A Place Beyond Courage (35 page)
She was busy with her spinning when she heard the creak of wheels and the shout of men. Looking out of the window, she saw that a small covered wain had drawn up in the yard, accompanied by several well-dressed attendants. Her stomach fluttered. She wasn’t expecting visitors and the manor was in no fit state to receive them.
She sent her maid to find out what was happening, and the woman returned almost immediately with a sealed scroll and a small pouch of embroidered silk. ‘From my lord FitzGilbert,’ she said.
‘Has he summoned me?’ Aline shivered, hoping not, but why else the covered wain? Her heart sank. She was happy here - didn’t want to leave and return to dwelling in the anxiety of a castle under constant threat.
‘I think so, my lady. The men didn’t say - only that they were here to fetch you.’
She opened the pouch and a ring dropped into her hand, set with a gleaming dark green stone. Aline admired it, turning it this way and that. It was one that she knew John had in his jewel coffer and she had long had her eye on it as a gift for the church. She put it down on the trestle and focused on the letter, expecting it to be a summons. It was in John’s own hand, neat, swift, slightly more right-slanted than a professional scribe’s. For a moment the words lay upon the surface of her mind, making no impression; then gradually they gained weight and began to sink in, and as they did, she gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth. He spoke of remorse and regret. He said that their marriage was unlawful because their fathers were related and that therefore it was null and void and he had embarked upon a series of penances. He had sent a wain and servants to bear her in safety to the protection of the Bishop of Exeter with whom he knew she had an affinity. The Bishop was to act as a substitute for her father until arrangements could be made for her permanent future.
‘Madam?’ Her maid hastened over to her, but Aline neither saw nor responded. She was stunned, disbelieving. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘no,’ and clutched her prayer beads.
‘It’s a mistake. It’s not true.’ It was as if a part of her had been ripped out and the pain was excruciating. People married and they stayed married - surely that was God’s ordained law? She had done her duty to their union, had given him sons and been good and compliant. A lump of panic tightened in her throat. She thought about flinging herself out of the window into the arms of God, but taking one’s own life was a mortal sin and the Devil would come cackling for her soul if she did that. And then she didn’t think at all, but sat down abruptly and stared at the wall, while her being wisped out of the hole torn in her world and dissipated like wind-blown smoke. Time ceased to exist. People spoke to her and she didn’t hear them. Someone gave her sugared wine and had to hold the cup because she refused to relinquish her grip on her prayer beads. They were her lifeline. Let go of them and it would be as if she had never existed. When someone tried to prise her hands off them, she started to scream.
Around her, the servants packed her travelling chest and the chaplain was fetched. She was vaguely aware of Father Thomas reading the letter, of him murmuring reassurances that all would be well, but it would be best if she went to the Bishop of Exeter. He patted her shoulder as he would pat an infant’s.
‘It’s not true,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not true. I made my vows in good faith.’
‘As did he, my lady, but the marriage is discovered to be consanguineous. It is unlawful in the eyes of God. For the good of your soul, you must do this. The Bishop will look after you.’
Aline tried to focus, tried to make her mind work, but it wouldn’t. It was as if it had been slowly grinding to a halt for a long time, and this letter was the final jam in its workings. ‘My sons . . .’ she said. ‘What of my sons?’
‘Their inheritance is untouched and they are not disparaged, ’ the chaplain said. ‘And neither are you, my lady. The law is clear on that point for such annulments. You will be well taken care of and honourably provided for.’
Aline said nothing more because speech too had fled through the rent in the fabric of her being.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, salve, salve Regina
. The words tumbled over and over in her head like pebbles rattling against each other in a heavy tidal wash. A prayer to the Mother of God not to desert her when everyone and everything else had. Over and over. Prayer beads clicking one on the other, the only solid objects in a world of shifting quicksand.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, salve, salve Regina
. The words tumbled over and over in her head like pebbles rattling against each other in a heavy tidal wash. A prayer to the Mother of God not to desert her when everyone and everything else had. Over and over. Prayer beads clicking one on the other, the only solid objects in a world of shifting quicksand.
It was cool in the dairy, something Sybilla appreciated given the burning summer heat outside. She had slipped off her shoes just to feel the icy stone floor against the soles of her feet. Apron tucked at her waist, she was making cheese and supervising a maid who was paddling butter in a churn. The girl was new and had yet to develop the muscles required for such a task, and the rhythm. Sybilla suppressed the urge to snatch the handle out of her hands and do it herself. The girl had to learn. Besides, Sybilla needed to give her attention to the cutting of the cheese curds. She had developed something of a reputation for her cheeses. They were served to guests at the high table and the Bishop always requested a wheel for himself and his visitors. Sybilla enjoyed dairying and didn’t consider it beneath her. An ability to turn her hand to most domestic tasks meant that she knew when the servants were working well and when they were slacking. She was also a firm believer that people should do what they had a talent for, and since her cheese was sublime and her stitchery the opposite, she preferred to spend time in the dairy when possible.
‘Madam, is this—’ The maid started to speak, then broke off with a curtsey.
Sybilla looked up as Patrick arrived and stopped in the doorway, blocking the light. She made a face at him, but he was impervious.
‘You need to come to my chamber,’ he said. ‘I’ve some important news.’
‘Now?’ Sybilla shook her head at him. ‘I’m busy; the cheese . . .’
‘The cheese can wait.’
Sybilla rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks. However, she knew when Patrick was in this sort of mood there was no arguing with him. She checked on the butter, told the girl to keep churning for at least as long as it took to say two paternosters slowly, then followed her brother.
Father Geoffrey, one of their chaplains, already occupied the chamber, sitting at a trestle table, positioned so that the light from the high windows shone down on several parchments arranged on top of it. Neatly assembled by his right elbow were his quill, trimming pen, ink horn and the box containing her brother’s seal.
‘What’s this?’ Sybilla asked, mystified, as she untied her apron and draped it over a coffer.
Patrick sat down on his chair and gestured her to take the carved stool at his side. ‘I’ve had an offer for you and I’ve agreed to the terms. I need you to put your seal to these contracts - there’s a messenger waiting.’
Sybilla blinked at him in shocked astonishment. ‘What do you mean: you’ve had an offer for me?’ Her voice rose a notch. ‘When? Why have I heard nothing of this?’ Her heart began to bang against her rib cage.
Patrick glowered. ‘It’s my business to sort out your future, not yours. There was no point in telling you before because it might have come to naught.’
‘No point!’ Rage percolated through the other emotions and she drew herself up. ‘With whom have you arranged this?’
Patrick heaved a sigh and waved his hand. ‘I have made a truce with John FitzGilbert and his union with you is part of the bargain.’
Hot and cold chills ran down Sybilla’s spine. ‘But he’s already married! If you think to sell me off as a concubine, you may think again!’ Suddenly she was trembling. She thought about seizing the priest’s quill pen and sticking it under her brother’s ribs. How dare he! She leaned to the table and dashed the parchments to the floor. ‘Amputate my right hand, but I will not put my seal to this . . . this document of whoredom. I am no man’s slut!’
Patrick began to flush. ‘Then I will do it for you,’ he snarled. ‘You will obey me!’
She stared at him, her eyes ablaze with tears. All she could think of was that John FitzGilbert had custody of the court prostitutes and her brother had sold her to him for that eventual purpose. She thought she was going to be sick.
The chaplain gently cleared his throat. ‘My lady, you have not given your brother time to say that John FitzGilbert is no longer married to the lady Aline.’
Sybilla whipped round to face him. ‘What?’
‘The marriage has never existed in the eyes of God. They are related within the forbidden degree through their fathers and they have been living in sin. The lord Marshal has asked forgiveness and done due penance, and is now free to take another wife.’
Sybilla stared at the chaplain. She was so stunned and enraged that it was difficult to assimilate this new piece of information. Shaking, she sat down on the stool and cast a fulminating look at her brother.
Father Geoffrey poured her a cup of wine from the jug on the trestle and picked up the scattered pieces of parchment. Sybilla took several short sips and tried to calm herself. Patrick said nothing; he just tapped the trestle with an impatient forefinger, but Father Geoffrey gently began to explain the legal details of the proposed contract - what would be hers in dower, what she would gain from the match. ‘Should you choose to consent to the marriage, it would be of enormous strategic value to your family,’ the chaplain said with a glance at Patrick. ‘Moreover, John FitzGilbert is a fine man with a well-earned reputation for courage and valour. You will be well settled with him.’
Sybilla shook her head, neither impressed nor convinced. ‘He has turned out one wife,’ she pointed out. ‘What stops him casting off another as it suits his purpose?’
‘I’ve already considered that point,’ Patrick said smugly. ‘The contracts declare that there is no known impediment to the match on either side and FitzGilbert has already agreed to the terms. All you need do is agree and seal.’
Sybilla glowered at him, not prepared to yield so easily after the shock he had given her. ‘It is not a matter entered into lightly,’ she said. ‘I need time to consider.’
Patrick opened his mouth, caught the priest’s eye, and changed what he had been going to say. ‘You have until nones. The messenger needs to be on his way before the light goes.’
Sybilla gave a stiff nod. She took the contracts from the table where the chaplain had just neatly replaced them. For a moment, Patrick looked as if he was going to protest, but then he shrugged and gestured her away. ‘Nones,’ he repeated.
Sybilla gave him a hard look and, without replying, went from the room to her chamber. Dismissing her women, she entered the small embrasure space containing her bed. She lay down on the coverlet and propped the bolsters against her spine. She was still trembling and a headache throbbed at her temples. Just now, she hated Patrick with a vengeance. With a determined effort, she made herself read and absorb the details of the contract. The act of doing so demanded cooler thought patterns and gradually calmed her anger. She pursed her lips and pondered the issue. It certainly wasn’t what she had expected, nor the kind of match she had envisaged for herself. A second wife, the match made so that her brother and John FitzGilbert could honourably cease battling each other to fragments over the matter of Ludgershall and allied territory. And yet it wasn’t so bad and there were many advantages. John FitzGilbert was certainly a better prospect than some of the oafs who had been sniffing around Salisbury of late, dropping hints to Patrick and giving her the eye.
She was sorry for Aline, of course she was, but in truth perhaps the annulment had happened for the best. From what Sybilla had seen, Aline was a fish out of water in her role of wife to England’s marshal, without the abilities to cope with what was required of her. Sybilla considered the contract again. Did she herself have those abilities, and could she deal with John FitzGilbert the man, who she suspected was no easy prospect? She thought about what she knew of him and what she had heard. She hadn’t seen him since long before the incident at Wherwell, which she knew had scarred him badly, but his injury didn’t seem to have held him back.
She remembered the way he moved - the straight spine, the fluid coordination and grace. She thought about the quiet intensity of his glance and pictured him sitting at ease in Ludgershall’s bailey, a wine jug at his elbow and his sleeves pushed back to reveal strong forearms dusted with fine gilt hair. Suddenly her mouth was dry and her loins moist. Dear Jesu! She laughed at herself and hastily left her bed. Hot with embarrassment, she went to look out of the narrow arch of window at the bustling bailey below. Those feelings had probably always been there but unacknowledged until today, because she hadn’t allowed herself to think that way about a man with a wife. But now . . . Her breathing calmed again and she began to smile with wry humour. All unwittingly, her brother had just done her the best turn of her life, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. Let him stew awhile!
‘My lady . . .’ One of her women tentatively parted the curtain she had drawn to have privacy and poked her head round. ‘Lord Patrick is asking if you have come to a decision.’
Sybilla shook her head and knitted her brows. ‘Tell him I’m not ready,’ she said. ‘Tell him it’s too important; I need more time. And when you’ve done that, go to the dairy and fetch me a cup of buttermilk and some bread. I can’t think on an empty stomach.’ She had to compress her lips to stop herself from giggling, but when the woman had gone, she doubled up. Part of it was nervous reaction. Sybilla was more inclined to laugh than weep in times of stress.
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