A Place Beyond Courage (6 page)
Amused scorn glinted. ‘You expect anything else at court and you the King’s marshal? Henry is going to make everyone swear an oath on the morrow to uphold the Empress’s right to inherit when he dies. Many are not pleased.’
He didn’t insult her by asking if she was sure. She wouldn’t be here otherwise. It puzzled him for a moment as to why Henry was intending to make men reiterate the oaths they had taken four years ago during the preparations for Matilda’s wedding to Geoffrey of Anjou, but then realisation dawned. ‘She’s going back to him, isn’t she?’ he said. ‘She’s returning to Anjou.’
Damette regarded him with smiling annoyance. ‘Oh, you’re too quick! Yes. She’s received a letter from her husband requesting her in humble language to return to him. He wants to heal the rift.’
John lifted a cynical brow. ‘Rather say he doesn’t want to lose her dower and the prospect of one day being lord of Normandy and England. I suspect he’s had some stiff words of advice from his counsellors. I cannot see Geoffrey of Anjou being humble of his own accord.’
‘I don’t know about that, but you’ll hear the rest on the morrow in the hall - and you’ll have to add an Angevin party to those already staying here. He’s sending an escort to bring her back with all ceremony.’
Inwardly John groaned at the notion of finding yet more sleeping spaces in an environment where men were already packed together like herrings in a barrel.
She gave him a sympathetic smile and stroked the side of his face. ‘It’s a great pity you’re not a man for permanent arrangements, my lord,’ she said with a regretful sigh. ‘I am afraid that whatever else I bring to you from now on will be a favour from me to you, not an obligation.’
John curbed the retort that without his help, she would be plying her trade on the streets of Rouen and should William Martel tire of her, she would need his help again. Life was always fluid at court and the rules that applied one day might change the next. ‘Then I hope you are as generous to me as I have been to you,’ he said. Taking her hand, he turned it over and kissed the inside of her wrist.
‘I will bear it in mind.’ She withdrew from his grasp. Her gown swished over the floor rushes and, moving between pools of light and shadow, she was gone. John exhaled and lay down on his rope-framed bed. He didn’t want to sleep. Her visit had set him on edge. His body needed a woman and his mind was turning like a dog on a spit wheel. Where in the name of God’s lance was he going to put the representatives of the Count of Anjou? And what were the implications of renewing the oath of allegiance to the Empress?
Uttering an impatient growl, he left his pallet and went in search of his ushers and deputies. If he was wakeful, they could be wakeful too. There would be time for swiving and slumber later when the Empress had gone on her way.
Crossing the ward, he saw William Martel emerging from Robert of Leicester’s chambers. Martel noticed him too and stopped, his expression freezing. John nodded his head in courtesy and strolled over to him. ‘God’s greeting, messire.’
‘Do you never sleep, Marshal?’ Martel’s belligerent tone revealed his discomfort. His stance was aggressive with shoulders back and legs planted apart.
The creases showed in John’s cheeks, although he didn’t smile. ‘I find it instructive to prowl the night hours,’ he said. ‘It helps me to think and, besides, it’s my duty to be on guard. And you, messire, do you not sleep either?’
Martel shrugged. ‘I’m for my bed now.’
‘Ah.’ John glanced at the doorway from which Martel had emerged and hoped Damette was quick on her feet. ‘Sometimes it is useful to burn late candles with men of a like mind.’
A muscle flexed in Martel’s jaw. ‘What of your own mind, FitzGilbert? With whom would you burn wax to the stub?’
‘Most likely myself on the King’s business, but if not, then with one of the whores. We’re not so different, are we?’
Martel fixed John with a narrow gaze, which John returned implacably until the other man yielded and, disengaging, walked swiftly away. In a contemplative mood, John continued towards the gatehouse.
Matilda wore her empress’s crown to take the oaths of allegiance from the gathered barons. Strings of pearls dripped from the gem-set circlet at her brow. Her face was as smooth and cold as marble and her dark eyes were guarded. John watched men give their promises and wondered how many would keep them when Henry was dead. The atmosphere was edgy. He had warned his men to be on the lookout for trouble and to stamp down hard on any minor incident before it could escalate.
When it came his own turn to kneel to Matilda, he went forward confidently, set his hands between hers and swore his oath in a strong, firm voice. But the words tasted strange in his mouth and, within himself, he was deeply uneasy. Her lips were soft as she gave him the kiss of peace, closed mouth to closed mouth. Somehow, he had expected them to be hard and unyielding. He wondered what it would be like to bed such a woman. Would all that cold pride melt like hot wax when kindled, or was her element stone? The notion of having her rule England as Queen and Normandy as Duchess filled him with disquiet, yet what alternative was there? He was the King’s marshal and depended upon the royal goodwill for his status and livelihood.
The feast following the ceremony was a strange affair. Men’s voices were loud with bonhomie and upon his great chair at the dais table King Henry smiled and appeared to be genuinely pleased with the oath-taking and its reiteration of his intention to have his daughter succeed him. Matilda’s expression remained inscrutable. Whatever her feelings about returning to Anjou and her young husband, she was keeping them to herself.
‘You look troubled, John,’ said Robert of Gloucester, pausing to speak on his way to the latrine.
John grimaced. ‘So would you if you’d had to find sleeping space for all those Angevins without ruffling the dignity of others.’
‘You always manage.’
John lifted one eyebrow. He was good at what he did and most of the time could perform his duties with only one hand on the reins, but it meant that expectations were high.
Don’t worry, John can do it
, was both a compliment and a concern. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was wondering how many here today will hold to their oaths in the future.’
Don’t worry, John can do it
, was both a compliment and a concern. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was wondering how many here today will hold to their oaths in the future.’
Robert tugged his earlobe and looked uncomfortable. ‘Only God and men’s consciences will tell you that. At least my sister is returning to her husband. There is hope for a good outcome and my father is much pleased.’ He glanced towards the dais where the King was laughing at something his Queen had said, although his gaze was fixed hungrily on Isabelle, the sister of Waleran and Robert Beaumont.
Certain rumours concerning Henry and Isabelle were rife and probably true. What price advancement and royal favour? Not having a sister, John didn’t have the option of finding out. ‘That is reassuring to hear, my lord,’ he said politely.
Robert gave him a look and continued on his way to the latrine and John sighed. When men such as himself and the Earl of Gloucester, who were staunch to Henry’s wishes, had their doubts, and when others joined to mutter in little enclaves in the dark of night, it made for an uncertain future. He had kept his knowledge about last night’s gathering to himself but with a feeling of deep unease. Sooner or later, he would have to decide with which pack to run, and hope not to make the wrong decision.
4
Hamstead, Berkshire, Autumn 1132
John’s fortified manor at Hamstead guarded the river valley of the Kennet midway between Marlborough and Reading. He had been born in the chamber above the timber hall that his grandsire had built in the year following King William’s great survey of England. The place had been improved upon and renovated by his father, when funds permitted, and John had maintained the fabric. However, he had plans that extended the buildings far beyond their current modest proportions. His ambition was to see a fine castle marking the skyline one day.
His arrival was the signal for a bustle of activity. The hall was swept and the bed linens hastily aired. Servants stuffed the undermattress on the great bed with fresh sweet hay and shook and plumped up the top one of goose down. Sconces and candle holders were cleaned of old deposits and fresh candles set in their sockets. The best napery was fetched from the linen coffer and draped upon the lord’s table in the hall. The silver-gilt cup his father had used was set at John’s right hand. He should have been well satisfied, but sitting alone in his chamber later that night, a flagon to hand, a brazier warming his feet and his ponderings lit by the scented yellow glow of good beeswax candles, he was restless.
While engaged about the King’s business, his days were so busy that he had little time to think beyond his occupation. Here, without the constant flurry of tasks and with only his servants and retainers for company, he felt as if the walls had expanded and put him in a place of echoes and dusty memories. He needed something to colour the gaps and lessen the shadows.
Planning the future, deciding how to develop his influence and prosperity, helped a little, for he enjoyed devising strategies. Anticipating and being one step ahead was something he did well. But building the future meant building for future generations too - as his father had done, and his grandfather before.
Until recently, he had never thought beyond his immediate physical need for a woman - as a pleasure and a necessary release. Being in charge of the court whores meant that he never had to go without. But since his father’s death and his purchase of the wardship of Aline Pipard, his mind had turned towards more permanent arrangements. It would be satisfying to have a wife sitting opposite him now, plying her embroidery, a son in the cradle and another one growing in her belly. Robert of Gloucester had several offspring. Stephen had been waxing lyrical about his own small sons, Baldwin and Eustace. The Empress Matilda had returned to her young husband in order to fulfil her father’s wishes for the succession, and expected a child in the spring. Everyone he knew was marrying and begetting future generations. Over the last year, he had made several bids at court for heiresses to lands more extensive than the Pipard estates, but others with greater resources and influence had offered more. It had been hinted at, although not openly said, that he was aiming too high; that he might be the King’s marshal, but not of sufficient rank to wed the women whose hands and estates he sought. Without promotion from Henry, he had reached a level above which he was never going to rise. He was a royal servant: a big fish in a small pool to those outside the world of the curia - and a minnow challenging pikes to the denizens within it.
He reached for the flagon and realised he had drunk the contents to the lees. It wasn’t good to drink alone, but tonight he hadn’t particularly wanted to socialise with his men and he had had no intention of bringing one of the servant girls or village women to his chamber. They wouldn’t know what to talk about or how to behave, and bedding with one from such a small community would only lead to complications.
John rose to his feet and wove unsteadily to his bed. It was an effort to remove his boots, but he didn’t call for his squire or chamberlain. He was seldom in his cups and didn’t want them to see him stripped of his usual grace and control. He flopped down on the sun-bleached sheets, the two mattresses yielding to his weight. Rolling to his side, he closed his eyes and decided that on the morrow he would put in hand a visit to his ward at Clyffe.
In the small timber church at Clyffe, Aline crossed herself before the altar and rose from her knees. It was a distance from the manor, which had no chapel of its own, a matter about which her father had been wont to grumble, but he had never done anything about it. Nevertheless, Aline tried to attend confession at least once a week and mass as often as she could. She frequently thought that had she not been an heiress, she would have chosen the religious life. There was order in prayer. The rhythms and repetitions were soothing and calmed her soul. To be a nun, to wear Christ’s ring on her finger, that would be a fine thing.
Followed by Edith, her maid, she returned reluctantly to the world outside and allowed the waiting groom to help her up on to the pillion position of his cob while Edith mounted her donkey. The sky was threatening rain and a chill wind blustered across the Downs, whipping her veil about her face like the wings of a bird. Shivering, Aline huddled inside her cloak for the journey.
As the cob plodded through the timber gateway of the manor house, Aline noticed the fine palfreys tethered by the trough and her stomach leaped. As far as she knew, they were not expecting guests, and she didn’t recognise any of the horses.
The two smartly equipped serjeants standing with the beasts saluted her and Edith as they rode past. Once into the courtyard proper, Aline allowed the groom to lift her down from the cob, brushed pale horse hairs from her gown, and hurried into the hall. Then she stopped in her tracks, her limbs suddenly gelatinous, for John FitzGilbert was standing by the fire talking to her mother. Her heart began to pound. She wondered if she could escape to the upper chamber without him seeing her, but even as she hatched the thought, he looked up and trapped her in the straight intensity of his stare.
Her mother’s tone was gentle but peremptory. ‘Aline, come here, child. Your guardian is here to pay his respects and see that we have everything we need.’
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