To Defy a King (7 page)

'I believe you would, but I don't think I would have much skill at embroidery and the Bigods would certainly receive a shock.'

Mahelt forced herself to play along, and gave him a watery smile and a nudge of reproof.

'Besides, it's my duty.' He cast a final, lingering look around the room.

Mahelt put her hands behind her back, gripping them together in an effort not to throw herself at him again.

He ushered her ahead of him down the twisting stairs and out to the courtyard. The summer sun blazed upon the saddled horses and sumpters; it glittered on harness and trappings. Will had a new grey stallion for his journey, with Equus as his second string. Her father, who was escorting him, was already astride his horse and wore his customary air of calm. Mahelt wondered how he could be so strong and implacable. She tried to emulate him, but it was impossible. Her mother's complexion was pale and her eyes were full of grief, but she held her head high.

'We'll not be broken,' Mahelt heard her say softly as they watched Will mount up. 'We'll never be broken.' Her voice became no more than a breath. 'But oh my son, oh my child.'

Mahelt's own grief welled up, as did her fury at King John for tearing into her family like this and opening such painful wounds. As the final horse trotted out of the gate, she whirled round and fled to the chamber she shared with her little sisters, threw herself down on her bed, pummelled her pillow and wept.

After a while, her mother came and sat on the bed. Taking Mahelt in her arms, she stroked her hair. 'Courage, daughter,' she said, her own eyes puffy and red-rimmed. 'Weep now, but tomorrow be strong. Remember who we are and that whatever else is taken from us, they will never strip our honour and our pride.'

Watching Ralph wander around the bedchamber with the distracted air of a lovesick swain, Hugh wrestled the urge to grab him by the scruff and shake some sense into him. It was on the tip of his tongue to snap that William Longespee was a mortal man, not a god, but telling him would only result in rolled eyes and hostility. Ralph had to discover such a thing for himself.

Ralph had been in this condition for a week now, ever since Longespee had come to visit, full of ebullience following his successful campaign at La Rochelle, and offered to take him into his household as a squire. Ralph had been ecstatic and desperate to seize the opportunity. Longespee had basked in the adulation and although nothing was said, it was plain he thought he was being gracious and bountiful towards his Bigod kin.

'It's all packed.' Ralph glanced at the two baggage rolls at the side of his bed. He fixed wistful eyes on the pair of wolf pelts spread on the floor.

'Longespee won't thank you for bringing those,' Hugh said. 'Indeed, I suspect he won't allow you. He doesn't have that kind of tolerance.'

Ralph sighed. 'I suppose you are right.'

'I know I am. I tell you what. I'll keep them to remind me of you, and they'll be here when you return - unless Mother throws them out.'

'She won't,' Ralph said. 'She'll keep them, like she's kept all of our baby teeth and our first tunics and shoes.'

Hugh grinned wry agreement, thinking of the chest in his mother's chamber filled with a motley assortment of mementos from their childhood. (His first hobby horse was in there, patched and refurbished, if a little bald around the ears.) Not that he could imagine her adding two wolf pelts to the collection.

Even now, a year later, there was a heavy, unpleasant aroma when they were shaken out.

'I'm going to miss you.' Hugh pulled Ralph into a rough, bear-cub embrace.

'The Earl of Salisbury had better look after you well or I shall be down upon him with all the force of a stone from a trebuchet.' He rubbed his knuckles over the top of Ralph's head. Ralph struggled free and aimed a swipe, but Hugh ducked out of the way.

'Don't worry,' Ralph said. 'I can take care of myself. I promise not to return swirling my cloak and posing as if I expect everyone to look at me.' He struck an attitude.

'If you do, I'll be down on you also,' Hugh warned, but he was laughing.

Ralph flashed an exuberant grin. 'You'd have to catch me first.' He dodged Hugh's cuff and, going to the bed, slung a satchel over his shoulder and hefted one of the baggage rolls. 'I'm going to miss you too,' he said. 'And home.' He looked around the chamber. 'But not enough to stay.'

Hugh lifted the second baggage roll and together the brothers left their bedchamber for the hall.

Longespee was seated talking to their mother. His garments were immaculate and draped with a casual artifice that left Hugh wondering how much practice it had taken to achieve such nonchalance. Their mother was listening attentively to him, her face alight with maternal pride. He was regaling her with a story about a school of dolphins that had played across their bows on the homeward journey from La Rochelle. He was good at telling tales, knowing how to make the gestures and flourishes so that one could almost see the steel-silver leap of the creatures from sea to sky and back to sea. Ralph's arrival was the signal for the conversation to break up and everyone to go out to the courtyard where Longespee's entourage awaited the order to leave. More fervent embraces ensued; shoulder slaps; exhortations to take care. Ralph knelt to his parents and received their blessing and an extra hug from his mother. A groom strapped his baggage to the packhorse and Ralph mounted his bay palfrey. His grey eyes were bright and he was quivering with the thrill of imminent adventure. Nevertheless, as he gathered his reins, he pushed out his chin and affected a straight-backed dignity.

Ida sniffed and dabbed at a tear, and Hugh curved a comforting arm around her shoulders. Hands gripped around his belt and legs squarely planted, his father stood a little aloof to watch his son ride out. 'Count your blessings, madam,' he said with an exasperated look at his wife. 'At least he is going of his own free will and not as a hostage to Longespee's royal brother as the Marshal lad has done. May we always avoid such a situation.'

Hugh felt his mother shiver under his hand. 'Amen to that,' she said. 'I pray for the Marshals and their boy.'

They returned to the hall; it was quiet now the visitors had gone. Hugh didn't miss Longespee's presence one bit, but there was a gap at his side where Ralph had been, and suddenly he was glad he had persuaded his merry younger brother to leave his pungent wolfskins behind.

8

Castle of Striguil, Welsh Borders, June 1206

Sitting at her needlework, Mahelt listened to the patter of heavy rain outside the shutters. She was working on a bolster case to put in her wedding chest.

Knowing how skilled her future mother-in-law was at embroidery, she was trying to make a neat job of the delicate whitework. Each time she set the needle into the fabric, she was reminded of how swiftly time was passing.

Three months ago she had begun her fluxes. The flowers they were called, because, like a flower, her body had begun to produce seed and thus she was capable of conceiving a child, if not yet possessing the pelvic width to successfully birth one. Mahelt had been both proud and apprehensive at the appearance of the monthly blood because it marked her transition into womanhood, and brought her marriage a step closer. No one had raised the subject beyond a few teasing smiles and general talk while they worked on her trousseau, but she knew that what had been a distant speck on the horizon had moved significantly closer.

She raised her head towards the open window as she heard the sound of a horn blowing to announce her father's arrival and, with a quickening of relief, put her sewing aside.

Her mother left her own needlework and issued brisk orders to build up the fire. 'They'll be soaked to the skin,' she said, glancing at the teeming rain.

Mahelt leaped to her feet, already reaching for her cloak. 'I'll go down!' She flurried from the room, eager to be the first to greet her father and have him to herself for however brief a moment. Her soft goatskin shoes were no barrier to the bailey puddles, but she paid no heed nor to the water soaking upwards from the hem of her gown. As her father rode through the gateway, her excitement soared. For an instant she was a little girl in Normandy again, overjoyed at his return, demanding to be taken up on his saddle. That memory drove her forward now. Wearing a smile as wide as the sun, she reached his stirrup, half hoping he would remember old times too and reach down to her.

He had been hunched over his pommel, but he made an effort to sit up.

'Matty.' His voice emerged as a hoarse croak. 'Matty, where's your mother?'

Mahelt's dazzle of excitement became a plummet of fear. His eyes were glittering and opaque at the same time, like polished but scratched stones.

His cheeks wore a scarlet flush. 'In the keep, instructing the women--'

'Fetch her then, sweetheart . . .' He dismounted but clung to the horse as his knees almost buckled. Mahelt felt the heat emanating from him like a brazier. 'Go, child . . . do not come too close, there's a good girl. I'm tired from the journey; I wouldn't want to fall on you.'

Mahelt heard him trying to make light of his difficulty and not succeeding.

An attendant came to support him as the horse was led away. Mahelt raced back to the keep, splashing through the puddles. Her mother was in the hall, becloaked and on her way to greet her returning husband. Mahelt grabbed her arm. 'Come quickly! Papa's sick. He's got a fever and he can't stand up!'

Her mother gave her a horrified look and took to her heels. By the time she and Mahelt arrived in the lower ward, he was being supported towards the keep, his knight Jean D'Earley on one side and a sturdy groom on the other.

After a single exclamation, Isabelle tightened her lips and hurried to help.

Mahelt would have joined her, but Isabelle ordered her to go and see that the bed was prepared and extra blankets and bolsters fetched. Mahelt sped to the task, snapping at the women to make haste. She plumped and shook the pillows herself, expending some of her frightened energy on them. When her father arrived, staggering badly, she ran to him, but he fended her off. 'Let the men tend me, Matty. They are just as wet as I am. I'll be all right by and by.'

Her mother sent her to deal with matters in the hall and liaise with the chamberlain and steward to see to the needs of the returning knights. Mahelt didn't want to go, but someone had to, and it obviously couldn't be her mother. The rest of the family was sent from the room too, to give her father peace, her mother said, although Mahelt suspected it was also to protect them from any evil vapours he might be exuding.

'What's wrong with him?' she asked Jean D'Earley once she had finished speaking with the chamberlain. He was her father's foremost knight, and a trusted family friend. Where her father was, Jean was invariably at his side.

Jean's attempted smile of reassurance did not reach his eyes, which told a different story. 'He is tired and chilled after a hard journey, and has a touch of fever,' he said. 'I'm sure it is only a cold and he'll be better by the morning.'

Mahelt fixed him with a challenging stare. 'He's never ill.'

'That is not true, but usually he shakes things off so quickly or with so little effort that no one sees. He's in the best place to be looked after - at home with his family; he'll be all right, you'll see.' Jean chucked her under the chin.

Mahelt wanted to believe him but was not sure she did. Jean might be one of the most dependable members of their household, but that didn't mean he would give her the straight truth if he was trying to protect her.

The steward arrived to ask her a question about which wine to use and she had to divert her attention, by which time Jean was busy among the men, settling them down, organising and making everything seem routine and normal, but Mahelt knew it couldn't be while her father was sick and her oldest brother might never come home at all.

Breathing hard, Hugh cleaned his sword on the tunic of a dead French soldier. Four knights had been taken for ransom and the serjeants and footsoldiers had either fled or died. They had abandoned their baggage, including two cartloads of armour and eight pack ponies laden with sacks of flour and other supplies. The French army that had been besieging the town of Niort was melting away before the English advance, but those who had left it too late, or chosen the wrong roads to make their escape, were coming to grief at the hands of King John's troops.

Hugh's arm ached fiercely from the clash of the fight but he was unharmed; none of his men had been wounded and the outcome was successful. The armour they had seized would be very useful and the cooks would be glad of the flour.

Hugh organised his men, saw the prisoners tied on horses and rode to rejoin the main Bigod force from which he had originally detached in order to reconnoitre. The troop, led by his father, had also caught some stragglers, but had let them go with their lives, although minus their mounts, weapons and money.

'They're well on the run,' his father said with satisfaction. 'The scouts report that the road into Niort is open. The French have drawn back.'

Hugh gave his father the tally of profit from his skirmish. 'No wounded,' he said 'Four good destriers and eight sumpters as well as the armour carts and ten bushels of flour.'

'Good grist to the mill.' His father chuckled at his own weak pun. 'I did not think King Philip would linger to face us. He can't afford to chew too hard on Poitou while he still has Normandy to digest.' His smile faded because although he had acknowledged some time ago that the Bayeux lands were lost to their family, it had still caused a pang to let them go.

'Perhaps we can make other gains - Montauban, for a certainty.'

His father nodded. 'Once Niort is secure, that will be our next target.'

As they approached Niort, other foraging parties converged with theirs.

Banners and pennants rippled and the heat of the late-morning sun intensified the pungent aromas of an army on the move: sweat, faeces, dust, grease and blood. Hugh sweltered inside his mail shirt. He feared he would have to be poured out of his armour when the time came to remove it. His father was scarlet in the face with exertion and sunburn. He was approaching his sixtieth year, and although hale and well, he was carrying too much weight.