A Place Beyond Courage (49 page)
The bride was in the women’s quarters changing her gown, a drunken lord having spilled a cup of wine in her lap. She was rueful about the incident, but still smiling, which boded well. With Patrick for a husband, she was going to need every iota of her patience and good nature. However, since this was her second marriage, her first having been to William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, she was no frightened virgin and well able to hold her own. She joined Sybilla at the cradle to admire little Margaret.
‘She’s as sweet as a sugar comfit,’ she said.
‘Her father dotes on her,’ Sybilla said with a proud smile. ‘I . . .’ She fell silent as another woman joined them before the cradle. Maude of Wallingford was wife to Brian FitzCount. She was past child-bearing age, but by few enough years to mean that although hope had died, its ghost remained.
Maude took a long look at the sleeping baby. ‘You are fortunate, Lady Marshal,’ she said. ‘Were I offered the riches of the world on a golden salver I would trade them all for a fruitful womb. God intended it should be otherwise and I must accept His will. I wish you joy in the blessing of your children.’
‘Thank you, my lady,’ Sybilla said and curtseyed deeply as the woman moved off, the rich silk of her gown rustling over the floor.
‘Poor lady,’ said Ella Talvas. ‘I have heard it said that they have no children out of God’s displeasure for his sin of loving another woman, but I do not believe it.’
‘Neither do I,’ Sybilla said, but she knew the harvest the gossipmongers had reaped out of Brian FitzCount’s devotion to the Empress. Bending over the cradle, she gently touched her daughter’s sleep-flushed cheek. Margaret. Sometimes Alfled, the English nurse, would call her Daisy, translating it into the flower-name the English used. John absolutely doted on her. Sybilla suspected it was rather a novelty to him to have fathered a daughter, and to have a female sprung from his own flesh. He was almost more proprietorial about Margaret than he was about his four robust sons.
Outside in the ward, John had joined the crowd watching the wrestling; Brian FitzCount stood with him. Neither man had wanted to take part in another round of toasts in the hall. Indeed, John suspected that the bridegroom was going to have trouble finding his bride in the bed, let alone consummating the marriage.
William had found another child of about his own age and they were play-wrestling in earnest imitation of the knights competing in the makeshift arena. John watched with a grin for a moment before returning his attention to the real contest. He had been a good wrestler in his youth, lithe and supple. He could probably still have taken part now and not disgraced himself, but he was content to let the bachelors test each other’s strength and flex their muscles for the women.
Brian FitzCount stared at the fighters, but his gaze was preoccupied and it was plain he wasn’t really seeing them. ‘There is something I have to tell you,’ he said. ‘I have been trying to find my moment, but no time has ever seemed right, and I doubt it will, so I might as well do it now.’
‘My lord?’ John looked at him.
‘I have written to Prince Henry, and the Empress,’ FitzCount said in a flat voice. ‘I am to take the cowl and retire from the world. My wife intends doing the same. All that remains to be done is tie up the business of my life before I leave it behind.’
John knew he shouldn’t have been surprised but still the news came like a movement to his blind left side: there all the time, but unseen until put in front of his right eye. ‘God’s blood, my lord, there are few enough of us remaining. What about Wallingford?’
‘William Boterel, my constable, will take over. He’s as experienced as I am. These past few months he has had the command anyway.’ He looked at John. ‘It has been in my mind for some time now. If I have held on it is to give Henry time, but now he is knighted and Duke of Normandy, he no longer needs me for a prop.’
‘And since his mother has retired to the cloister herself, perhaps it is the closest you can come to her in affinity,’ John snapped, anger making him blunt and incautious.
FitzCount narrowed his gaze. ‘Be careful what you say, my lord. I haven’t yet taken vows.’
‘You were only holding on for her though, weren’t you? Not for Henry.’
‘If my lady the Empress saw fit to retire in favour of her son when she had fought for so long, then I respect her judgement. Henry is ready to take on the mantle of government and men cleave to him.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Do not glare at me like that, FitzGilbert. Given other circumstances, he might have been my son. Do you think I do not care?’ Suddenly there was a raw edge to his voice. He gestured to William who was now playing an energetic game of tag with his newfound friend amid laughter and squeals. Their heels flashed as they ran; their faces were flushed and alight with life. ‘Do you know how it has cut me not to beget children and see them quicken like that little lad of yours? To know that when I depart this world there will be nothing of me left in it? I have defended Wallingford for more than ten years in bitter circumstances, knowing it will never be my lot to see a son of mine inherit those walls. But Henry will, and I . . . ah . . .’ He pressed his hand to his abdomen and his complexion greyed. He staggered and John grabbed his arm to steady him.
Gasping, FitzCount recovered and threw him off.
‘Besides, I don’t think a dying man consumed by pain is going to be of much use in the field, do you?’
‘I am sorry, my lord, I did not realise you were sick.’ John was shaken despite himself. ‘Have you seen a physician?’
‘Several.’ FitzCount gingerly straightened up but kept his hand pressed to his side. ‘The ones who hold out hope are either fools or treasure-hunters. The truth-tellers have taken their fee and informed me I will not have to suffer another winter’s snow.’
FitzCount’s tunic had come unpinned at the throat and John caught a glimpse of what looked like a hair shirt. FitzCount glanced downwards, saw the direction of John’s stare and secured his throat clasp. ‘I trust you to keep a closed mouth on the matter . . . and that is not an insult or a warning. We may not be bosom friends but we know and trust each other. Without your grip on the Kennet valley, Wallingford would have been subject to far greater depredation. Oft-times you have borne the brunt and kept the wolves from my door - I acknowledge my debt to you.’
‘I have no choice, my lord.’
‘Even so, you have stood firm.’
‘Does the Empress know?’
FitzCount shook his head. ‘And I will not tell her because there is no point. You are one of the few who does. Let Henry have Wallingford with my blessing. You’ve had a second chance at life, Marshal. Take it in both hands and live it to the full like your son.’ He looked at William, inclined his head to John and walked away, limping slightly. John stared after him and, although the June day was as warm as new milk, he shivered.
40
Newbury Castle, June 1152
Clutching a small loaf still warm from the bakery, Benet mounted the timber stairs to the walkway along Newbury’s battlements. Soft dew greyed the sward and dawn birdsong drenched air still scented and green from the rain that had fallen the previous evening. Benet always enjoyed this part of the day. Everything was peaceful and the promise of a new morning lay ahead. As yet the only bustle was in bakehouse and dairy, and he had room to spread his thoughts abroad and ponder without being interrupted every few minutes by queries and demands.
John had appointed him constable of Newbury with a brief to watch the Oxford and Reading roads and deal as necessary with what came along them. The castle also performed the function of buffering Hamstead from sudden assault and did the same for Wallingford, now commanded by William Boterel. Thus far nothing had disturbed the tranquillity beyond a few minor skirmishes - the usual detritus of a war that had gone on for so long that everyone was exhausted and could only manage the occasional wild swipe. Coffers and barns were empty and endurance a habit that men wore like lead shackles.
Benet bit into the bread and then cursed as he encountered grit. They needed a new millstone over at Hamstead where the flour had been ground otherwise no one would have any teeth left with which to chew. ‘Anything?’ he asked the guard on duty.
‘No, sir. Been as quiet as a crypt all night.’
Benet cracked a morbid smile. ‘Just the dead turning in their graves then.’ He broke off a chunk of bread and handed it to the soldier. The man rested his spear against the timbered palisade. ‘God knows, there must be more of them than the living, I sometimes think.’
A rooster crowed from the midden pit near the stables and the sky showed a pale band of oyster shell in the east. Colours began to creep back into the world: green first; then red and blue, muted and soft.
The guard’s jaw abruptly ceased rotation as he too crunched on grit, then swore.
‘Bad millstone,’ Benet said. ‘I’ll have a word with my lord when he rides over on the morrow.’
The young guard masticated more gingerly and swallowed. ‘One of the lads was saying in the guardroom last night he’d heard Prince Henry was gathering an army across the sea. Said he’d heard Barfleur was awash in men and supplies.’
Benet contemplated his loaf. ‘How often have we heard such things before and they’ve come to naught? It’s like finding a piece of gold in this bread. Believe it when you see it.’
‘You don’t think it’s true then?’ The young man looked disappointed.
‘Oh, there’s probably an element in it. I have no doubt there are men and supplies in Barfleur, but while they’re there, they’re not here, are they?’ He stepped up on to an upper platform and gazed out over the walls, sniffing the air like a hound. It was going to be a glorious day.
Then he heard it, faintly on the breeze, a jingle of harness, the sound of a voice. His head came up.
‘What is it?’ The guard reached for his spear.
‘Do you not hear it?’
The young man looked baffled. For a moment, Benet thought he must be going mad, then realised his companion was wearing arming cap, coif and helm, whereas his own ears were uncovered. ‘Listen.’
The guard screwed up his face as if doing so would aid his hearing. He started to shake his head, but then his face changed. The noises were louder now. The unmistakable thud of horse hooves, the rumble of wheels and clink of harness.
‘God on the Cross,’ Benet said hoarsely. He knew what the noise presaged. He’d heard it often enough on both sides of the barrier. ‘Sound the alarm,’ he snapped. ‘Summon the men to the battlements!’
Ashen-faced, the young guard fumbled with the horn at his belt, then raising it to his lips blew three long notes, sundering the air. Again he blew and soldiers began spilling out of the guardroom, buckling on their weapons as they ran. Now there was noise everywhere and Benet had to focus his mind. His belly was churning with shock as the sound of approaching troops continued. No casual patrol this. His hope that it might be William of Gloucester on the move or men belonging to William Boterel at Wallingford died as the banners came into sight and the troops began to spread out before the keep. There were baggage wains piled with tents, armour and disassembled siege machines including trebuchets and perriers.
Benet looked round as Roland, his deputy, joined him on the wall walk, attaching his sword to his belt. ‘It’s the King,’ Benet said hoarsely. ‘God help us, it’s Stephen himself.’ He pointed towards a broad man with greying fair hair astride a black stallion with a saddle cloth of dark blue and gold. A cloak of blood-red wool blew at his shoulders and a fine battle-axe occupied a ring grip at the side of the saddle.
Roland completed the final tie on his belt. ‘What are we going to do? We can’t withstand this. The keep isn’t stocked for it. We don’t have the men or the supplies.’
There was a sour taste in Benet’s throat and cold sweat in his armpits. He knew the odds. ‘We fight,’ he said, ‘and we hope Stephen doesn’t have the stomach for it. He’s backed down before. If he takes us, then he’s free to move on either Hamstead or Wallingford.’
Roland looked out over the mass of troops, for the most part Flemish mercenaries. ‘He doesn’t look as if he’s preparing to back down,’ he said.
Benet grimaced. It was little more than a month since Stephen’s wife had died. She had been his helpmate and backbone, and a lady who had commanded great respect from everyone, whatever side they fought upon. Some said that without her Stephen was finished, but, if this was any indication, he certainly seemed to be channelling his grief into aggressive action. ‘He may be trying to intimidate us into surrender,’ Benet said. ‘With Henry in Barfleur, Stephen has to destroy his bridgehead into England, and that includes us and Wallingford.’
‘They’re sending a herald.’
Benet gazed briefly, then, hand on sword hilt, turned to the wall-walk stair. ‘They’ll demand formal surrender first, just in case we might be willing to yield the place without a fight. We’ll formally deny them . . .’ He hesitated, then clenched his fists, the gesture both resolute and resigned. ‘Then we’ll start wishing that all we have to worry about is grit in the bread.’
At Ludgershall, the sun had begun to dip towards the horizon, but its rays still swathed the bailey in summer gold. William loved the long evenings when he could play outside until the swallows returned to their roosts and were replaced by bats, diving and flitting through a twilit sky the dusky colour of lavender flowers.
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