A Place Beyond Courage (58 page)
‘When’s William coming home?’
John looked round from inspecting Aranais in the stable yard and regarded his namesake. The boy was wearing his thick travelling cloak, leather hood and stout calfhide boots ready for the journey to Marlborough.
‘That all depends on King Stephen. William’s staying in his service for the time being.’
‘I . . . I heard one of the soldiers say the King’s men tried to hang William.’
John hesitated, then nodded. ‘It was a trick to try to scare me into giving up Newbury. Your brother’s safe now and he won’t come to any harm.’
The boy twisted his hands together. ‘Why are we going to Marlborough?’
‘Because it’s a while since I’ve been there. I need to check the defences.’
‘Stephen’s men won’t c . . . come and hang me, will they?’
John’s belly turned over at the question. God on the Cross, what strains had he set on his wife and family? ‘Christ, boy, no. They’d gladly hang me but you can consider yourself safe.’
The lad gave a manful nod, but John could see he was not convinced.
Sybilla entered the stable, similarly clad in riding cloak and boots. She was wearing a gown with plenty of fabric in the skirts for riding astride and practical hose underneath. Her eyes were puffy as if she had been weeping, but they were dry now and the gaze she gave him was composed.
‘Sweeting, go and find Gundred,’ she said. ‘I want a word with your father.’
The boy looked uncertainly between his parents. John ruffled the lad’s hair. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk later, I promise.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He left the stable, seven years old and walking as solemnly as an encumbered adult.
Lips compressed, John turned back to Aranais.
‘I know you had no choice,’ Sybilla said in a subdued tone. ‘If you had surrendered Newbury at the outset, Stephen would have been on us like a plague of lice.’
He said nothing but busied himself checking the cinches on the girth strap.
He felt her step closer, barring his line of escape. ‘You said once that either I trusted you or I didn’t. I said then that I did . . . and for what it is worth, I still do - because if I don’t, what is left to me but a wasteland?’
His breath caught at the note in her voice. There was fear, supplication and desolation. He had a sudden image of the two of them balancing on a high rope like the travelling players who came to entertain the castle folk at Christmas and midsummer, gambling their lives upon a narrow line of hemp strung between the courtyard buildings. He turned round, his throat working. His lips formed her name.
She stepped up to him, cupped his face in her hands, gently traced the line of his scar with her thumb. ‘I have a wound that will not heal until William is returned to us whole and unharmed, but I realise that so have you.’ She touched his breast, over his heart. ‘You may have the wherewithal to beget other sons, as I have to bear them, but not without bleeding.’
Uttering a groan, he seized her in his embrace and kissed her again, fiercely, with a molten urgency as if last night’s immolation between the sheets had only been a beginning.
Aranais snorted and butted John in the spine with his broad nose, causing him to bang teeth with Sybilla. John pulled back and looked round at the pawing stallion. ‘I am reminded to put necessity ahead of need,’ he said wryly and dabbed his upper lip on the back of his hand.
‘Aranais is right,’ she said with watering eyes. ‘It wouldn’t be practical.’
From somewhere he found the semblance of a smile. Taking the stallion’s bridle, he led him out into the courtyard.
Sybilla licked her lips and found a small saltiness of blood upon them. She watched John gazing round the compound at the buildings and the defences and knew he was bidding them a mental farewell in case he never saw them again. It was one thing to gamble that the King had his gaze firmly fixed on Wallingford and would not come here, another to watch the dice roll and know that you were powerless. The lessons from Newbury were incised like number dots on a bone die for all of them. The consequences, too.
46
Siege of Wallingford, January 1153
William was thrilled by the new hood Mariette had fashioned for him out of sheepskins and coney fur. He had a pair of mittens to match too and socks made out of madder-red wool. She said it was to celebrate the season of Christ’s birth and that he should have three gifts in memory of the gold, frankincense and myrrh that the three Magi gave to the baby Jesus.
‘But I don’t have three gifts for you,’ he said as she arranged the hood over his shoulders and then, with a little laugh, pulled it up around his ears.
‘Ah,
mijn kleine
, it doesn’t matter. The Christ child didn’t have gifts for the Magi. It is for the adults to give to the innocent children. A kiss will suffice.’
mijn kleine
, it doesn’t matter. The Christ child didn’t have gifts for the Magi. It is for the adults to give to the innocent children. A kiss will suffice.’
William obliged and received in return a familiar lye-scented hug.
‘You make good use of these things,
ja
,’ she said. ‘There’s snow in the sky.’
ja
,’ she said. ‘There’s snow in the sky.’
William peered out of the tent entrance. The earth was brown and muddy. Withy walkways had been cast down between the tents and the King’s wooden siege towers to make walking easier for man and beast. He raised his nose and tested the air like a hound. ‘What does snow smell like?’
‘Cold, very cold. Like rain and like frost because it is both of them . . . and perhaps a little like white feathers, eh?’ She gave a laugh to show she was jesting and tweaked the top of the hood.
In the early New Year the King was still besieging Wallingford with every hope that it would fall. Before Candlemas, he kept saying to his advisers. Henry was still bogged down in Normandy and it wasn’t the season for winter sea crossings. By the time spring arrived, it would be too late. William had heard the talk round the fire in the King’s chamber. There wasn’t a lot of laughter, but he had sensed the grim determination of the lords. He knew if Wallingford did fall it would be a bad thing for his father, who had already lost Newbury; however, this was his life for the moment and he didn’t feel sad or worried about it, just lived each day as it came.
A fanfare sounded as the King arrived on a blowing, sweating stallion. He’d been out riding and his face was flushed and his eyes bright.
‘I have to go,’ William said. ‘It’s my duty to warm his shoes.’ He announced the latter with a proud lift of his chin. It was an important job - almost as important as keeping the King’s belts cleaned and polished.
He managed to escape with another squeeze and a kiss, and had to promise to come and visit Mariette again soon. And then he was haring across the camp, leaping over puddles, dodging between the camp fires and running into the King’s hall. The guards waved him through with grinning tolerance for they were accustomed to his comings and goings by now and he was something of a pet to most of them.
He was kneeling before the fire turning the King’s soft indoor shoes in front of the heat when Stephen entered the room, laughing at something one of the older squires had said. William Martel was with him and the Earls of Leicester and Arundel also.
‘Hah, I haven’t had a ride out like that in weeks, it does my heart good!’ Stephen said with gusto. He removed his cloak, handed it to the youth and then threw himself down in his chair. The squire deposited the cloak and returned to remove Stephen’s boots. With great solemnity, William came to kneel at Stephen’s feet and slipped the warmed shoes on to them. The King was wearing similar socks to the ones Mariette had given him, except that Stephen’s were made of silk not wool. The same colour though, a rich, warming red.
Stephen smiled at William. ‘Ah lad, that’s good. My feet were fairly frozen in the stirrups.’ He glanced in amusement as he noticed the poker that William had thrust through his belt in imitation of a sword. ‘Quite the little knight, aren’t you, Willikin, hmm? Don’t you go running off with the poker now; we’ll need it for the fire.’
William made a slight face. To him it really was a sword. Nevertheless, he minded his manners and did as he was bidden. While he was still about the task with the shoes, a messenger was escorted into the room by Stephen’s chamberlain.
‘My lord, there is urgent news.’ The messenger knelt and handed Stephen a letter. Stephen frowned as he took it and slit the seal tags. Rapidly he scanned what was written and in the next moment had risen to his feet in agitation. ‘Henry of Anjou has landed at Wareham and struck at Malmesbury,’ he said.
William pricked up his ears. His father and everyone had often talked about Prince Henry coming and making everything better again.
Martel swore and Arundel and Leicester exchanged glances. ‘How many ships, sire?’ Leicester asked.
‘Fewer than two score and mainly mercenaries,’ Stephen said. ‘He’ll have the usual suspects rallying to him - Gloucester, Hereford, Salisbury, Lincoln and FitzGilbert. I can’t afford to let him take Malmesbury. We’ll have to march to its relief before he grows too strong. Muster the troops.’
Leicester cleared his throat. ‘Sire, might it not be better to remain here and continue the siege? Malmesbury is strongly built and surely can hold its own. If we leave now, Wallingford will be able to resupply in our rear. He is deliberately drawing you away for that to happen.’
Stephen shook his head. ‘I dare not take the chance that Malmesbury will fall. I must deal with Henry before he establishes himself. If we can strike him swiftly, we may not even need to return to Wallingford.’
Arundel rubbed his jaw. ‘He has troubles enough abroad. You might be able to persuade him to return there.’
‘Bribe him, you mean?’
‘You did it once before when he came across with mercenaries.’
‘He was fourteen then, with barely a conroi to his name. Nor does paying him work. He keeps coming back. No, I will go to Malmesbury and confront him there.’ He finished his wine and brusquely summoned William. ‘Boy, find me a dry pair of riding boots and then go and tell the women we’re striking camp.’
‘Sire,’ William said and, glad to have important tasks to do, hurried to obey the commands. Martel stuck out a foot to trip him up, but William leaped neatly over the extended boot, thereby earning a smile from the Earl of Arundel.
John emerged from his lodging in Malmesbury and hastened round to the stable yard. A bitter wind had got up in the night and now, just past the dawn, was flinging icy rain like a profligate guest hurling rice at a wedding. The pellets struck him full on as the wind veered and he gasped as they burned like cold fire upon his scar. He drew the hood of his cloak over his coif and hastened to where a groom was holding a sidling Aranais. A mail breast-band softly jinked across the stallion’s chest and his face and neck were covered by a leather chamfron.
‘Wants to turn round and go back in his stall,’ announced the man.
‘I don’t blame him.’ John hitched his sword out of the way and set his foot to the stirrup. In a practised move, the groom whipped the rug off the top of the high war saddle and John hauled himself astride and gathered up the reins. ‘That’s where we’d all be given the choice.’
‘Nah, I’d be abed with two plump wenches to keep me warm.’ The groom flashed him a broad smile.
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