A Place Beyond Courage (41 page)
Sybilla moved among the booths and stalls of Salisbury Fair, surveying the goods on offer with a critical eye and enjoying herself. There was money in her pouch, for John, despite some pithy remarks about the ruinous spending abilities of frivolous young wives, had spoken with actions rather than words and endowed her with a generous purse. As an exchequer official with a shrewd fiscal brain, he was good at balancing what came into his coffers against what went out and, unlike some of his colleagues, was not in dire financial straits.
Sybilla was now certain of her pregnancy. She had been married for ten weeks and there had been no sign of her flux. She felt queasy on rising, although nothing that debilitated her, and her breasts were swollen and tender. Uncertain if she would come to Salisbury again before the birth, she was making the most of what the stalls had to offer. She had bought fine linen chansil to make chemises, shirts, braies and swaddling bands. Silver needles in different sizes; skeins of thread. Ribbons and braid; bolts of woollen twill in forest green and the night-sky blue that so suited her husband. She had visited a wood carver to commission a cradle. Gilbert and Walter had accompanied her around the booths, their eyes growing wider with each successive sight and stall. Her gentle questions brought forth the detail that they had seldom left the family castles or manors. Salisbury was not large when compared with Winchester, but even so, the thriving stalls and urban atmosphere were a novelty to them for although they had visited the city on occasion with their mother, their destination had always been the cathedral, never the traders’ quarter.
Sybilla bought them each a knife with a fine leather scabbard to go with the new shoes and tunics they were wearing, and pieces of jaw-gluing gingerbread from a cookstall - something they had never sampled before. Remembering her own childhood pleasure in the confection, Sybilla smiled at their delight and wondered anew and a little sadly at their lack of awareness of the world around them. It was almost as if they had spent their days asleep and had only just awoken.
At midday, she brought her spruced-up stepsons to the cathedral: another reason for their presence with her in Salisbury today. She had considered sending the boys to this appointment with a serjeant and retiring to wait for them at the castle, but it would have been unfair to them and cowardly on her part. Better to face the moment, get it over with, and go forward from here.
A small wedding party had assembled in the cathedral porch. The groom was a wide-shouldered portly knight of about three-score years, with silver hair and beard. A younger man who bore him a strong resemblance stood at his right shoulder. Facing him was Aline, wearing her customary blue dress and white wimple. A plain cross on a leather cord hung around her neck. She was accompanied by the Bishop of Exeter and the ceremony was about to be conducted by Joscelin de Bohun, Bishop of Salisbury. A deacon, two clerks and two chaplains were also present, plus a scattering of passers-by, drawn to the sight of a wedding. Quietly Sybilla joined the party, ushering Gilbert and Walter before her.
Aline raised her head from contemplation of the ground and saw her sons. She gave a small indrawn gasp and her gaze widened. Then it fixed on Sybilla and a flush mounted her previously pallid cheeks. Sybilla said nothing. Lowering her own gaze, she stepped back, feeling awkward. The bridegroom nodded brusquely to Gilbert and Walter and, giving them a half-smile of welcome, directed them to stand at their mother’s side.
The wedding ceremony was brief. De Gai placed a ring on her finger, gave her the traditional gold coin and they spoke their vows. There followed a mass inside the church before the altar where Sybilla saw de Gai glancing at his new wife indulgently, as a parent might at a favoured child.
Emerging from the church afterwards, Sybilla curtseyed to Aline and de Gai. ‘My lord, Lady Aline, I am pleased for you both.’
Aline looked at the ground and murmured something indistinct.
De Gai inclined his head to Sybilla. ‘You received my message then.’
‘Yes, and I thank you,’ she replied. ‘As the Empress’s marshal, my lord has duties in the field and at court, but he desired his sons to be present as witnesses to your marriage.’
Visibly struggling with the social awkwardness of the situation, Aline made an effort and turned to the boys. She reached out, stroked their hair, embraced them, but Sybilla saw that it was superficial. Aline’s concern was with her own emotion, not theirs. Gilbert endured it. Walter did too, but returned to Sybilla’s side as quickly as he could and slipped his hand through hers, seeking reassurance.
Sybilla felt pity for Aline, but tempered with irritation. She would not have been so meek and biddable had the circumstances been reversed. Indeed, she would have fought every step of the way, but then Aline did not have that kind of fire in her nature. Sybilla could understand how a man of John’s strong personality would find marriage to Aline like being shackled to a sack of wet sand, and how Aline, timid and God-fearing, would find John with his high standards, his pragmatism and his vital masculinity an equally difficult prospect.
Saddened, Sybilla turned away, determined that if she bore daughters, she would raise them to be confident and aware of their worth. She would fight tooth and nail to secure them well-suited marriage partners. If her womb brought forth sons, she would find them compatible wives in more than just terms of landed wealth. She squeezed Walter’s hand in hers and gave him a reassuring smile. The future had to be made better than the past - for the sake of everyone concerned.
31
Hamstead, Berkshire, March 1145
John’s third son entered the world on a wet, windy morning at the end of Lent. The labour was hard work, but progressed smoothly throughout the night and Sybilla delivered the baby without difficulty an hour after dawn. He cried the moment he emerged from the womb and he was a good healthy colour and size.
‘A son for Ludgershall,’ Sybilla said to John with proud delight when he came to view the baby. ‘He has your nose.’
John studied his third heir. Babies always resembled skinned rabbits and this one was no different. He had the sense not to say so to his wife, who was looking immensely pleased with herself, and radiant to say she’d been in labour for twelve hours. Her rich hair lay in a loose braid spilling over one shoulder and her eyes were aglow. Indeed, it was an auspicious occasion: the birth of a son to crown this second marriage. ‘He’s a fine lad,’ he said dutifully.
‘How do you wish him named?’
He shrugged. ‘I have no preference . . . except not Patrick. I have no quarrel with your brother at present, but I’d rather not see a lord of that name at Ludgershall when I am gone.’
She gave him a thoughtful look. ‘Then he must be named John, because when you are gone, and pray God it is not for a long time to come and this little one grown to manhood, there will still be a John Marshal at Ludgershall.’
He gave a delighted laugh at her comment and came around the bed to kiss her.
‘I know,’ she said, sensing his pleasure as well as seeing it. ‘I am priceless!’
Sybilla did not remain in her chamber for long after childbirth. She was young, strong and impatient to be about the manor and outside as the days lengthened and the spring took hold. The baby was thriving and plumping out, becoming less of a rabbit and more of a pink silk cushion. John said little enough about his new son and didn’t pay that much attention to the infant, preferring to leave him to the women, but she did notice him casting proprietorial glances into the cradle when passing, and if he was around when his namesake was being bathed in the large latten basin in the bedchamber, or nursed, he would often pause to watch.
In May, Sybilla’s churching took place at Ludgershall. The ceremony was held to give thanks for her survival of the ordeal of childbirth. It was a recognition of her motherhood, and a cleansing ritual to welcome her back into society. She came to Saint Mary’s wearing a new gown of dark-red wool embellished with seed pearls. She also wore a belt that John had given her. Set with twelve rubies in token of the private jest between them, it emphasised her narrow waistline. Six weeks of feeding a hungry baby had almost restored her figure to its previous proportions and she carried her candle of thanksgiving to the altar with the grace of a young queen. Patrick attended the ceremony and briefly held his new nephew along one broad forearm.
‘John,’ he said with a look between his sister and the baby. ‘I should have expected no less.’ He looked both annoyed and amused.
Sybilla smiled. ‘It was my choice,’ she said. ‘My husband gave me the naming.’
‘You are content with him then - after all your fuss before the deed.’
She gave him a severe look. ‘If I made a fuss it was because of the way you presented the matter. And yes, I am very content.’ She glanced across as John arrived and deliberately gave him a long, melting smile.
She saw the quirk of his mouth corner, the lift of one eyebrow and no longer had to contrive her expression. He slipped his arm around her waist, and the pressure of his fingers over the ruby belt in a private sign of affection and knowing sent a jolt through her compounded of desire and affection.
‘You make a good nursemaid, Patrick,’ John said with a lazy smile.
‘I have every reason to,’ Patrick retorted. ‘Should anything happen to you, this is the heir to Ludgershall and all my sister’s property. As her brother and his uncle, I’ll be responsible for their welfare.’
‘Fortunate I trust you then,’ John replied straight-faced. ‘You should beget some sons of your own, or you might find yourself holding your heir as of this moment.’
Patrick’s eyes narrowed and he handed his nephew back to John with an abrupt gesture that made the baby squeak. ‘Keep him; I intend to,’ he snapped, and stalked off to speak with some of the knights.
‘Neither of you will ever give in, will you?’ Sybilla sighed.
The suspicion of a smile still hovered at John’s mouth corners. ‘We understand each other and that’s what matters. We might spar, but the opposition we face is mutual. If it came to the crux, we’d stand side by side.’ He regarded the baby in his arms with a thoughtful look. ‘It’s an interesting notion though . . . a son with the potential to become an earl.’
John walked quietly across the courtyard of Wallingford Castle. It had rained earlier, but now the stars were out between ragged patches of cloud. The downpour had freshened the air and filled it with the green scent of summer. Many folk were abed but he was restless; old habits dying hard. He didn’t need the sleep and these quiet times were always good for setting one’s mind in order.
He had been reporting to Robert of Gloucester and Brian FitzCount on the number of knights owing service to the Empress and giving them a tally of the wages owed to her mercenaries. Since John was owed two pence on every shilling granted to men in the field, he was keen to keep those tallies up to date. On the morrow he would ride home to see Sybilla and his three sons, then set about finding more men, more horses, more supplies at the best price he could. If making a little stretch to the horizon was a virtue, then his standing was of the highest, but at some point he knew he would reach the end of his resources and his pedestal would topple.
He had already been threatened with excommunication by the Bishops of Salisbury and Hereford for appropriating men and supplies from their demesne lands. As far as he was concerned, that particular sanction had been used so often to belabour ‘sinners’ that it was more like a smack in the face from a bundle of wet laundry than a clout to bring him to his knees bursting with terrified repentance. It was true the Earl of Essex had been refused burial in sacred ground because of his crimes against the Church, and was currently waiting Judgement Day in a lead coffin up a tree in the grounds of the Temple Church, but John had been in worse places and did not fear such a fate. Besides, there were churchmen other than the Bishops of Hereford, Bath and Salisbury with whom he was on better terms and trusted to intercede for his soul - including the Templars. At least being warriors and protectors of the pilgrim routes, they had a use other than tittle-tattle.
He was near the gate and about to speak to the watchman when he heard the sound of horses approaching. Immediately he was alert. Casual visitors never craved admittance after dusk and those arriving were making too much noise to be sneaking up on the keep. A guard called down from the top of the tower. A reply was shouted up, and an instant later two burly serjeants were pulling the draw bars and opening the gate.
John stared as Robert’s youngest son Philip rode into the bailey on a sweating, lathered horse. Stubble rimmed his jaw, his surcoat was torn, his bridle hand was bandaged . . . and his eyes were dead. So were those of the soldiers who rode in after him. Slumped, dejected, exhausted, battle-mauled. There were bodies too, and empty saddles.
Someone went running for the Earl and others hastened to help the wounded down from their mounts. The priest was sent for. A woman jostled through the throng, saw one of the corpses and began to wail. Philip dismounted from his horse and staggered as his feet touched the ground. John caught his arm and steadied him.
‘My father . . .’ Philip said and swallowed. His brown hair hung in lank rats’ tails around his face and he stank of sweat. ‘I don’t . . .’ Then his lips compressed. John looked round and saw Gloucester pushing his way through the gathering. His tunic was unbelted and his hair stuck up at one side where he had been lying on it.
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