To Defy a King (58 page)

Their lovemaking was a blend of the wild and the tender. Of fierceness in which residues of anger and frustration were burned away, tensions relieved, hurts assuaged and new bonds forged. Hugh clenched his teeth as his crisis approached and prepared to pull from her body, but she wrapped her legs around him and drew him to a tighter embrace. 'No,' she gasped against his ear. 'I want all of you! Now!'

Her words drove him to the final surge and he pressed his head against her throat, sobbing her name; as she rose against him, he felt that he was home after a long, stormy voyage. By the very act of completion within her body, she was saying that she was prepared to conceive another child - that she had come far enough along the road to want to bear one of his begetting.

In the aftermath, he continued to hold her close, reluctant to be parted, and pulled the coverlet over them both. In the dim light from the bed lamp, she reached up to stroke his face. 'If a child comes of this,' she whispered, 'if we are so blessed, I want him or her to be born to a land at peace. Surely it will be over by then. Surely we can begin to think of living again.'

Hugh ran his fingers through her hair. 'The greatest impediment is gone, but my father and I have given our oath to Louis and we must move cautiously for the sake of all. A great deal rests upon what happens now.'

'Upon my father, you mean?'

'Yes, upon your father. If any man can bring us through this, it is he.'

She lifted her head to look at him. 'Would you support him against Louis?'

'And be foresworn?' Hugh frowned. 'We gave Louis our word of honour.

Your father of all men will understand that. We need to know where we stand first, because otherwise how do we keep our balance?' He waited for her to bristle and say in high dudgeon that he should swear for her father immediately, but she remained quiet and thoughtful.

'So may I write to him?'

He hesitated. The fact that she was asking permission was a compromise on her part that melted him, but at the same time, he had caveats.

'You do not trust me.' Some of the old anger bristled in her voice.

'It is not that,' he said hastily, knowing he should not have paused because she was so swift on the uptake and hurts were still raw - on both sides. 'I know you will do everything you can to mend the breaches. But our letters must be a joint effort.'

She eyed him narrowly. 'Of mutual trust?'

'Of blending,' he said. 'Like that blue belt we wove together, or the children we have made between us.' He kissed her again to seal the words, and also for reassurance. A part of him was tense, waiting for her to remark that trust and blending were not the same things. He added, 'There's always a place where the parts overlap and mingle, however different they are at the other edge.'

She gave a reluctant laugh. 'Oh indeed,' she said. 'Indeed, my husband.' She licked her forefinger and thumb and leaned over him to pinch out the candle.

The darkness enfolded them.

The late February dusk was bitterly cold. Swathed in a fur-lined mantle, Mahelt stood beside Longespee and held her hands towards the recently kindled fire crackling in the hearth. It was just beginning to yield heat to the immediate area, but beyond the initial ring of cheer, the cold lingered. They had come to Thetford that afternoon and while the servants prepared the house, she had attended mass in the abbey and paid her respects at Ida's grave. She had given three cloaks in alms to the poor and three marks of silver in Ida's memory, and had laid a fresh wreath of evergreen upon the tomb.

Her father-in-law was in the church, giving Ida the time in death he had not afforded her while she was living, and saying his prayers while the candle burned down the wick. Perhaps he was reflecting on his own time too and the moment when he also would lie under stone in the priory church. The rest of the family had left him to his vigil and returned to the house. It had been shut up for months and was chill and musty, especially being close to the river, but at least this fire was burning well now and the bed linen Mahelt had brought with her from London was herb-scented and fresh. The Prior had promised to send dishes from his kitchens, and while it would only be pottage and salt fish in this season, it would at least be hot. Hugh was outside talking to the grooms, Roger and Hugo with him. She could hear their voices piping in the yard as they played chase and the sound of their father's deeper tones in earnest conversation about the state of a horse with colic.

For the moment, in the long dark period of Lent, there was a truce while both sides recuperated and considered their stance and their options. Her father had been elected regent to reign on behalf of King John's nine-year-old son. He had offered amnesties and had reissued a more considered form of the great charter that had been negotiated and signed at Runnymede. Some barons had returned to the fold, but men were wary. Her father-in-law said that it was like being led into a chicken coop by a trail of crumbs and not knowing if a comfortable roost awaited - or the headsman's axe. That Mahelt's father was the one strewing the crumbs made little difference to his opinion. Hugh was reticent on the subject, only saying at the time the chicken analogy was mentioned that it was not a matter of being led into a coop, but of being clear-sighted and knowing who you were and where you stood. If you weren't on firm ground then how could you move forward? If you had given your oath to a man, then you could not renege on it, unless he reneged first, because that was your honour.

She turned to Longespee who, much like herself, had been staring into the flames in silence. 'I am glad you came,' she said. 'For your mother's sake and for yours.'

He gave her a twisted smile. 'So am I, although I did not know how welcome I would be.'

'Times have moved on,' she said. 'They have had to.' She went to a baggage coffer standing in a corner, unfastened the ties and brought out the small enamelled box that Ida had entrusted to her 'Your mother kept this close every day of her life,' she said. 'She wanted you to have it.'

Gingerly, Longespee took the box, opened it and looked down at the tiny shoes and the lock of hair.

'They are yours,' she said. 'They were all she had of you when she was forced to leave you behind. She grieved deeply over losing you and these were one of her greatest treasures.'

Longespee gently closed the box. 'Thank you.' A muscle ticked beneath his cheekbone. 'I shall treasure this too.' He looked round as Hugh entered the room, his sons in tow, and tucked the box under his arm to shield it, his expression closing.

Hugh took in his half-brother's action while he sent the boys to wash their hands and faces. 'She loved you,' he said. 'And so deeply that it was an unhealing wound - for everyone.'

Longespee brought the box out again and looked down at it. 'I am sorry I did not know her better.' He rubbed his thumbs over the gilding.

'We all are - my father most of all. My mother had regrets throughout her life; my father's have begun since she died.' He started towards the door. 'I should go and fetch him.'

'I shall come with you,' Longespee said.

Hugh concealed his surprise. He and his half-brother might have a truce, but keeping each other's company was a different matter. Leaving the house, they walked the short distance to the priory, their way lit by a stable lad bearing a lantern. The river glittered like jet and the wind tossed through trees that were still stark but beginning to peep with bud.

Longespee cleared his throat. 'I have been thinking long and hard.'

'About what?' Hugh had an inkling what was coming because he too had been deeply pondering of late.

After a long pause Longespee said, 'I have decided to go to the Marshal and tender my fealty to my brother's son, the rightful king of England.'

'That will mean renouncing the oath you swore to Louis.'

Longespee hesitated as they approached the abbey gatehouse, then he put his head down and strode forwards into the precinct as if standing within hallowed grounds would give support to his next words. 'I had to renounce John - because of what he did to Ela, and because I could not stand against Louis. I thought it would bring my brother to heel. It was never to overthrow the sovereign, and I shall not depose my own nephew in favour of a Frenchman. The young king's grandfather was my father.'

'It has taken you a while to find your conscience,' Hugh said curtly.

Longespee gave an uncomfortable roll of his shoulders. 'I couldn't let my brother behave as he was doing. Louis was the only alternative at the time, but now we have the Marshal and I trust him. I do not fear for England with him at the helm. Louis has called a truce and gone to France. Perhaps he won't return.'

'That is wishful thinking. All he is doing is summoning more troops. He is not faithless like John.'

Longespee jutted his jaw. 'My mind is set. You may hate me for it; that is your entitlement. I would not have brother against brother; that is the last thing our mother would have wanted and we have been down that road too often to take it again.'

'I do not hate you,' Hugh said wearily. 'But I do not have to like you or the choices you make. For our mother's sake and her memory, I am prepared to keep the peace.'

They stopped as they reached the doors to the church. Hugh folded his hands around his belt and rested on one hip. 'I gave my oath to Louis. So did my father; we are bound in honour to support him until he should dissolve that bond.' He said nothing of Longespee's own honour. That was for his half-brother's conscience.

'I shall speak for you with the Marshal if you wish.'

'We can speak for ourselves,' Hugh snapped, and then heaved a sigh. 'I am not ungrateful, but you take your path, and let me take mine. There will come a time when truces have to be negotiated and both sides will need good lawyers. What is fought for must be set down on parchment and in law, and that is as important as the fighting because it determines our future beyond the day.'

Together they entered the church and walked in silence up the nave to the choir. Hugh's father had risen to his feet and was smoothing his hat under his hands. It was an old one, showing wear and the shine of grease, but the peacock feather in the band was new.

'This was her favourite,' the Earl said. 'I wore it for her.'

'She would have appreciated it,' Hugh replied gently. After a respectful while he added, 'Will you come to the house? There is food and warmth, and Longespee wants to talk to you.'

His father inclined his head, but turned back to the tomb to lay his hat there beside Mahelt's fresh garland of evergreen. He crossed himself, bowed, and left the abbey bare-headed.

47

London, September 1217

Hugh watched Louis pace up and down his chamber in the Tower of London like a lean, enraged lion, his usually even nature deposed by a flush of angry frustration. Since Louis's return with reinforcements at the end of April, his cause had suffered a crippling defeat in battle at Lincoln in May. Then, a fortnight ago, fresh reinforcements sailing from France had been destroyed and scattered in a disastrous sea battle off the English coast at Sandwich. His English supporters were deserting him in droves to swear to the young king and his regent William Marshal. Louis had no option but to sue for peace.

Hugh was still at his side, because he had sworn Louis his allegiance and what did a man have if not his honour? Besides, his legal abilities, his knowledge of English law and his kinship with William Marshal meant that he was in a position to negotiate the best for his family from the peace treaty. Hugh had fought at neither Lincoln nor Sandwich, but had spent his time in London as a core member of Louis's administration.

'Four days it has taken them to answer,' Louis snarled, gesturing with contempt at the parchments on the trestle. 'Four days! And now they want me to go before them dressed in my undergarments in token of my submission. I will undergo no such humiliation!' His eyes flashed. 'I would rather fight to the death! You asked me to be your king because the one you had was unfit to be one, and now you subject me to this when I have tried to save you?'

Salomon de Basing, the mayor of London, rubbed worried hands. 'Sire, the regent has brought up his troops to blockade us in. We must have peace. I fear for the city if we continue to refuse.'

Louis curled his lip. 'I will negotiate an honourable peace; I will not surrender, and I will not be shamed. The Marshal knows this.'

'Perhaps if you were to wear a rich cloak over your garments,' Hugh suggested. 'Who then will know, other than those immediately around you?

You will not be seen without your tunic by the greater public.'

Louis cast him an irritated look. 'I would know,' he growled and paced the room again.

Hugh looked down at the parchments under his hands. Louis did not want to admit defeat - none of them did - but they had no choice. As the mayor said, London was under blockade and their situation could only deteriorate. But then again, his father-in-law could not afford to go for the throat because he had interests in France that he had to safeguard, and even a wounded dog could still bite viciously.