A Place Beyond Courage (55 page)
‘What happens now?’
‘They’ll up the stakes to prove they’re in earnest.’
‘You mean they’ll kill him?’
‘I would not put it past Martel, but Arundel is a force for reason and, as I said before, the King has a tender spot for women and children.’
Benet looked sick. ‘You meant it about the anvils and hammers, didn’t you?’
John felt the wine strike his belly like a hot lead fist. ‘You’ve known me all my life,’ he said impassively. ‘You shouldn’t have to ask.’ He glanced from the battlements to the small figure of his son, bound with rope, dangling aloft, and had to fight his gorge. ‘Keep the spears beating. I don’t want them to stop until it’s over - however it ends.’
The herald returned to Stephen and his courtiers and relayed John’s message.
Martel nodded with anger in which there was a seasoning of relish. Rubbing his hands, he turned to two serjeants standing nearby. ‘Bring kindling,’ he said. ‘If John Marshal understands nothing else, he knows what fire can do.’ He glanced up at William. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’
After the shock of suddenly being hoisted into the air, William had quite enjoyed the experience. It was like being up in a tree at home, except that there were no branches under him. He could almost imagine that he was a bird and that this was like flying. The baron called Martel said he expected him to kick a lot, so he did at first, but then he had stopped the better to watch the castle. A forest of spears lined the walls and a thundering noise began. Then his father’s soldiers began to chant in time with the rhythmic thunder of their spear butts on the palisade walkway. It was very exciting and William shouted and waved. He couldn’t see his father, but knew he must be there somewhere. It was too far away to tell, but he thought he heard him call something down to the herald. The latter returned at a hard gallop, relayed his message and Martel called for firewood to be brought. William watched them piling the faggots beneath his swing. Martel went away and then returned with a blazing torch. A gesture lowered William until he could almost touch the topmost pieces of firewood with his toes.
‘Now then, lad, do you like bonfires?’ Martel asked.
William nodded. He did, it was true.
Martel grinned up at him. ‘Let’s see how you and your father enjoy this one.’
He thrust the torch into the faggots. Almost immediately, flames caught amongst the smaller twigs and licked through the mesh of branches. Smoke rose in thin serpentine streamers and red tongues of heat flickered towards William’s shoe soles.
‘Are you watching this, John FitzGilbert?’ bellowed Martel towards the keep walls. ‘He’ll roast like a coney!’
The chanting from the castle walls changed quality, becoming louder and stronger.
William began to cough as the smoke reached his lungs.
The heat was fierce and it frightened him, but he knew he mustn’t cry because it would be breaking his promise. He bent his knees and tried to twist his body away from the blaze. A woman was screaming and a glance across the field showed him Mariette on her knees, wailing and pounding the ground with her fists.
‘Enough!’ the King roared and gestured the men to hoist William up away from the flames. ‘Put this out!’ He pointed to the fire.
‘Sire, the child’s life is forfeit,’ Martel said. ‘FitzGilbert needs to be taught a lesson.’
‘Mayhap he does, but I will not do it with the life of an innocent child. Look at him. Look at what you are doing. I will not imperil my soul with a deed such as this. If the Queen were still alive, she would not forgive me, let alone God in his heaven.’
‘You are making a mistake, sire,’ said Martel, tight-lipped.
‘That is nothing new in my life,’ Stephen retorted. ‘Whether the child dies or not, it is plain FitzGilbert is not going to yield unless we batter him into submission. Let the boy live another day. It may be that we can still use him.’
William watched the soldiers throw buckets of water on to the fire. He had been raised above the heat, but the residual smoke still stung his eyes and made him cough. He was hungry, thirsty, chafed and tired. The game had lost its appeal. Once the fire was doused sufficiently for it to be safe, they lowered him to the ground and the King himself pulled off the rope around his chest.
‘Child, your father may not care if you live or die, but I have more concern for my soul and for yours. Are you hurt?’
William looked up into the faded blue eyes with their inflamed red rims. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘Is there anything to eat . . . sire?’
A smile parted the King’s lips, and he chuckled. ‘No matter how busy your father is with those anvils and hammers of his, I doubt he will ever get braver than you,’ he said. ‘Come with me and I’ll find you something to eat and drink in my pavilion.’
In the silence of aftermath, the door bolted, John lay on his pallet and stared at the rafters, although he didn’t see the roughly hewn wooden beams. Scenes from the happenings of the afternoon haunted his vision - riding out to parley and deliberately ignoring his son, who was looking at him, desperate to be noticed, a world of innocent bewilderment in his eyes. The small body swinging on the gibbet. The building of the fire and the moment - almost too late - when they had hoisted William out of harm’s reach and doused the flames.
‘Ah, God!’ he groaned and rolling on to his stomach buried his face within his folded arms. His guilt and his grief were tearing him to shreds, but he knew he had to show an impassive face in public. Tears and recriminations were for women, not a battle-hardened commander with three other sons vouchsafed and a fecund young wife. But still the spasms wrenched through his chest like dry lightning and, finally, he let the storm have its way with him.
The dusk had seeped away into full darkness when at last he roused and stumbled from the bed to light the lantern on the coffer with a trembling hand. He splashed water on his face and felt the burn scar prickle like a severe nettle sting. He was ripped open, empty, but knew he had to go out and deal with matters. William had survived today, but there was still tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Stephen might withdraw, but John knew in his gut he would not. For the King it was now or never to crush Henry’s bases in England. Besides, Newbury had become personal.
John dried his face on a linen towel and drank down a cup of wine. He couldn’t remember anyone leaving him food but obviously they had for there was a cloth on the coffer and when he lifted it, he found half a simnel loaf and some of Sybilla’s cheese. He sat on his campstool and ate and drank with stoical deliberation, scarcely tasting the food but knowing he had to sustain himself if he was going to lead the men.
Arriving on the battlements a short while later, the trauma of the last few hours was concealed behind an impassive mask. He moved with his customary assurance and gave orders with unruffled certainty. He knew his men were eyeing him sidelong, admiring his ‘anvils and hammers’ and probably thinking him an unfeeling bastard. He knew he was a legend to them and he sought to keep their regard at that level, but it had its price.
‘They’ll attack at first light,’ he told Benet as he halted on the same spot where he had stood that afternoon. ‘Stand as many men down as you can tonight. Let them be well fed and rested, ready for the dawn.’ He looked out over the dotted fires of the siege camp. Somewhere among those tents his small son still lived and breathed. Still a hostage, still a plaything and a pawn. A spoil of war, a sacrifice. He wondered if William understood anything of what had happened today - and if so, would the child hate him for it? Even if he did, it wouldn’t be as much as John hated himself.
43
Newbury, July 1152
The floor of the King’s tent had been strewn with fresh meadow grasses that morning to replace the trampled ones of the previous day. William inhaled the strong green scent, intensified by the enclosing canvas. It was a nice smell, he thought - better than smoke. He didn’t much like that one at the moment.
He had recovered swiftly from his ordeal of two days since. After he had been freed from the rope halter, the King had taken him under his wing and brought him to his own tent where he had given him proper wine to drink and a whole platter of almond wafers. William had been excited to see the King’s armour and weapons. He had loved the rich hangings and the silk coverlet on the bed. The King said that William should stay with him, enter his service and become his page. He said that he was giving him an opportunity to grow up and show what a loyal knight he was. William liked the idea of becoming a page and then a knight. None of his brothers had been granted such a privilege and he was to train with the King himself. He had decided that what had happened two days ago had been a kind of test. In the stories his mother told and the songs Tamkin sang in the hall at night, the heroes always had to undertake quests. It was a pity he wasn’t being allowed to go home though. In the darkest part of the night he had almost cried when he thought about not seeing his mother and siblings again for a long time, but daylight had brought acceptance of what was going to be - and anticipation.
The tent entrance darkened as King Stephen stepped within and gestured his attendants to leave him in peace. He looked a trifle startled when he saw William, but stepped around him and sat down heavily in his barrel chair with its red embroidered cushion.
‘You’re like a little ghost,’ he said, rubbing his hand over his face. ‘It’s as if I see my own sons playing where you now play.’
William wasn’t sure he liked being compared to a ghost. ‘Where are your sons?’ he asked.
Stephen gave him a tired smile. ‘Fighting,’ he said. ‘Grown up. Dead.’
‘My papa’s got a lot of sons.’
‘So he has. He has the Devil’s own good fortune.’ Stephen glanced towards the tent entrance. ‘Or perhaps he’s the Devil himself,’ he growled. ‘Some of the bishops seem to think so.’ He poured himself a cup of wine. ‘I’ll admit he has courage though. Trying to shift him is like trying to push a cart laden with boulders to the top of a mountain. If matters had been different . . .’ He looked broodingly at William. ‘I underestimated him. I won’t do it again. I can’t afford to.’
William didn’t know what the King was talking about, only that it concerned his papa and it wasn’t all good. He busied himself about the floor, collecting up plantains from among the newly cut meadow grass. The stalks and seed-heads somewhat resembled a lance with a fat tip. ‘Do you want to play a game of knights?’ he asked hopefully.
Stephen looked at William and the sad smile returned, although this time it was warmer. ‘Why not, my little friend,’ he said. ‘What do I have to lose?’
William placed a handful in Stephen’s lap and eyed him expectantly. ‘Who has the first turn?’ he asked. He knew it was polite to offer that privilege rather than to wade in himself.
Stephen’s lips twitched. ‘You do, since you gathered up the stalks,’ he said, ‘and you are my guest.’ He held up one of the stalks and gave William the opportunity to try to knock off the seed-head, and as they played his smile continued to grow. William succeeded in knocking the head off the King’s plantain stalk, which greatly delighted him and caused the King to chuckle. ‘I should have known not to give the advantage to a Marshal,’ he said.
They continued to play until William Martel arrived with Arundel to give a battle report. ‘God knows how many arrows he’s got stored in there,’ Martel grumbled. ‘Certainly he doesn’t seem to be running out. I’ve lost another good man this afternoon.’ He glared at William. ‘We ought to bring the targes forward and strap the boy to them. That would give the bastards second thoughts.’
‘You think so?’ Stephen looked wry. ‘I doubt it.’ He leaned against the curved back of his chair. ‘He doesn’t have an endless supply and we’ll draw all of his teeth in the end. Just wear him down with that trebuchet and keep your men behind the targes.’
‘He put fire arrows through one this morning,’ Martel said in an aggrieved voice. ‘We can’t get near enough to the structures and he’s keeping them well wetted.’
‘I well know how good John FitzGilbert is as a warrior and siege captain,’ Stephen said, thin-lipped. ‘I know it won’t be easy, but I am not prepared to have him sitting on my back when we ride for Wallingford. We have to take this place.’
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