A Place Beyond Courage (25 page)
With sadness and pity, Sybilla watched her father’s head nod. Saliva dribbled from the slack left side of his mouth. She had been playing dice-chess with him, but the effort of having to concentrate had worn him out. A thick woollen blanket covered his knees and, although the day was warm, he was enveloped in several layers of clothing. He had regained some of the use in his left side, but it was permanently cold, as if a part of him had died and was clinging like mistletoe to the living part for sustenance. His speech had improved, but it was still difficult to tell what he was saying, and he made a dreadful mess at mealtimes, so he ate the simple pottages and frumenties that were all he could manage in his chamber with only his immediate family and closest attendants to witness his struggle. The duty of caring for him had fallen mainly to her for her mother was unwell with a persistent and bloody cough that had sapped her strength and vitality. Her brothers were constantly absent on the affairs of the family. Her father still tried to have his say in what happened but it was inevitable that his opinions were pushed aside when he couldn’t articulate them properly. With warring factions on their threshold, the need was for active, forceful warriors, not a seizure-damaged elderly man.
‘Oh Papa,’ she said sadly and summoned one of the maids to help her bear him back to his bed. He was too tired to do more than mumble and slur as she and the woman laid him down and drew the covers over him. She squeezed his good right hand, remembering the times when it had engulfed hers with all the power of a bear. Now her own strength was almost enough to break his.
As he fell into slumber, Sybilla left the bedside and wandered to the window embrasure. She felt as restless as the burgeoning spring outside. She was almost sixteen years old and in tune with the season. Her brothers had spoken of betrothing her to this friend or that ally, but it had gone no further than words and speculation. Restless though she was, Sybilla had no desire to wed with any of the names so far mooted. She knew the difference between the courtly love portrayed in songs and stories and the reality of daily life, but she at least wanted to be able to live in companionship with her bridegroom when the time came. She heaved a sigh. Her parents were ailing, her brothers strutting hither and yon in their armour. There had to be more than this. These days not even travelling musicians visited because of the danger on the roads.
Gytha entered the room bearing a bowl of sops in wine for Lord Walter and a platter of honey cakes for Sybilla. ‘Devizes has fallen,’ she announced breathlessly. ‘Just heard it from a messenger at the kitchen door.’
‘What?’ Sybilla turned and stared. ‘To whom?’
‘Some mercenary called FitzHubert in the pay of Robert of Gloucester. Took it by stealth in the middle of the night using leather scaling ladders.’ Gytha clucked her tongue and shook her head. ‘So that means Devizes is in rebel hands. Too close for comfort, if you ask me. It’s bad enough having that hellspawn John FitzGilbert at Marlborough without this.’
Sybilla took a honey cake from the platter and bit into it. ‘Salisbury won’t be threatened,’ she said with more confidence than she felt. ‘It’s too well defended. Even if my father is ailing, my brothers are seasoned warriors. Nothing like that will happen here.’
‘Mayhap not,’ Gytha agreed, ‘but it still frightens folk to think on it, especially those who can remember the long peace of King Henry’s time. It doesn’t look as if there’s going to be peace in Stephen’s, does it?’ She gave a brusque nod and left the room. Sybilla sighed and finished the honey cake, although she barely tasted it. Once, Gytha would have protected her from such news, or found a way to make light of it. Now Sybilla was expected to shoulder the burden and be the protector. That, as much as speculative talk of betrothal, told her that matters had indeed changed and that she was no longer considered a child, but a fully fledged adult.
19
Marlborough, Wiltshire, May 1140
His heart thundering, John withdrew from Aline and rolled on to his back. She closed her legs and eased her chemise and gown back down from where they were bunched at her waist. Little enough flesh had been exposed, although he knew the fact it was broad daylight had unsettled her, especially as he had dismissed the servants and everyone knew they were not together in the bedchamber to talk. But the obligation to produce more heirs meant they had to mate. He had seen to his part - coaxing and cajoling until she cried out and clutched him as her seed descended to mix with his. Now the rest was up to God and her body. Of love, he did not think; that estate was not part of their marriage and the potential for it to grow had long dwelt in barren soil. Duty was what held him; the need to secure the future for his sons - and perhaps one day his daughters.
He regained his breath, but lay still for a moment in the lassitude of aftermath. He said nothing to Aline, for there was nothing to say. It had come down to moments like this: the occasional obligatory act of procreation, taking meals before the company in his hall, attending church together. Otherwise their lives seldom touched.
A throat was loudly cleared outside the bedchamber door. ‘My lord, I do not wish to disturb you,’ his chamberlain, Osbert, announced, ‘but the sons of the Earl of Gloucester are here with their troop requesting lodging and food.’
The news filled John with surprise and wariness. ‘Admit them,’ he said, ‘and tell them I shall join them in a moment.’ He left the bed and adjusted his clothing. ‘I wonder what they want.’ He spoke as much to himself as Aline. William of Gloucester was a pleasant young courtier, handsome, well mannered and a reasonable soldier, but without the authority and backbone his father possessed. Philip had a fine sense of his own worth but at sixteen was a rash youth. John turned to Aline, whose face was campion-coloured with chagrin at having been thus interrupted.
‘When you are ready, you will need to organise the cooks to feed our guests. Tell Walchelin how many and he will do the rest. You’ll need to arrange sleeping space for their men in the hall and give William and Philip the guest chamber.’ It shouldn’t have been necessary to explain such details, but she worked better if what was required of her was mapped out explicitly. ‘If they decide to ride on and not accept a night’s hospitality, I’ll send word to you.’
She nodded and bit her lip.
Robert of Gloucester’s sons had been furnished with wine and given seats before the fire while they waited. William was sitting down, drinking in fast swallows but Philip had risen to pace in agitation. John went forward to greet the young men, putting on a courtly smile, speaking solicitous words of welcome. William rose to his feet, his own smile no more than a token stretching of the lips. Philip gave John a swift bow, his mouth remaining straight and serious. Their greeting was so obviously the result of hard-won manners that John too dropped the courtesies.
‘What’s happened?’ he demanded.
William thrust his cup at a nearby attendant and refused more. ‘You must have heard what happened at Devizes, my lord?’
John gave him an astute look. ‘I knew your father sent Robert FitzHubert to attempt the castle and FitzHubert succeeded. Daringly too, so I hear - by soft scaling ladders at night.’ There was grudging admiration in John’s expression. He disliked FitzHubert and wouldn’t trust him out of his sight, but there was no denying the man’s audacity.
William flushed. ‘You have only heard the half of it. FitzHubert is now refusing to hand Devizes over to my father.’ His voice bristled with anger. ‘I arrived there to take command, and FitzHubert ordered his archers to shoot at my heralds! He’s saying that Devizes is his and he’ll answer to no man either as lord or paymaster.’
John swallowed a smile at the virulence of the young man’s indignation, but swiftly sobered. The situation had the potential to be very dangerous indeed. If he were FitzHubert and had dared all to take such a powerful fortress and was then faced by a pair of beardless youngsters demanding he hand over control, he too might have closed his gates and, in a manner of speaking, waggled his backside at such dubious authority.
William and Philip were staring at him as if to ask what he was going to do about it. Almost like children complaining to a parent about having a toy taken away by a stronger child. Looking thoughtful, John folded his arms and sat down on the bench. Doublet, his adolescent hound bitch, came to lie at his feet, nose on paws. ‘No man can stand as an island.’ He lowered his hand to stroke the dog’s silky ears. ‘It was one of the reasons I left King Stephen’s court; I was too isolated. Sooner or later FitzHubert will have to seek alliances or sell Devizes to the highest bidder.’
‘Hah, all my father will sell him is a noose!’ Philip spat, his voice raw with adolescence.
‘There are buyers in the market other than your father, remember that,’ John said. ‘Tell him I will keep an eye on the situation. FitzHubert may be strong of arm and quick to see and snatch opportunities, but it doesn’t make him a great leader.’ He gave both young men a piercing look. ‘What you must do is learn from this and harden your steel.’ William’s fair skin reddened and John shook his head. ‘I am not insulting you, just rendering some difficult-won advice. Back down if you must, but always do it facing your opponent. Never turn away.’
William of Gloucester compressed his lips and rested his left hand upon the pommel of his sword, thus informing John that he did believe himself insulted and not in need of instruction. Philip glowered. John supposed he had been the same at their age - considering himself a man and swift to take offence at anyone who questioned that manhood. ‘If you and your troops desire a bed for the night you are welcome.’
William shook his head. ‘Thank you, my lord, but no. The sooner we report this perfidy to my father the better.’
‘As you wish. At least exchange the weariest horses and eat first. My wife’ - and at this juncture he sent up a swift prayer - ‘will already have told my cooks we have guests.’
Two days later, John was not surprised to receive envoys from the new lord of Devizes. He told his guards to admit the men; welcoming them into the solar, he gave them wine. Aline made to leave the chamber, but he bade her stay. He didn’t expect her to be of use as an extra mind to analyse the meeting, but she was a witness, and it suited his purpose to have these men see a particular facet of his life. An anxious wife toiling over her needlework was excellent camouflage.
The men were affable in their manner and he had no doubt that they too were hiding their motives and intentions.
‘My lord FitzHubert sends his greetings to an ally and fellow baron,’ said the spokesman, whose name was Thomas de Cambrai. He rested his cup on his paunch and crossed his legs at the ankles. His companion, Serlo, kept darting glances at Aline, the way a hungry fox might watch a chicken in a coop.
John managed not to curl his lip at the way de Cambrai said ‘my lord FitzHubert’. ‘Yes, I heard about his success. In truth I was expecting a visit sooner or later.’ He had not missed the detail that their scrutiny of his possessions was also incorporating the wall hangings and furnishings. Everything of value was being inventoried, and the strategic defences and weaknesses of the keep assessed. He had noticed them observing the guard posts on their way to the solar, and the position of the well.
De Cambrai smiled. ‘You are shrewd, my lord.’
John waved a casual hand. ‘I try to be.’
‘Then to the matter. My lord desires a discussion with you, man to man, concerning Marlborough and Devizes and what can be done to strengthen your mutual hold on the region.’
‘Ah, then your lord wants to make a pact to our joint advantage?’
‘Just so, my lord.’ Again the smile - the other side of which was a snarl. ‘Why serve a master - or mistress - when we can serve ourselves?’
John rubbed his index finger slowly back and forth across his upper lip. ‘I might be interested, depending on what he has to say.’ He gestured. ‘I am not averse to meeting with him.’
De Cambrai’s eyes gleamed. ‘An alliance will be to the advantage of both.’
‘Perhaps. If your lord wishes to visit Marlborough in, say, three days’ time for discussions I will be pleased to receive him.’
He registered the sly look exchanged between the men. They thought him the foolish farmer opening the hen-house door.
‘I am certain he will be delighted to accept your invitation. He is keen to talk with you.’
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