A Place Beyond Courage (15 page)
The guards on duty at the Tower’s outer gate were cautious about admitting John and his men and a soldier was sent for further orders. John contained his impatience; a few more moments wouldn’t matter. He eyed the equipment of the men, assessed their attitude and composed his own thoughts.
The soldier returned at the run, which John thought interesting. Either he was eager to his job, or those inside the keep had reason to be keen.
‘My lord, the Count of Mortain bids you welcome.’ He flourished a bow that had not been present before. Grooms came to take the horses and an usher brought John and his men to the hall. From there, John on his own was escorted to the royal apartments on the third storey - rooms that had last been used by Henry in the full expectation that he would return to enjoy them again. Now Stephen of Mortain, his brother the Bishop of Winchester, and William Martel, together with various senior members of their retinues, occupied them.
Lips tight with displeasure, Martel scowled at John, who ignored him. Stephen was a trifle shadowed around the eyes, but his smile bore its usual undisciplined vigour and he sprang to his feet and greeted John with much back-slapping and bonhomie, as if they were equals meeting in a tavern for a gossip over wine.
John bowed but omitted to kneel or tender homage. Stephen’s good humour remained, although his companions glowered at the temerity.
‘My uncle’s marshal,’ Stephen said. ‘Have you come to swear your allegiance to me?’
John gave Stephen a direct look. ‘That I cannot say, my lord, until I know more. I followed you from Dover and Canterbury, and the welcome there was not as warm.’
Stephen shrugged. ‘I expected no less. The Earl of Gloucester has strong influence in those parts, but I trust to win him round.’ He cleared his throat and his fair skin flushed. ‘I do not deny we gave our oaths to uphold the Empress, but the King absolved us of them on his deathbed.’
It was the first John had heard of such a thing. As far as he knew, Henry had been incapable of anything on his deathbed except dying.
‘It is true,’ William Martel concurred. His eyes locked with John’s, challenging him to disagree.
‘It is also true that England and Normandy will not settle under the rule of a woman with an Angevin stripling for a consort,’ added Stephen’s brother, Henry, Bishop of Winchester. ‘There will be war. It is ridiculous to think that a woman could govern.’ The supercilious flare of his nostrils and the contempt in his voice made it obvious what he thought of such a notion.
John acknowledged the point with a dip of his head. ‘From what I hear, the lords in Normandy, including Robert of Gloucester, are going to offer your brother Theobald the crown.’
Stephen exchanged looks with Winchester. ‘Not for long. As soon as they realise I have England, they’ll give me their allegiance.’ He pointed to his breast with his index finger. ‘Henry groomed me for the kingship, and my wife is of ancient English stock. Theobald’s isn’t.’ He continued to smile at John, albeit less broadly now. ‘I don’t know you well, FitzGilbert, but you have always been a loyal king’s man and my uncle only employed the best. That trial by combat you and your father fought against de Hastings and de Venoiz for the Marshalsea was the talk of the court for weeks - the way you put de Venoiz down. I’d never seen such speed and purpose. I’d like to harness those skills to my own cause.’
John recognised flattery and he recognised praise, but allowed neither to turn his head. He knew he was fast and he knew he was good. He also knew his own worth and was not susceptible to the valuation others put upon it.
Genuine curiosity filled Stephen’s eyes. ‘What makes you come to me and not my cousin the Empress, or my brother?’
‘Call it a direct way of seeing, my lord. I used my initiative . . . like many others.’ He shot a sidelong glance at Martel, who was still sulking. ‘If you are set to become King of England, you will need the services of a proven marshal.’
Stephen nodded. ‘That is so, but on what terms, I wonder?’
‘My lord, I am open to suggestion.’
Martel’s upper lip curled with hostility. ‘Everyone knows you’re a crony of the Earl of Gloucester and he has closed his castles against my lord.’
John pinned Martel with the stare he reserved for men who were making a nuisance of themselves in the King’s hall. ‘I may have an affinity with the Earl of Gloucester but I owe him no allegiance. King Henry
was
my lord and I served him faithfully. I swore an oath to his daughter, we all did, because it was what he desired and because we had no choice. I am an honourable man, but a practical one too.’
was
my lord and I served him faithfully. I swore an oath to his daughter, we all did, because it was what he desired and because we had no choice. I am an honourable man, but a practical one too.’
Stephen considered him. ‘If you are willing to kneel, and swear to me, then in my turn I am prepared to nurture your ambition and reward you well, but I require your absolute loyalty, not an oath given on a whim.’
John didn’t hesitate. It was either kneel or walk away and he hadn’t pursued Stephen halfway across southern England to do the latter. ‘My liege,’ he said, affording Stephen the greater title and, dropping to his knees, offered his oath of homage.
Snow was flickering down out of a sword-grey sky when the lookout told Aline that her husband and his troop had been sighted on the road. He had sent an outrider, to give her time to prepare, and Aline had been in a state of panic ever since. She had had the fire in the bedchamber built up and water set to heat, knowing he would want to bathe. Clothes had been turfed out of the coffers and set to air, although she was dismayed to find that moths had been busy again. There was only a gluey pottage in the cauldrons, no new bread and the hens were hardly laying because of the time of year.
The bower was a mess, the chests open, belts and shoes strewn where she had left them. An empty cup stood on the night table and yesterday’s burned-down candle stubs had not yet been replaced. She hadn’t noticed such shortcomings before: it wasn’t in her nature and she was no good at chivvying her women; but now, as if through John’s eyes, she perceived the neglect and was filled with panic. If only her mother was here, but she wasn’t . . . and thinking of her only made Aline’s throat close with grief and panic. ‘See to this,’ she commanded the maids, waving her hand around the room. ‘I don’t care what you do; just make sure it looks tidy for my lord.’ She swallowed her fear. It would be all right. If he did comment, she would excuse the domestic chaos by citing her grief over her mother’s death. It wouldn’t be a lie.
She opened the shutters covering the window of the upstairs chamber and squinted out. The troop was riding into the courtyard, churning the wet snow to mud. Breath and horsehide steamed. Her eyes lit on John and she watched him dismount with the lithe grace of a cat. Her stomach rippled with fear and anticipation. Behind her, her women had been galvanised into action - as much by their anxiety over the lord’s return as by their mistress’s orders - and were attempting to make the room look cared for, at least at a superficial glance. Aline closed the shutter and hurried down to the hall to greet her husband.
He entered the room on a moist, chill wind, his hair and cloak starred with snow and his garments spattered with hard travel. Hastily she curtseyed. ‘My lord, welcome.’
He raised her to her feet and gave her a formal kiss on the hand and then the cheek. His lips were cold, but she tingled where they touched. He appraised her from head to toe. ‘You look like a nun,’ he said.
Aline hadn’t thought about her gown. It was her everyday one, of simple dark grey wool, adorned on the breast by a silver cross. Her wimple was of good but plain linen and completely concealed her hair. ‘I can change if you wish it.’
He shook his head. ‘No matter.’ His gaze turned to the nurse who had brought his son from the hearth.
‘Ball,’ said Gilbert, holding out to his father his toy made of soft leather strips stuffed with fleece.
John reached to take it and Gilbert immediately snatched it back with an emphatic yell of ‘No!’
‘A strong sense of possession already.’ John’s proud grin made Aline’s stomach contract. ‘He’s a fine boy, Aline.’
She glowed at his praise.
‘I have some news for you,’ he said. ‘Indeed for everyone, in fact, but first I need to wash and shed these travel-soiled clothes.’ He strode towards the stairs. Aline hurried after him, hoping her women had managed to set the bedchamber into some semblance of order. As she entered the room, her eyes darted round it with worry, and then relief. Clothes had been flung over poles or stuffed into coffers which were all now closed. The coverlet had been pulled over the bed and smoothed, the hangings tied back. Fresh candles adorned the spikes.
John removed his cloak and handed it to a maid. ‘It needs brushing and hanging to air,’ he said, adding wryly, ‘but not too near the fire.’
Aline winced. She had managed to singe one of his cloaks by doing just that. He sat down on the bed and she hastened to help him remove his boots, as a good wife should.
‘King Henry is dead,’ he announced. ‘It’s not common knowledge yet, but it soon will be.’
She leaned back, mud on her hands, and looked up at him. ‘Dead?’
‘Of a bad gut five days since. When I left the court, they were preparing the body for its journey to Reading.’
She crossed herself. ‘God rest his soul. I will have candles lit and prayers said for him. We should have a mass—’
‘God’s blood, woman, leave the mummery for a moment! He’s dead; his soul can wait a prayer and a candle. What is important is that Stephen, Count of Mortain, has claimed the crown and, barring an obscure mishap, he’s going to be the King - and I am to serve him as his marshal.’
Aline gave him an uncomprehending look. She struggled with conversations of this kind for they had little to do with her life. Decisions about how many hens to kill for the pot and whether to change the rushes in the hall were taxing enough without considering the alien world of the royal court. Plainly though, she was expected to say something. ‘Is that a good thing, my lord?’
‘Well, it’s certainly better than a kick in the teeth,’ he said. ‘It means I’ll have more lands than those I hold now and a greater part to play. If I do well for Stephen, he will reward me with estates and the custody of castles.’
The final three words caused Aline’s stomach to wallow. ‘Castles?’ she said faintly. She groped for a towel and wiped the mud from her hands.
‘I haven’t been told which yet, but I have my hopes. In the meantime, I’ll set about fortifying this place in earnest.’ He unfastened his belt and removed his tunic, his eyes agleam.
‘Why?’ Fear jolted through her. ‘There isn’t going to be trouble, is there?’
He gave a pragmatic shrug. ‘Times are not as certain as they were and a prudent man prepares for all eventualities.’
A maid brought him a bowl of hot water and John washed his face and hands. As he dried himself, he cast her one of his long, straight stares. ‘You are the mother of my son, Aline, the wife of the King’s marshal. I need you to be steadfast.’
Aline swallowed. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said, desiring nothing more than to hide in a corner and hope everything would go away.
‘You . . . you heard about my mother?’ she ventured. ‘I had my chaplain write to you . . .’
She saw him frown, and make the effort to return from his own concerns. ‘Ah yes . . . I wrote you a reply, but it’s still in my baggage.’ His expression softened. ‘I am sorry.’ He put his arms around her. ‘I mean it . . . Have masses said for the soul of King Henry, and for your mother too if it will comfort you, and I will give alms in her name now, and each year on the feast of Saint Cecilia.’
Aline laid her cheek against his breast and struggled not to weep. He had said he wanted her to be steadfast. ‘Thank you, my lord, thank you.’
Above her, she heard him sigh. He tilted up her chin, kissed her damp cheek, then sought a fresh tunic. She saw him notice the jumbled state of the coffer contents, but he said nothing. Aline dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, and swore to try harder.
10
Oxford, Spring 1136
John was not usually one to linger in latrines, even ones which had recently been cleaned out and spruced for the King’s visit, but just now, the waft of sewage was more acceptable than some of the verbal excrement with which he was being forced to deal. Already he was feeling nostalgic for the decorum and discipline of King Henry’s enclave.
Stephen’s court was packed. Magnates, barons, bishops, archdeacons: all vied with each other for a place at the new King’s table; clamouring for a share in the power and wealth that was currently being portioned out in much the same manner as the venison, boar and swan at the high table. King Henry had kept a tight fist on his strong-boxes and coffers, leaving his treasury piled with wealth just begging to be spent. Stephen, on the other hand, enjoyed luxury and delighted in distributing largesse. There was nothing wrong with that if you were on the receiving end, but prudence would have been of more use to John when he and his men were trying to keep order.
The Archbishop of Canterbury had objected to the King of Scotland’s seating position at the high table, because he said it should be his, and David of Scotland was annoyed because the Earl of Chester had been given lands in his claim, namely Carlisle. Their men had taken sides and as the wine sank in the barrels, the exchanges of abuse had become more than verbal. John’s forearm was bruised where he had blocked a punch from a belligerent Scots baron, who had been wading into Chester’s chamberlain who he said had tripped him up and called him a boy-loving ferblet. A knight of Waleran of Meulan’s household had joined in and John had had to summon his two burliest serjeants to help subdue the fracas.
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