A Place Beyond Courage (18 page)
‘Stephen doesn’t trust Brian FitzCount. He wants me to guard the road to Wallingford and the route to Devizes. If I have control over all the valley of the Kennet, nothing will escape my notice.’
She gnawed her lip. The political doings of this baron and that were above her head and didn’t interest her, unless they impinged on her daily life. ‘What about your duties at court?’
His squire returned with a fresh flagon and John’s silver-gilt cup, which he had unpacked from the baggage. ‘I’ll be there for the great occasions,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to go for the Christmas season, but I have some useful deputies trained up and they’re capable enough unless there’s great upheaval.’ He took the filled cup from the youth. ‘I’ll show my face enough for men not to forget it, but Stephen will expect me to take some time away to stamp my authority on my new responsibilities.’
She smiled at him to hide her failing courage. At least he would be home, she thought. It would be reassuring to have his protection and the servants would obey with more alacrity. During his absences, their performance was always less enthusiastic.
That night, she was bold, removing her chemise without prompting and steeling herself to the exposure of candle-light. John looked at her with a smile in his eyes as he removed his shirt. ‘Do I take it that absence makes the heart grow fonder?’
She looked at the exquisite bones of his face, that toned, masculine body. ‘I have missed you,’ she whispered with a blush. ‘And Gilbert should have a brother.’
He didn’t reciprocate and say that he had missed her, but he was tender when he took her in his arms. ‘It has been a long time, hasn’t it?’ he said.
At Salisbury, Sybilla was helping her mother sort out bolts of fabric for making new gowns. They had indulged in a buying spree in Winchester last week. As well as fine linen for undergarments and gossamer weaves of the same for veils, there were yards of madder-red Flemish twill, dark green thickly napped wool for cloaks, and a beautiful mid-blue Lincoln cloth with a pattern of tiny lozenges self-woven throughout. Sybilla ran a covetous hand over the last fabric, which was her favourite. Her mother watched her and smiled.
‘Yes,’ Sybire said. ‘The blue will suit you, with embroidery of beads if you want it as your Christmas dress? And perhaps this for everyday?’ She indicated another bolt the greenish-gold of a ripe pear. Sybilla nodded delighted agreement to both while her mother clucked her tongue. ‘You can’t wear that brown for much longer. Your ankles are beginning to show. At this rate you’re going to be as tall as your brothers.’ There was exasperation and pride in her mother’s voice.
Sybilla was kneeling, so the widening gap between the hem of her gown and her shoes didn’t show but it was the same with her sleeves where several inches of white wrist linked her cuffs to her hands. She had turned thirteen years old at midsummer and her body had begun a determined change into womanhood, although she had yet to start her fluxes. She certainly didn’t want to become as tall as William or Patrick. The latter had bumped his head on the stable door yesterday and sported an enormous bruise in the centre of his forehead, thus causing him to remark that it was more dangerous living at home than it was campaigning in Normandy.
The door banged open and her father stumped into the room, favouring his right leg. The winter damp was playing havoc with his ageing joints and, in consequence, he was irascible with everyone. Patrick and William were still abed, catching up on sleep after the rigours of the battle-camp. Sybilla knew a part of her father’s crabbiness stemmed from his frustration at not having been able to serve in Normandy with the King. His worsening knees meant he now struggled in a soldier’s role and had to rely on his sons.
‘What’s wrong now?’ Lady Salisbury set the chosen bolts of cloth to one side and went to store the others in the fabric cupboard.
He limped over to a coffer and picked up the walking staff that was lying across it. ‘I’ve just heard that the King has given John FitzGilbert custody of Marlborough and Ludgershall and enriched him with the manors of Wexcombe and Cherhill.’ He looked daggers at his wife as if it were her fault. ‘Why can’t he do the same for us? Why couldn’t he have given those keeps and manors to me? Good Christ, when my sire was the greatest English thegn in these parts, FitzGilbert’s grandsire was a common stable serjeant.’ His indignation rose as he spoke and spittle foamed on his grey moustaches. ‘In the name of God, why give him Ludgershall?’
Sybilla had heard similar invective from her father before. He was always disgruntled when others received preferential treatment for what he viewed as fawning at court. He was very proud of his English blood and the fact that it went back to long before the Normans came to England, their family being one of the few that had survived the upheaval of the Conquest years with its lands intact.
‘John FitzGilbert is a clever man,’ her mother said neutrally.
Walter glared. ‘Too clever for his own good.’
‘Patrick says he fought a duel to prove himself.’ Sybilla spoke up.
‘Hah, any dolt with the fast arm of youth can wield a sword and look convincing. John FitzGilbert has the Devil’s own luck and knows how to manipulate situations, but sooner or later he’ll have debts to pay, and then we’ll see what manner of man he is.’ Anger and opinion vented, he shook the staff he had come to fetch and stamped from the room.
Lady Salisbury sighed and shook her head. ‘One of the most important lessons you need to learn as a woman is the virtue of patience when dealing with oxen,’ she said.
Sybilla gave a puzzled frown. ‘I thought Papa liked John FitzGilbert?’
‘It’s not so much that, my love, as seeing our family stand still while other men who are good at pushing themselves forward at court are given privileges.’
Sybilla looked thoughtful. She could understand it wasn’t fair. ‘Why was he so cross about Ludgershall?’
Her mother closed the clothing cupboard. ‘Ludgershall used to belong to your English grandsire, Edward, but when he died, the King took it into his own hands. Your father thinks it should still be ours, not handed out as a favour to a courtier. His knees have been troubling him too, which makes him feel old and unable to do things. He hates having to send your brothers to fight in his stead.’ She came to stroke Sybilla’s rich brunette braids. ‘Sometimes when people are in pain and cannot do the things they want, they lash out at others who they feel are more fortunate. If you can understand that and learn to cope with it, then it will be a great asset to you.’
Sybilla nodded thoughtfully. She had not thought about such things before. Of late, her mother had taken to speaking with her in a woman-to-woman fashion and Sybilla sensed that the free days of childhood were nearing an end. No one had mentioned betrothal yet, but it was like a distant scent on the breeze - tantalising and worrying at the same time.
They were carrying the bales of cloth to the trestle for cutting when her brother Patrick sauntered into the room, stretching and yawning after his long slumber. He was as tall and as indolent as a young lion. The campaign in Normandy had put a new assurance and swagger in his stride. Having greeted his mother and sister, he deliberately tugged Sybilla’s braid.
She rounded on him with a yelp, anger flashing. He laughed, lifted her off the floor, swung her round and plonked her down. ‘God, you’re as heavy as a sack of flour. What have you been eating while I’ve been away? Too much pudding, I’ll warrant. Hah, you’re even growing dumplings on your chest!’
‘Patrick, enough!’ their mother snapped.
Sybilla inhaled the pungent heat of his armpit as he stretched again. She thought about kicking him in the shins, but there wasn’t enough room to run away; the mood he was in, he would catch her and, in the guise of play-fighting, tickle her until she was bruised.
‘And be mindful of your father,’ Lady Salisbury warned. ‘He’s in a sour mood.’
‘What’s riled him now?’ Patrick lounged over to the cutting trestle and absently fingered the bolt of Lincoln weave.
Fetching her shears and a box of pins, her mother told him about John Marshal. Sybilla saw Patrick grimace.
‘Don’t you like him either?’ she asked her brother. Whenever Sybilla thought of John Marshal, she remembered his wedding day in Winchester and the lovely torchlit walk to his house. She remembered the sweetness of marchpane on her tongue and the scented summer air. She had seen him on a few occasions since then, including the churching of his wife after their son’s birth. He had always seemed pleasant and courteous - refined, she thought - unlike Patrick.
‘It’s not a matter of that,’ Patrick said. ‘Certainly I’d rather have him at my back in a fight than a band of Flemings or troops led by Meulan.’
‘Why?’
‘If John Marshal says he will protect your back then he’ll do it and not back down. He’s as hard as horseshoe nails. He’ll hold his ground and fight like one of the Devil’s own - which means he’ll hold on to Ludgershall like a baiting dog with its jaws clamped in a bull’s nose. I wonder how he got it approved. He must have sneaked it under the noses of Martel and Meulan.’ A narrow glint entered Patrick’s eyes. ‘It means he’ll be a closer neighbour now . . . and richer than he was.’
‘I hardly think he will do much visiting,’ Lady Salisbury said. ‘Even with Marlborough and Ludgershall, he won’t be paving his sideboard with golden salvers.’
Patrick gave a sour grin. ‘If he did, he’d only be accused of having stolen them from the King.’
12
Ludgershall, Wiltshire, June 1138
In the sweltering June heat, John blotted his brow on his forearm and watched the masons at their toil, building new defences, raising a new hall, replacing timber with stone. The trundle of cartwheels, the tap of busy hammers, the sound of industry and progress were sweet to John’s ears and he was enjoying himself immensely. His duties at court were fulfilling and there was satisfaction in doing them well, but there was little joy. He had to be constantly on the lookout for traps set by rivals, and for situations that could escalate in a moment from minor squabble to full-blown squall. Here, within his own jurisdiction and with licence to expand as he chose, he had discovered happiness and he was still getting to grips with it, like one of his squires learning a new skill.
His son was busy in the company of the masons, helping them mix the mortar. John grinned to see him following the men around, aping their actions, his small features set in serious lines of concentration, a purloined measuring rod in his hand. Four years old was perhaps a little young to be revealing firm traits as a castle-builder, but good for constructing solid foundations.
He glanced beyond the child as the guard on duty at the gatehouse blew three blasts on his horn, warning of visitors. John clapped stone dust from his hands and crossed the foundations to the entrance as a procession of riders with dogs and hawks trotted through. His gaze sharpened as he recognised William and Patrick of Salisbury, the sheriff ’s two oldest sons. They swung down from their sweating coursers, gave the reins to grooms and advanced to greet him. ‘Neighbour,’ said William, extending his hand.
John took and clasped it firmly. William was about six years younger than himself, slender and dark-haired like his mother. A reasonable tactician, John knew from Normandy, and an astute courtier when he had to be. Patrick, but recently into full manhood, more resembled the sheriff, being of a wide, muscular build with a ruddy complexion and broad cheekbones. He was the better soldier too, but less useful at the diplomacy. Their sister was with them and had been helped down from her mount by one of the attendants. She stood expectantly behind Patrick’s broad, turned back and when neither of her brothers said anything, she cleared her throat.
Patrick glanced round. ‘Oh, our sister Sybilla,’ he said as a definite afterthought.
She curtseyed.
‘My lady, you are welcome,’ John said with a slight bow, applying the manners of the court even if she was just a girl and he was wearing a sweat-stained shirt with sleeves rolled back and dust-powdered hose and braies. ‘What brings you to Ludgershall?’ he asked William.
The latter flashed a smile. ‘A stray hawk,’ he said blandly. ‘A fine peregrine. I didn’t want to lose her, and she fetched up in those oaks yonder. Being as we were so close, I decided to pay a visit, lest we were seen from afar and you should wonder.’
John raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed I might have done.’
William sucked in his cheeks. ‘You are busy, I see.’
More feigned nonchalance. John was well accustomed to this kind of sparring at court. The circling and sniffing like two dogs uncertain whether to wag tails or to bite. ‘Indeed so. The King entrusted Ludgershall to me on the understanding that I would improve the defences.’
Patrick stirred his toe in the dust. ‘You know this place used to belong to our grandfather Edward?’
‘How could I not, when my parents grew up knowing your grandsire as the sheriff? Some of the villagers here still remember him.’ He gave the brothers a mocking smile. ‘The old woman who keeps the fire in the hall claims she used to warm his bed furs long ago when she was a toothsome wench.’
‘Hah, does she?’ Patrick gave a short laugh. Sybilla smiled but kept her gaze lowered to show she was a modest, well-brought-up young lady.
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