword into the centre and had yet to retrieve it. William eyed the weapon and then the group. Sometimes they let him join them, treating him with the easy tolerance they would afford a stray pup. He reasoned that if he could show them how good he was with a sword, they might take more notice of him and make him one of their brotherhood rather than just an indulged tag-along. William knew he wasn’t supposed to touch real swords because of their sharp edges and because the imprint of his sweat or whatever stickiness might be on his fingers would rust the steel. However, he wasn’t as obedient as his brother in that area. Told not to do something, John would obey, but William always had to question and test the boundaries.
Confidently he strode up to the targe, reached up and set both hands around the sword’s handgrip of tawny buckskin. A firm tug yielded no result for the blade was deeply embedded and refused to budge. William tried again, harder, but the weapon remained firm. One of the squires facing the targe noticed his efforts and alerted his companions.
‘Go on, pull!’ yelled his father’s knight Baldwin de Stowell, whose sword it was. ‘Let’s see how strong your muscles are! I’ll give you a penny if you can shift it!’
The others whistled and laughed. Silver changed hands as good-natured wagers were made on the likelihood of William freeing the sword. When William set one foot on the targe to aid his leverage, then the other, several of the knights doubled over with laughter. Those who could speak through their mirth bellowed encouragement.
Determined not to be bested, William grunted and heaved. Exerting every last ounce of his strength, he felt the sword begin to give; next moment he was lying on the ground, holding the weapon in his hands, free and clear. The soldiers were cheering him, some laughing so hard they were crying. William grinned at them and, clambering to his feet, danced and feinted with the sword. It was larger and less balanced than his father’s blade and it was a struggle to control it.
Baldwin strode forward, palm extended to show a shining silver penny. ‘Well done, lad. I didn’t think you had it in you, but you’re strong, I’ll give you that.’
William narrowed his eyes. He had worked hard for the sword and wasn’t ready to give it up just yet. His father said that things worth fighting for were worth keeping . . . or was it the other way round? He wanted to savour his victory and have a practice, the way the grown knights did. Ignoring the outstretched hand, he ran behind the targe, waving the sword around his head. The knights and squires clung to each other, roaring, as Baldwin pursued William and William led him a merry dance, ducking round the shield, capering off, yelling because having a real sword in his hand made him feel all tingly with excitement and he just had to shout at the top of his lungs. He’d give it back in a minute, just another minute. Swoosh, parry, cut.
Baldwin lunged, missed and swore. Taking pity on their comrade, a couple of the others joined in, but still it took all three of them to avoid the sword, bring William down and finally, after a struggle, disarm him. He lay on the grass, panting hard, sore from where they had twisted his arm. Tears prickled his lids. He dashed one sleeve across his eyes and gulped hard. He wouldn’t cry; he was a warrior.
‘Hup, lad.’ Baldwin stooped to haul William to his feet and then dusted him off. ‘It’s no dishonour to be brought down three against one . . .’ Having run an oiled rag over the sword blade, he sheathed it in his scabbard, which was now buckled at his hip. A gleam in his eyes, he handed William his cup of ale. ‘Here, take the dust out of your mouth,’ he said.
William drank, his equanimity restored by the privilege of being invited to share with the men. Baldwin crouched to William’s eye level and gave him a serious look. ‘You shouldn’t have taken the sword from the targe, you know that.’
William lifted his chin. ‘No one said I couldn’t.’
Two lines appeared in Baldwin’s cheeks as if he were trying not to laugh. ‘No one said you could, either. Next time, ask.’
William nodded, knowing there probably wouldn’t be a next time, and even if he did ask, the answer would be no. It usually was to those kinds of questions. Baldwin retrieved his ale and finished it in three swift gulps, then rose and hefted William on to his shoulders. ‘You’re being sought,’ he said. ‘Time to go in.’
William grimaced at the sight of a beckoning Gundred at the entrance to the hall, but knew from experience it wasn’t worth being difficult. Baldwin strode over to her and swung William down at her feet. ‘By the faith I owe my lord’ - he grinned at her - ‘this boy will grow up to be one of the greatest knights the world has seen - providing he learns to leave my sword alone.’ The last words were spoken playfully but nevertheless held a warning.
Gundred gave William a severe look. ‘What have you been doing this time?’
‘Nothing,’ William replied with wounded innocence. This morning he had been reprimanded for recklessly racing his pony bareback and jumping a row of upturned buckets. His brother John had told on him, indignant because he himself had been doing as bidden during their riding lesson, not misbehaving and going his own way. And then William had torn a hole in his chausses climbing a tree beyond the palisade when he shouldn’t have been outside the castle defences in the first place.
‘He pulled my sword out of a targe and it was buried almost hilt-deep. God knows where he found the strength. Then he wouldn’t give it up, but we’ve settled the matter man to man, haven’t we?’ Baldwin ruffled William’s hair.
William nodded. Gundred clucked her tongue, but her hand at his shoulder was affectionate as she turned to take him in. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘what are we going to do with you?’
Sybilla parted the curtain and glanced at her sons in the bed they shared. Both were sleeping - turned away from each other rather than huddled together like puppies. William as usual was spread out like a starfish, taking up far more room than John. He expended so much vigour during the day that when it came time to sleep, he was guaranteed to be deep in slumber within moments of his head striking the pillow. Beside the boys’ bed two-year-old Margaret slept at one end of the big cradle, and Sybilla, born in early March, occupied the other. Sybilla’s heart filled with love and fierce pride. They would all make something of their lives, on that she was determined.
She returned to the main chamber and by the light from the fire and well-placed candles picked up her sewing, heaving a small sigh as she contemplated William’s chausses and the three-cornered tear in them. He was a hellion, always into scrapes, usually of the kind caused by his enormous physical energy and wild appetite for adventure. Young John was far more responsible: his clothes lasted twice as long and were generally in a fit state to hand down. There was very little of William’s that would be fit to pass on. Shaking her head, smiling through her exasperation, she threaded her needle and summoned Gundred and Lecia to play the harp and citole while she worked.
The door opened and John came into the chamber from the guardroom where he had been spending time with his knights. Doublet plodded at his side and went to flop down under the bench. She was getting old, Sybilla thought. He no longer took her out hunting for she couldn’t keep up with the pack.
He sat down beside Sybilla on the bench and glanced at her mending.
‘William,’ she said succinctly. ‘Tree-climbing.’
He gave an amused grunt. ‘They’ve just been telling me in the guardroom about his escapade with Baldwin’s sword. I don’t think William’s bound for the priesthood.’
‘No,’ she agreed. Gundred had given her the bald details. The notion of a five-year-old running amok with a sharp sword was one she had deliberately avoided dwelling upon.
‘A messenger rode in just as the gates were closing,’ he said.
She stopped sewing and studied him. His expression was ambiguous - irritation and reluctant humour, she decided. ‘And was his news good or bad?’
‘Awkward for us. Henry’s not going to be returning to England just yet.’
She knew he had been hoping for Henry’s return this summer - or autumn at the latest. The Prince had already been gone two and a half years, and although supplies were fed into Bristol from Normandy, she and John had been living a perilous existence, always fighting on the defensive and struggling to keep their lands intact and their people fed. ‘Why not?’
He leaned the back of his hand along the bench and stroked her hair which she had unveiled and loosened in the privacy of their chamber. ‘Because he has married the former Queen of France.’
Sybilla slewed to stare at him with widening eyes. ‘He’s done what?’
‘Married Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine. Louis cast her off because she has only borne him two daughters - although how you expect a crop to grow if you won’t plough the furrow and sow the seed is beyond my simple wit to understand. Henry’s taken advantage. Married her in Poitiers at Pentecost.’ John gave a rueful grin. ‘He’s nineteen years old and Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou and Maine, and lord of Aquitaine and Poitou. All he needs now is a crown.’ He thought of the bawling red-haired baby in his cradle at Rouen, of the belligerent youth trying to lay siege to Cricklade and failing miserably. One thing that could be said about Henry, he learned from his mistakes and he learned swiftly. He matured swiftly too. Nineteen years old with the former Queen of France in his bed, and John had no doubt that Henry, unlike King Louis, would be delighted to play the diligent ploughman.
‘So why can’t he come to England?’ Sybilla asked. ‘Surely getting married won’t prevent him?’
‘Because Louis of France didn’t set his wife free to marry the presumptuous young Duke of Normandy,’ John replied. ‘He’s refusing to recognise Henry’s claim. If Henry sails for England, he can bid farewell to his duchy. Before he can secure England, he must make his other domains safe.’
‘So we live on promises for another year.’ She tried not to sound petulant.
‘At most. One way or another it will be finished because we cannot hold out beyond another winter.’
Sybilla bent her head to her sewing once more. John had contingency plans for most eventualities, but she wondered if enduring for a final year was that plan. He was pragmatic and always spoke the truth to her, for which she was grateful. He wouldn’t tell her it was going to be all right if it wasn’t. She remembered the stories she had heard about Exeter Castle at the start of this war, and how its lady had gone out to Stephen with her hair unbound and wept at his feet for the lives of the people in the garrison. She could do the same if necessary. Indeed, she could probably make a better scene of it than Baldwin de Redvers’s wife. She had kin in France; they could go there as a last resort if John was dispossessed. And if he was killed . . . well then, she would be a widow still of child-bearing age and able by remarriage to do something for her children and stepchildren even if her heart was dead. Her vision blurred and a sudden tear darkened the fabric of her son’s chausses.
‘Sybilla?’ John stroked the back of her neck beneath her hair and looked at her with concern.
She bit her lip. She would not cry. She would be strong and pragmatic. ‘They say the Queen of France is a beauty.’ Her voice cracked around the edges despite her efforts to keep it light and blithe. ‘Have you ever seen her?’
‘I haven’t,’ he said, and a quirk of disbelieving amusement entered his voice. ‘Surely you are not driven to tears of jealousy?’
She sniffed and raised her head. ‘No, because even if you are led by your pintle, you’re unlikely to receive an invite to her bedchamber.’
John gave a delighted grin at her use of such a vulgar English word. It always surprised and amused him when she came out with scraps and phrases in her grandfather’s native tongue.
‘I spoke of Eleanor as a distraction,’ she said. ‘She has gone from one husband to another. I was trying to imagine myself doing the same.’
‘Oh yes?’ John caressed her cheek with the side of his thumb. ‘And how far did you get?’
‘Enough to know I could manage if I had to and that I would make the best of it.’ She swallowed and leaned into his touch. ‘But it would be like dining at a rough trestle on savourless fare when I have grown accustomed to fine napery and salt and spices.’
‘Ah, Sybilla,’ he said softly and kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the tender spot on her neck behind her earlobe. He gathered her in his arms, and with a flick of his fingers dismissed her women. ‘It’s a hunger that never goes away. I know. I’ve been there . . .’ He did not have to add Aline’s name. They both knew.
A while later they lay in bed, limbs entwined. He was still within her, his lips moving softly over her throat and collar bone. She set her fingers in his hair and tugged it gently. She loved his hair, had done so long before carnality and notions of bedding him had entered her head. He never let it get lank or greasy like some of the soldiers. If he suffered an infestation of lice, he did something about it. It always smelled clean and made her want to touch it. He was right about the hunger not going away. The appetite was more than a blending of healthy lust and platonic companionship. It was a need that hurt if it wasn’t fed. He must feel the same, she knew, even if most of the time he guarded his thoughts and emotions in a typically masculine way. Otherwise he wouldn’t have kept her at his side through thick and thin - and sometimes their circumstances had been so thin they were threadbare. When he took her to bed, as now, he was driven by more than the desire to procreate heirs and satisfy lust - although both those aspects were involved. When he was with her, she knew she was Sybilla to him, not just another body to ease a basic need. He would gasp her name in a way that melted her bones, and she well knew how to set a fire in his.
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