A Place Beyond Courage (34 page)
As a band of gold parted night from day on the eastern horizon, the scouts returned and came quietly to John. ‘They’re on the move, my lord, and led by Patrick of Salisbury. They are twice our number, but not wearing armour. It’s all in the baggage carts or strapped to their saddles. It’ll be like sticking our spears in fresh dung.’
John smiled at the analogy. ‘More fool them,’ he said, ‘but all to the good for us.’ Remounting his stallion, he signalled to his men.
They heard the troop before they saw them, processing in the loose order and carefree manner of men setting out on a jaunt. As the scouts had said, the majority were not armed. Here and there was a cautious glint of mail, or gleam of leather padding, but nothing that would protect the bulk of the troop from the havoc about to be loosed on them.
John let them come almost abreast, then spurred his stallion, Jaston riding at his blind left side with the banner unfurled. ‘
Maréchal! A Maréchal! Dex ai!
’
Maréchal! A Maréchal! Dex ai!
’
Amid disbelief and consternation, the Winchester troop scrabbled for their weapons as John’s knights hit them in a surge from either side of the road. After the initial charge, John discarded his spear, drew his sword and went for the throat. He had spent long hours on the tilt ground, sparring with Benet and others, learning how to fight one-eyed, and now that retraining reaped dividends. The difference in his level of skill was negligible and it was bolstered by the knowledge that he had nothing to lose. Patrick did.
The air filled with the screams of injured and unhorsed men, bellows of rage and effort, the clash of meeting swords, the hammer of blade on shields. Loose mounts and pack beasts ran amok. The ground reddened with blood as if someone had tipped over a cartload of wine. In the centre of the vicious onslaught, John came face to face with Patrick of Salisbury. The latter had managed to don his helm in the middle of the fray but only had a leather gambeson for protection. He was of heavier build than John and he had two good eyes, but John was swift, muscular whipcord. Their swords clashed once and then again, striking sparks off the steel. John hammered home his assault and Patrick held him off, struggling frantically to keep the honed sword from his flesh. Then Patrick’s horse stumbled on a corpse and Patrick was thrown. For an instant the loose destrier was between them, hampering John’s assault, and it gave Patrick’s knights time to close around him. Patrick bellowed at them to sound the retreat. His expression ablaze with triumph, John signalled to Benet, who raised a horn to his lips and blew the hunting halloo.
Sybilla washed her hands in a bowl of clean water and directed her maid, Gundred, to remove the reddened one next to it and tip it down the latrine shaft. She wiped a weary forearm across her brow. The last of the wounded had been seen to, and a sorry tally it was. Cuts, bruises, broken bones . . . and they were the fortunate ones. Patrick was drinking wine as if his right arm was attached to a pulley, swearing about John FitzGilbert and making plans to retaliate and finish the bastard once and for all.
Sybilla clenched her jaw and said nothing. Patrick’s mood was beyond volatile; it would take just one comment to send him over the edge. Her brother had underestimated his opponent and paid for it. It was no use saying he should not have sent John Marshal word of his intention. Patrick had thought that at best, the marshal would retreat from Ludgershall, leaving it as easy pickings, and at worst, he would stand and fight, but since Ludgershall’s ability to resist a siege was in doubt, Patrick hadn’t anticipated trouble either way. But instead, FitzGilbert had added a third strand to the strategy and brought the fight to Patrick, taking him off his guard and wreaking havoc. Her brother kept calling John a wolf, but such a comparison was foolish. John was a clever, accomplished, experienced soldier whose job was assessing men and situations and dealing with them rapidly and efficiently.
Patrick took a final gulp of wine and banged the cup down on the trestle. ‘I won’t underestimate FitzGilbert again,’ he growled. ‘He may have won this time, but we’ll see who has the final victory.’
25
Marlborough Castle, Wiltshire, May 1144
John gestured and a servant poured wine for his guest. Robert of Gloucester lifted the cup, tasted, and raised an eyebrow at John. ‘I won’t ask where this came from because I’m not sure I want to know.’
‘Bristol,’ John answered promptly. ‘And paid for.’
‘By Patrick of Salisbury?’
John twitched his shoulders. He didn’t want to talk about Patrick of Salisbury, for he had been kept busy fending off assaults from his stronger neighbour. His territory wasn’t shrinking yet, but he knew the danger. If this inexorable pressure kept up, he was going to go down. He just had to hope Patrick was growing weary of the constant sparring. The latter had not had it all his own way. Following that first massive success, John had scored several lesser victories too, but had suffered drubbings and setbacks himself.
‘I heard you’ve recently had another run-in with him.’
John’s expression closed. ‘What of it? If he leaves me alone, I’ll extend him the same courtesy.’
‘You should know that the Empress and I are disturbed by this feuding.’
‘You think I am not?’ John stretched out his hand and Doublet came to have her ears fondled. ‘I’m willing to make my peace with him. All he has to do is abandon his claim to Ludgershall.’
‘And all you have to do is cease raiding his supplies and running off his flocks and herds,’ Robert answered, looking stern.
‘And all Stephen has to do is agree to give the Empress England and everything will be right in God’s heaven,’ John retorted.
‘That may take a little more arranging than what I’ve come to talk to you about.’ Robert glanced round the hall. ‘Is Aline here?’
John shook his head. ‘I sent her to Clyffe for her own good. She doesn’t cope well in a keep on a battle footing - she faints if she pricks her finger with a needle. I sent the boys with her.’
‘Good,’ Robert said. ‘It’s better to talk about this without them overhearing. I have a proposition for you.’
John eyed him warily. ‘What kind of proposition?’
‘The kind to put a stop to this fighting between you and Patrick of Salisbury. I know he is a sharp thorn in your side.’
‘I thought I was one in his.’
‘There is no need to pretend with me. I know you can hold your own and that you’ll fight to the death, but I am offering you a way out before it comes to that - for both of you.’
John leaned back and looked interested but not eager. One of the few advantages of his disfigurement was that it made it harder for men to read his expression. ‘I am listening.’ He continued to stroke the dog.
‘The Empress is going to offer Patrick the title of Earl of Salisbury if he will bring his allegiance back to us. He’ll accept; his family has always sought that recognition. If you and he will end this fighting and make an alliance, then all of Wiltshire will be secure for the Empress.’
Grim laughter welled up inside John. ‘She didn’t feel inclined to grace me with the title instead?’ he asked. ‘Then again perhaps I’m too dangerous, or perhaps she wants to forget I exist . . .’
‘Now you’re being totally blind, man,’ Robert snapped. ‘The Empress esteems you well.’
‘Does she? Well, that’s more than I know. I won’t give an inch of what I hold. Does Patrick know of his potential great good fortune yet?’
Robert shook his head. ‘No; I came to you first to find out if you were amenable to peace.’
‘And if I’m not?’
The Earl perused the hall. ‘I don’t need to tell you.’
John leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees, his right side turned fully towards Robert so that he could see him clearly. ‘So what’s your proposition? I tell you now, I won’t surrender Ludgershall.’
‘You won’t have to.’
‘Then what’s the catch?’
Robert crossed one leg across the knee of the other and examined the fastening on his boot. ‘He has a sister unwed . . .’
‘Aah.’ John began to understand. Suddenly he was more than curious. Suddenly he was very interested.
‘If you are willing to marry the girl, it will cement a bond between you and the Salisbury family. If there are children born of the match, then Ludgershall will be appropriated back into the Salisbury bloodline whilst still remaining in yours.’
John nodded slowly. ‘There would have to be an annulment.’
Robert toyed with his boot fastening for a moment longer, then looked at John. ‘I understand your father and Aline’s were third cousins on the distaff side,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘It should be easy enough to arrange on the grounds of consanguinity. That way the sons of your union remain legitimate in law.’
John opened his mouth to speak then changed his mind and compressed his lips.
Robert snorted. ‘You’re not telling me you object to being rid of Aline. She’s a millstone round your neck, man. Patrick’s sister will do you well indeed. She’s young - but she’s old enough too.’
‘What makes you think I want a girl in my bed, especially Salisbury’s sister?’
Robert’s eyes gleamed with humour. ‘Because she
is
his sister. You’ll have her under you in the marriage bed, so you’ll be subjugating Salisbury by proxy. She’s a lively young thing, too.’
is
his sister. You’ll have her under you in the marriage bed, so you’ll be subjugating Salisbury by proxy. She’s a lively young thing, too.’
John quirked a brow. A reluctant laugh was forced out of him.
Robert responded with a laugh of his own. ‘I know you, John. You may have changed, but not that much. I still remember that day at Winchester when you were late to court because you’d been entertaining three at once - and don’t tell me you were indulging in polite conversation. I’m sure you’ll manage.’
‘I don’t need to tell you anything because plainly you know it all,’ John retorted. ‘You are wreaking revenge for those five hundred marks you paid for FitzHubert, aren’t you?’
Robert chuckled. ‘Perhaps I am, but even so, you were a legend at court, even if you didn’t acknowledge it.’ He sobered. ‘If you agree to do this and cement a peace between you, I’ll act as go-between. I should be able to negotiate a reasonable dowry out of Patrick. It goes without saying that any children born of the marriage will do well from the association. They’ll be nieces and nephews not only of the Earl of Salisbury, but the Counts of Perche too.’
‘You’d make a good horse-coper,’ John said drily.
Robert waved his hand. ‘I have sometimes thought that selling horses would be a useful occupation - and not so different.’
The proposal was as heady as strong wine, but John was too cautious just to plunge in and get drunk. ‘What of Aline? What am I to do about her? The cloister is too dangerous. I wouldn’t put it beyond some enterprising mercenary of FitzHubert’s ilk to seize her out of a convent, force a marriage and claim her lands for himself.’
Robert gave a purposeful nod. ‘You are right, it does to be cautious and I had already given it some thought. You know my mother’s brother, my uncle Stephen? He’s a widower and would welcome gentle company. Nor would he expect too much of a new wife . . . in all senses of the word.’
‘You have spoken to him about it?’
‘In passing.’
‘God’s blood, you have been busy!’
‘Look, I need Patrick of Salisbury committed to my sister’s cause, and I need you too. We have little room for manoeuvre. This arrangement can be of nothing but benefit to you. You keep Ludgershall and the fighting between you and Salisbury ceases. You get a pretty young virgin in your bed . . .’
‘It’s a fine deal for an old warhorse with half a face, you are saying.’
‘Christ, it’s a fine deal for any man, John; stop being contrary!’ Robert finished his wine and stood up. ‘I’ll give you a few days to think about it, but I want to know within a week.’
John curbed the impulse to say he would accept the terms there and then. It wasn’t good policy to seem too eager. Instead, promising to send a messenger, he saw the Earl on his way, then retired to his chamber to think. Lying on his bed, he stared at the rafters. Doublet joined him and for once, he didn’t order her down, but absently stroked her flanks. What should he do? Robert’s suggestion was eminently sensible. The war between Stephen and Matilda was at a stalemate, neither side able to overcome the other. Uniting with Salisbury would give him security; despite the current friction between him and Patrick, he knew they could be allies. Did he want to start again? Another wife, a girl half his age. He’d had nigh on eleven years of Aline’s whining, instability and incompetence. Would this be a fresh start, or was he courting more of the same? He supposed in the balance it didn’t matter. When weighed in the scales a powerful alliance, a nubile young wife and relative peace were a more than fair exchange for what he had at the moment.
26
Clyffe Pipard, Wiltshire, May 1144
Aline was content at Clyffe. She had been born and raised here, and its solid, squat timber walls were a comforting bulwark against the world. Few demands were made on her; John seldom visited; and she could forget that she was the wife of a royal marshal and that warfare was endemic. Clyffe was off the beaten track and plodded along to its own local rhythm. The most exciting thing to have happened in a year was when the village bull became stuck in a mud wallow and the entire village had turned out to drag him free. The ungrateful beast had then charged his rescuers, resulting in two gorings and some broken ribs. Fortunately, Aline had not had to deal with those.
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