To Defy a King (26 page)

Mahelt lashed her reins down on the mare's neck and dug in her small silver spurs. Snorting with indignant surprise, the mare bolted across the clearing at a hard gallop. Muttering an oath, Hugh spurred Hebon after her, pushing the stallion to his fastest pace. He thundered alongside Mahelt's black mare and reached to grab her bridle, hauling her in close as he would have done with an opponent at a tourney. The mare chopped to a standstill just before the tree line.

'Your father is too shrewd to be caught,' Hugh panted. 'The King isn't after him anyway. He's after de Braose and the de Laceys.'

'Yet but for the grace of God it could be my father too!' she spat. 'We all know why he's after de Braose - and it's not because de Braose owes him money, is it?'

'No, it's because his wife couldn't keep her mouth shut!'

'If you see that as the sin, then I have nothing more to say to you.' She wrenched the mare around and began to trot back towards the castle.

Hugh cursed and rode after her. 'I didn't say it was the sin. I said it was the reason. You are putting words into my mouth.'

'But it is all a matter of degree. You will help to destroy de Braose and then you will be condoning the murder of Prince Arthur. Do you not think John should be brought to account over that before he makes others accountable?'

Hugh said harshly, 'Out here there is only me to hear you say this. Your father knows well when to bridle his tongue. I would hope that for all our sakes you have the same skill.'

Mahelt kicked her mare to a gallop again and this time Hugh let her go.

Hugh jiggled his son in his arms. 'Be a good boy for your mother while I am gone.' He kissed little Roger's cheek. The baby laughed and reached to pull his father's hat off. Hugh grinned and plopped it over the soft round head.

Watching them together, Mahelt's stomach clenched. Ever since Hugh had told her he was going to Ireland, there had been a wall between them. She didn't want him to go, but there was nothing she could do to prevent him.

She was angry with him, with the King, and with her father-in-law for forcing him to this duty. The Earl wasn't so elderly or ill that he could not attend in person. She was furious with herself too because she did not know how to mend the situation. Certainly not by apologising, because she knew she was right. Supposing there was a war? Supposing she lost both her husband and her father? The notion terrified her. She had never been clingy or weepy. She had always stood fast with her head high and she hated the feelings filling her heart. This was a side of loving and loyalty that was unbearable.

Hugh retrieved his hat and handed his son to his nurse. The baby's face puckered as he prepared to bawl and the woman shushed him and bore him away to the window to look at the activity in the yard.

Hugh went to Mahelt. 'It's time.' Tentatively he traced the side of her face with his thumb and then stooped to kiss her mouth.

Mahelt closed her eyes, desperate to absorb this last imprint before he went to war. 'Dear God,' she whispered, 'I do not want you to go.'

'I do not want to go either, but I must; it is my duty.'

'Yes,' Mahelt said bitterly. 'Your duty.' She knew she was not being fair, but for the moment could not go beyond her own distress. She rose, went to the window and took the baby from the nurse. Holding him against her, she kissed his soft cheek, and then stared at the courtyard until her eyes were so dry they stung. Behind her, she heard the door latch lift and drop as Hugh left the room.

Lips compressed, Mahelt forced herself to move before it became impossible. Still carrying her son, she went down to the courtyard to bid farewell. The Earl was already waiting, and Ida too. Stepping out into the overcast morning, Mahelt entered the public arena and prepared to fulfil her duty.

Hugh knelt to his father and received his blessing. Then to his mother. He embraced Mahelt again, but it was a stilted thing, performed before an audience. Little Roger squealed and held out his arms as Hugh mounted Hebon, and Hugh took him up on his saddle while the men around him made their last-minute adjustments. Then, leaning down, he returned the baby to Mahelt. 'A part of you and a part of me,' he said with an eloquent look. He saluted her and, reining about, led the cavalcade out of Framlingham without looking back.

Ida patted Mahelt's shoulder as the rump of the last pack pony ambled out of the castle gateway. 'I know how you feel, my love,' she said. 'Go and lie down with a cold cloth on your brow. I'll look after the little one.'

Mahelt shook her head vigorously, appalled at the notion. In truth Ida had no idea how she felt. When her mother-in-law was upset, she invariably retreated to her sewing or to her bed, but Mahelt knew she would go mad if she did that for solace. She needed to be busy - to have her mind occupied with practical matters other than the dreaded sewing.

The Earl cleared his throat and said gruffly, 'Daughter, the undercroft must be checked to see what needs replacing now the men have gone.'

His expression was impassive and his eyes were their usual watchful flint-grey, but Mahelt detected a glimmer of something that was almost kindness. 'I shall see to it, Father,' she said, and although she was furious with him for sending Hugh in his stead, she felt an unwonted spark of gratitude.

22

Crooke, Southern Ireland, Summer 1210

'Whoa there, steady, steady.' With soothing words, Hugh coaxed his destrier down the gangplank and on to the beach. It was always a chancy business sending horses across the Irish Sea, but God had been merciful and the crossing calm; thus the animals had not suffered too much. Brunet was a young, powerful stallion from the Bigod stud herd. His hide bore the sheen of copper at twilight and his face was marked with a dazzling white blaze.

He was a direct descendant of the warhorse Hugh's father had ridden into the thick of the battle at Fornham Saint Genevieve when the beleaguered royalists had brought down a rebel army four times the size of their own.

The June sun blazed like a furnace on the back of Hugh's neck as he saw Brunet safely into the hands of a groom and then turned back to disembark Hebon. The entire shoreline at Crooke was edged with the vessels of King John's transport fleet, their prows beached, their sterns sea-washed. Seven hundred ships laden with men and supplies, not just for the expected conflict, but for administering the aftermath. Over six hundred skins of parchment had been brought on one galley for writing a new constitution for Ireland that would increase John's powers and limit those of his barons.

Further down the shore, Hugh could see men and provisions being disgorged from the Marshal vessels. His father-in-law had come to the King at Cross on the Sea near Pembroke, had done him homage and promised his support.

Hugh had no idea what William Marshal had said to John, but whatever it was had been enough to keep him intact, if not in favour. He had neither been cast from the court nor declared a rebel, even if the atmosphere between him and the King could have been cut with a blunt knife.

Hugh saw Longespee striding along the beach towards him from the direction of his own ships and, with a mental groan, braced himself.

'Good crossing, wasn't it?' Longespee remarked, rubbing his hands as he joined him. The sea wind snagged at his cloak and bustled his hair like a rough unseen hand.

Hugh nodded. 'We had a halyard snap, but otherwise yes, and the horses travelled well.'

Longespee feasted his eyes on Brunet. 'Where have you been hiding that one? I didn't see him at the stables in Framlingham.'

'He wasn't there,' Hugh said curtly, feeling protective. 'My father was grazing him with the Bungay herd.' His nape prickled and he gestured to the groom to move the stallion off the beach.

Longespee's gaze lingered. 'Fit for a king.'

Hugh said nothing and eventually his half-brother appeared to take the hint because he turned to regard the deceptively calm and sparkling sea and changed the subject. 'Once we've recovered our land legs, my brother tells me we're bringing the army to the Marshal's keep at Kilkenny.'

'And at the Marshal's expense, I suppose,' Hugh said.

Longespee shrugged and raised his eyes to the gulls circling over the beached fleet. 'That is the nature of being a vassal-in-chief. When the King comes to your demesne, you foot the expense.'

'Especially when he comes with an army.'

'Especially then.' Longespee moved on to speak with the Count of Aumale and Hugh returned to overseeing the unloading of his ships in a thoughtful mood. Longespee was kin to William Marshal through marriage and had always appeared to admire him, but he was also brother to the King. Who knew where Longespee's sympathies lay - perhaps not even Longespee himself.

Relaxing on a cushioned bench, Hugh felt his eyes grow heavy. After a full day in the saddle commanding men, it was so good to sit in comfort in Countess Isabelle's private chamber at Kilkenny, relax his guard and drink glorious, golden Irish mead. Curled against his side like a puppy was Eve, one of Mahelt's little sisters. The child was six years old with a plait of wavy fair hair and merry hazel eyes. A baby girl younger than his own son slept in a cradle. The Marshal might be well past three score, but his wife was still of child-bearing age and the marital bed still obviously a fruitful place. Various other Marshal offspring flitted in and out of his sight as they played. Ancel was a lively toddler. There were three little girls including Eve, and two coltish boys, one in early adolescence, the other in late childhood. He thought Isabelle looked tired, but then of late she had withstood the near destruction of her family and the loss of her two eldest sons as hostages.

While her endangered husband strove to hold all together at court, she had had to maintain their estates, deal with her vassals, run a household and cope with pregnancy. He could not imagine his own gentle mother managing such a feat, although he suspected Mahelt had it within her.

Isabelle joined him on the bench with her own cup of mead. Despite the tired lines on her face, her eyes were clear and intelligent. 'Tell me of my grandson,' she said, the manner of her smile informing him she was in need of distraction.

Hugh leaned back, careful not to disturb the sleeping child. 'He's a fine little chap. Strong and lusty and full of curiosity. Into everything and doesn't stop while he's awake - which is most of the time.' His smile was rueful. 'He's very much like his mother.'

Isabelle laughed. 'Your hands appear to be full, my lord.' Hugh gestured agreement and regaled her with tales of the baby's antics, told her how many teeth he had, and presented her with a lock of little Roger's hair, dark like his mother's and secured with a tag of blue silk thread.

Isabelle stroked the soft keepsake. 'My daughter is well?'

'Yes, indeed, madam.' He wondered if she knew about the incident when Mahelt had absconded to meet her brother. It wasn't something likely to be discussed. Pretending it had never happened was the safest road. 'She is anxious for her family in these troubled times and she misses you.'

'As we miss her. Please reassure her that we are well and no harm has come to us.'

'Of course I will.' He wasn't sure if Mahelt would believe him.

'I have gifts if you will take them in your baggage.'

He inclined his head. 'With pleasure.'

Isabelle gave him a pensive look and he wondered if she was waiting for him to speak - but what else was there to say?

Isabelle sighed. 'My daughter can be difficult to deal with. She has all her father's vigour and energy - if not his tact. From being a tiny girl she always tried to match her big brothers - at everything.'

Hugh chuckled. 'I had noticed. She hates sewing or anything that involves sitting still, but I love her for it. She reminds me of the sky.'

'Why do you say that?'

He laughed again and felt himself redden. 'Because she is so different from day to day. You never know whether there will be clouds or sunshine. You bask in the sunshine and run for cover when there's a thunderstorm . . . but you are never bored, and sometimes you are overwhelmed that such beauty could exist.'

Isabelle gave him a fond look and reached to pat his knee. 'I did wonder whether we were right to match her to you - for your sake as much as hers -

but your words reassure me that we made no mistake.'

Hugh cleared his throat. 'I cherish her,' he said. 'I shall love and protect her as best I can.'

'You are a good man; I know you will.' Isabelle smiled at him as he rose to take his leave. Disturbed from her slumber, Eve yawned like a kitten and rubbed her eyes.

'I do not know about that,' Hugh said awkwardly. 'I am sorry for the manner of my visit. I wish it were in happier circumstances.'

'So do I,' William Marshal said from the doorway.

Hugh started to bow, but the older man made a gesture to prevent him, and strode forward to clasp his shoulder. 'Even as Mahelt now stands as your father's daughter in marriage, so you are my son.'

'Look,' said Isabelle, 'a lock of our grandson's hair.' She held it out on her palm. 'Hugh says he is like Matty.'

The seams at William's eye corners deepened as he smiled but sadness glimmered too as he looked at the silky lock. 'I hope we see him one day soon.' He looked at Hugh. 'You were just leaving?'

'I have to check the men and the horses, sire.'

William nodded. 'You've a lot of responsibility in your father's absence. I hope he is not too unwell?' His tone was bland and urbane.

'His knees are troubling him, sire. His body feels the years but his mind is still sharp.'

'Knowing your father, I do not doubt that,' William said drily. 'Nor do I doubt you will live up to his expectations.'

'I hope so, sire. But I am sorry to be here.'

'You do what you must to survive,' William said, 'as we all do, within the bounds of what is honourable and what is sworn.'

Hugh bowed and took his leave. Isabelle saw him to the door, promising to send a servant with the aforementioned gifts before the army rode on from Kilkenny. As she kissed his cheek, Hugh inhaled a warm, spicy scent that reminded him of Mahelt and filled him with longing. Being here in this chamber at Kilkenny was like being at home and at the same time was something so different that it wasn't like home at all. As he left the chamber, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Mahelt's father was sitting upon the bench he had just vacated, and was rubbing his face with his hands in the gesture of a man burdened with too many cares.