A Place Beyond Courage (43 page)
Other than the sermon, part of the day’s business was the churching of several recent mothers. Sybilla started in surprise as Aline walked up the nave to the altar, bearing her candle of thanksgiving for the safe deliverance of a baby girl. Her expression was quiet and set, like a small wooden mask. Beside her, Sybilla felt John stiffen. Gilbert and Walter looked round at her and their father, the significance not escaping them. They had a half-sister.
Aline knelt, was received and blessed, before returning to her husband who stood at the back of the nave. As she walked, her glance stumbled over John, Sybilla and her sons. Immediately she quickened her pace and looked away.
Following the mass, Patrick wanted to talk to John about the crusade and they were joined by Stephen de Gai, broad, smiling, very much the doting father of the baby girl held in the arms of a maidservant. ‘Never had a lass the first time around,’ he said smugly, folding his hands around his belt and pushing one foot forward.
At his side, Aline said nothing. She kept her head down and stood back, a quiet, drab little mouse. Adorning her plain charcoal-grey gown, though, was a magnificent string of rock-crystal prayer beads with a tassel of silver thread and ornate belt hangers. Sybilla ushered the boys forward to greet and kiss their mother and inspect the baby, who was pink, rosy and enchanting. Sybilla admired her. ‘Your lord is very proud.’
Aline glanced towards the men. ‘He is good to me,’ she said in her high-pitched voice, then added with stiff politeness, ‘I hear you have a thriving son.’
‘I left him at the castle with his nurse,’ Sybilla said, ‘although perhaps I should have brought him and prayed for his wails to drown out the Bishop’s sermon.’
Aline looked shocked, as if Sybilla had uttered blasphemy.
‘Bishop Joscelin’s far too persuasive. By all means let men take the Cross if they must, but by no means let it be John and Patrick!’
Aline recoiled at the vibrancy in Sybilla’s tone, but then inched out of her shell again. ‘Stephen won’t go.’ She cast her husband a relieved look. ‘He says his fighting days are over, and he wants to stay at home and protect me and our daughter.’
‘Sensible man,’ Sybilla said with a rueful glance in the direction of her husband and brother.
‘His great-nephew’s taking the Cross though. He came to visit the other day and said so.’
Sybilla raised her brows in question and her interest quickened.
‘Philip,’ Aline said. ‘The Earl of Gloucester’s son.’
That was very interesting indeed. Sybilla stowed the information in her mind like a bright coin in a purse. With gentle persuasion, she drew other details from Aline until she had the full tale, by which time John and the others had finished their conversation and were ready to leave.
John took Sybilla’s arm. ‘Aline,’ he said, inclining his head towards his former wife in courteous but distant greeting.
‘My lord,’ Aline answered, dipping him a curtsey in return. Her gaze anxiously sought her husband’s and when he came to stand beside her, she leaned on him with obvious relief. Whereas John would have been irritated by such a move, Stephen de Gai merely looked indulgent and smug.
Sybilla waited her moment with John until the evening when they were alone in their private chamber back at Ludgershall. His sons were asleep in the anteroom and the nurse had taken the baby off to his cradle in the women’s chamber where she could tend him if he cried.
Having removed her veil, Sybilla sat down beside John on the fleece-covered bench and turned towards him. ‘Do you think many will take the Cross?’
‘Quite a few, I suspect. Baldwin de Redvers and Waleran of Meulan have already done so, I hear.’
‘So has Philip of Gloucester . . .’
He gave her a keen look. ‘Indeed?’
‘Aline told me. Philip came to visit them and said he was weary of England and heartsick at having to oppose his father all the time. She said he wasn’t well either - coughing blood and thin as a lath. De Gai offered to intercede with the Earl, but Philip wouldn’t hear of it. He said he had to make peace with his own soul first before he could make it with his father.’
‘I am sorry for both of them,’ John said with a sad shake of his head. ‘They are each ploughing a barren furrow.’ He sipped his wine in thoughtful silence and fondled Doublet’s silky black ears.
‘What about you?’ she asked at length. ‘The way you and Patrick were talking earlier, I thought you might be lured by the Bishop’s words too.’
His lips twitched. ‘Aha, so that is what all this is about?’
‘All what?’
‘You looking at me like that and leaning forward with the neck of your gown unfastened and your veil removed. I know what I have at home, sweetheart, without you having to put your wares on show.’ Mischief glinted in his expression. ‘I also know what a crusader’s vow will offer me.’
Sybilla unfastened a second brooch, lower down on her neck opening, and pulled the confining under-net from her hair. Her braids tumbled down, glossy as polished oak. ‘More war,’ she said. ‘More killing and plundering.’
‘Yes, but in the name of God and I receive absolution for my sins.’ He pulled her against him and slipped his hand inside her gown, cupping her breast. ‘And let’s not forget the Saracen women. Henry had a Saracen woman among the court whores at one time.’ His voice had fallen to a whisper against her ear and his breath upon her skin made her shiver with arousal. ‘Hair as black as a raven’s wing and perfumed like roses.’
‘And you think all Saracen women are like that?’ she rallied and her own hand was suddenly investigative too. ‘Jerusalem’s a long way to go for exotic futtering. You once told me that all cats were grey at night.’
John gave a congested laugh. ‘Ah, sweetheart, they might be, but you’re not a cat, unless it be a lioness . . . come to bed and devour me.’
‘Well,’ Sybilla purred, rising on one elbow to look down at him. ‘Are you still as eager to go on crusade?’ The fire in the hearth had settled to a soft red glow and the candle was guttering. She traced a lazy forefinger over his chest. Their lovemaking had been fierce, intense and deeply satisfying. He had given her the image with which to fuel her lust and she had used it with abandon, pinning him as if he were indeed her prey, play-biting and teasing him until he was gasping and rigid with the effort of holding on to his control. The knowledge that she could bring him to this had enhanced her own desire, making of it a voracious, carnal thing. She had wrapped herself around him and urged his body into hers, and they had taken each other with leonine ferocity and feline grace.
John chuckled. ‘I had no intention of going in the first place, my love. Do you think if I took the Cross there would be anything left for my sons to inherit in the time it took for me to reach Jerusalem and return - even assuming I survived?’ He ran his fingers lazily through her hair. ‘No, let others go. I will remain a scourge of the Church and take my chance here with you. It can’t be any less dangerous . . .’
She bit him again.
34
Bradenstoke Priory, Wiltshire, March 1147
Tears running down her face, Sybilla kissed her father’s cold hand, mottled with age spots, shiny with the years of his living. She remembered his warm grip, hard and firm around her small child’s fingers, and the way he had held his cup or gestured to make a point. Vigorous, always in motion . . . until he had taken ill. Even after his seizure, his hands had still moved, sometimes with languor, at other times trembling and not in his control, but always in motion. Now they were still and would not move again except by God’s command on Judgement Day. At least he had still been alive when she reached Bradenstoke; at least he had been able to see his small grandson and know of the new life she carried in her womb and would bear, God willing, by the time the May blossom budded the trees. She had seen the gleam in his eyes, even if the most he could achieve was to blink one eyelid.
Her tears now were as much for herself as for her father. This passing was a blessed release to him. She knew he had hated the debilitating loss of power, control and esteem. No longer had he been Walter of Salisbury, respected sheriff and castellan, proud of his English blood, but Walter the infirm, Walter the waiting-to-die. He would join her mother and her brother at rest under the chapel floor. One day she would lie here too, and John and their children, down all the years of men to Judgement Day.
The baby kicked vigorously in her womb, speaking of new life. At almost eight months pregnant and soon to retire to her confinement, she was as large as she had been at full term with young John. The child, whether boy or girl, was robust and energetic. Her belly was a constant flourish of movement. With an effort she rose to her feet and immediately, John’s hand was beneath her elbow, gently assisting her. She put her chin up and wiped her eyes on the heel of her hand. ‘He would disdain my tears,’ she sniffed, forcing a smile. ‘He wasn’t like that, and he is in heaven now.’ Diffidently she embraced Patrick, who was also at the bedside. The title Earl of Salisbury was now well and truly settled upon his shoulders and already she thought she perceived a new gravitas about him.
Moving with ponderous care, she went outside to the waiting litter which would bear her back to Hamstead. An early March gale tossed the trees which had not yet begun to bud with spring, but remained as stark black branches mossed with green.
Jaston had arrived while they were within the priory and was waiting for them by the litter. She felt John tense at her side. Being within a priory he wasn’t wearing his sword, but his hand reached for the non-existent hilt all the same. Sybilla prepared to hear the worst. If Benet had felt the need to send Jaston here from Hamstead, rather than waiting for their return, it must be urgent and something Benet was unable to deal with.
‘My lord, there is news. Prince Henry has landed with a force of mercenaries from Normandy and he’s gone to lay siege to Cricklade and Purton.’
‘What?’ John’s brows rose in astonishment. ‘Impossible! Where’s he got the mercenaries from? His father wouldn’t give them to him. Christ’s blood, he’s fourteen! That’s only a year older than Gilbert, and I wouldn’t trust him to head a hunting party, let alone cross the sea and lay siege to a castle.’
Jaston’s brown gaze filled with anxiety. ‘It’s true, my lord. The Prince brought them to Marlborough and demanded food and supplies.’
Sybilla felt John begin to vibrate. ‘I hope Benet refused,’ he said icily.
The knight looked uncomfortable. ‘Messire Benet felt it prudent to give him some flour and salt pork . . . and they . . .’ Jaston swallowed. ‘They took the trebuchet and ten horses.’
John said nothing, but his silence was more telling than a flurry of rage. Then he carefully unclenched his fists. ‘The trebuchet and ten horses,’ he repeated in a soft voice with a hoarse catch.
‘The Prince said he was entitled and Benet thought better to humour him and send to you immediately. He would have taken soldiers and money too, but Benet refused him. He said he had already done enough to get himself hanged on your order.’
‘More than enough,’ John said. For another instant he remained still, then he shook himself and swung to one of his serjeants. ‘Go and fetch Earl Patrick. Sybilla, I’ll have an escort bring you home, but I must deal with this now. You will be all right?’
His question demanded only one answer and she gave it with a courageous nod. ‘Have a care, my lord,’ she said.
He took her face between his hands and kissed her, but although the embrace was genuine, it was that of a man preoccupied with other business. His wife might matter, but so too did a trebuchet and ten horses. Sybilla allowed herself to be helped into the litter with her maids and settled herself against the cushions. The baby continued to kick and surge. So much, she thought, for the midwife’s dictum that she ought to think placid thoughts throughout her pregnancy and suffer no undue disturbances. As the litter moved off, she saw Patrick emerge from the church, speak briefly to her husband, and then stride for his horse. John gained the saddle, reined about, and spurred towards the priory gates at a clod-showering canter.
Two hours of hard riding brought John to Marlborough, although his courser almost foundered at the pace he set. Benet was prepared for a verbal flogging, but John had held his temper and was able to see matters from his constable’s viewpoint. If the heir to England suddenly arrived on the threshold demanding succour it was foolish to turn him away empty-handed. He was not, however, overjoyed to discover that one of the ten horses was the destrier born of the Spanish mare the Empress had given him. Now a powerful eight-year-old, Aranais was John’s favourite stallion. To pursue Henry he had to settle for his second-string grey.
‘I did my best to limit the damage, my lord,’ Benet apologised as John snatched a cup of wine and chewed down bread and cheese whilst donning his padded tunic, hauberk and sword.
‘No, I would have done the same,’ John growled. ‘Then again, I might just have tied the young idiot across his mount and taken him to his mother and uncle in Devizes to see what they make of this prank. I warrant he doesn’t have the funds to pay for a band of mercenaries either. They’ll be serving him on high hopes of plunder and that’s not good. Men need wages, food and shelter to keep them loyal. The kind that are prepared to follow a youth of fourteen into battle are scarcely going to be reliable, are they?’ He made an impatient gesture as he headed for the stairs. ‘Send word to Ludgershall and Hamstead. Have all the surrounding farms and villages put on watch. In circumstances like these, friendly foragers are just as likely to drive off the pigs as foes.’
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