A Place Beyond Courage (8 page)
An usher arrived to escort the bridal party to the cathedral. Aline forced down a retch and, with her mother and the other women in train, followed him from the palace. She concentrated on putting one foot before the other, using the feeling of the stony ground under the thin kidskin soles of her shoes to anchor her to reality.
John was waiting for her in the cathedral’s porch. At his side, resplendent in a chasuble of glittering white and gold, stood Henry, Bishop of Winchester, brother to the Count of Mortain. Aline took a single frightened glance, then gazed at her feet. Step, step, step. She was afraid to look up beyond darting glances. John was so tall, so handsome - a distant stranger to her, and familiar with this world as she was not. He was surrounded by other clerics and courtiers, all talking quietly and at ease with the moment, but all Aline could see in her fear was a blurred glitter of colours, silks and jewels. She groped for the prayer beads looped at her belt and clutched the smooth, warm pieces of amber for reassurance.
Robert of Chichester, Dean of Salisbury, stepped forward to stand representative for her family. His expression was kindly and taking her hand, he gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. ‘Courage, daughter,’ he murmured.
The kindness in his voice made Aline want to burst into tears, but at the same time, it stiffened her resolve. There was no way to go but forward. Taking a deep breath, and the final steps, she let him bring her to John’s side.
She knew what she had to say. Even in her state of high anxiety, she managed to stutter ‘
Volo
’ in response to the Bishop’s question concerning her willingness to take John for her husband and keep him in sickness and in health. But still her voice was small and soft and seemed to lose itself against the imposing and colourful backdrop. John’s in contrast was firm and strong. His hand was steady and dry as he slipped a gold, sapphire-set band on to her right index finger and said, ‘With this ring I honour you. With my body I wed you.’ The ring fitted her finger perfectly. Aline shivered, for the vows they were making were irrevocable before God.
Volo
’ in response to the Bishop’s question concerning her willingness to take John for her husband and keep him in sickness and in health. But still her voice was small and soft and seemed to lose itself against the imposing and colourful backdrop. John’s in contrast was firm and strong. His hand was steady and dry as he slipped a gold, sapphire-set band on to her right index finger and said, ‘With this ring I honour you. With my body I wed you.’ The ring fitted her finger perfectly. Aline shivered, for the vows they were making were irrevocable before God.
Once the pledges had been spoken and witness borne to the contractual aspects of the bond, the gathering entered within the church to celebrate a wedding mass. Aline relaxed a little. The familiar rituals were balm to her soul. Her fingers moved with certainty over her prayer beads. She admired the rich church furniture, the beautiful colours of the mural, the purple silk altar cloth; she inhaled the wonderful scent of incense. She listened to the Bishop’s voice rising towards God, declaring that matrimony was an honourable estate, and suddenly, amid all the conflicting, worrying emotions, felt a bright thread of happiness. She peeped several glances at John and thought how fine he was. Her husband ordained by God and sanctioned by the Church.
Following the mass, John took her hands in his and kissed her, but in formal ceremonial manner with lips closed. Restrained and refined. Others crowded to embrace and congratulate them, very few known to Aline. She blushed and kept her head down and eyes lowered. A stubby forefinger chucked her beneath the chin and she found herself being appraised by a stocky, grey-haired man clad in a short green mantle. The people around her, John included, all knelt and she realised belatedly that this must be the King. Mortified, she started to curtsey, but he prevented her with a hand under her arm and gestured everyone else to rise. He had not been present at the wedding, but had obviously come from other business to well-wish. He kissed her soundly on both cheeks, leaving a damp imprint and the feel of his beard. ‘My marshal is a fortunate man in his bride,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘May your union be blessed and fruitful.’
‘Thank you, sire; it is as God ordains, but we will do our best,’ John replied with a smile in his voice. Blushing furiously, Aline looked down again.
John found it strange to be sitting in the place of honour at his wedding feast, and not officiating as he would usually be doing in such circumstances. His deputies were charged with the task, but it was difficult to refrain from giving them orders and he could not prevent his gaze from wandering around the hall, assessing areas where trouble might occur and watching who entered and who left.
Making an effort, he turned his attention to his bride. She was wilting like a plucked bluebell, but he was not surprised since she was unaccustomed to being the centre of attention. John had marked the shy, anxious glances she kept darting at him and hoped she was not going to fall over the edge into hysteria when it came to their wedding night. He was used to forthright women who knew the moves with practised thoroughness. He had been keeping her cup well filled, but since he didn’t want her drunk out of her skull, or sick to the stomach, he had been judging her intake keenly - and his own. His experience with women was extensive, but frightened virgins were not a part of it. Should such creatures enter the lists of the court prostitutes, their innocence was the preserve of magnates and bishops - or the King.
At least there was to be no formal bedding ceremony. John had chosen to take Aline back to his lodging on Scowrtene Street close to the castle. He owned the rents of several houses there and kept one for his own use when he was in the city. From what he had seen of Aline, there was no reason to doubt her innocence; he did not need witnesses to her virginity, and she would cope better without the palaver of public observance.
‘A toast my lord to you and your new bride. Waes hael!’
‘Drincheil!’ John gave the traditional response and raised his cup to the salute made by Patrick FitzWalter, second son of Wiltshire’s sheriff. The young man’s hazel eyes were glassy and his smile inane. Had John been on duty, he would have been herding him unobtrusively towards the door or the latrines. Patrick had a bearish arm around his youngest sister. ‘’S a good thing to show Sibby off at court,’ he slurred. ‘Make a fine marriage prize herself some day, won’t you, my chicken?’
‘I remember you.’ Aline’s gaze lit with sudden interest on the girl and she gave her a sweet smile. ‘You found my beads when I lost them at Salisbury. Do you like marchpane?’
‘Yes, my lady.’ The child answered with a polite curtsey.
John congratulated himself on his judgement of his wife’s wine consumption. She was relaxed enough to speak of her own accord but that speech was clear and her fingers were dextrous as she broke a piece off the subtlety on her salver and handed the sweetmeat to the child.
Sybilla took it and thanked her, then thanked John too. Unlike Aline, who had only taken quick blushing glances at him all day, the girl gave him a measured look from brown eyes flecked with tawny and green. Her appraisal amused John, for it was the kind of stare he would have bestowed upon someone he was weighing up, not necessarily to their advantage. When she looked down, he suspected it was out of courtesy and not because she was shy or embarrassed.
‘Has your father anyone in mind?’ he asked Patrick.
The youth shook his head. ‘Not yet. Her sister married the Count of Perche last year.’ He swayed on his feet and, swallowing a belch, pinched the child’s cheek. ‘She’ll be a worthy prize, though, when the time comes.’
Sybilla pulled away from her brother, giving him a straight stare too, although aggrieved rather than assessing. John folded his lips on the urge to laugh. ‘I have no doubt,’ he said when he had control of his expression.
Lady Salisbury arrived and, looking irritated, took charge of her daughter and sent Patrick outside, telling him that his brother William and some of their mutual cronies were looking for him.
‘Formidable woman,’ John remarked to Aline. ‘I wonder if I could recruit her to my household.’
Aline looked alarmed before quickly dropping her gaze. ‘I don’t think it would be allowed,’ she whispered.
‘It was a jest.’
She reddened. ‘Oh.’
He said nothing, but poured another quarter-measure into her cup.
In the balmy summer evening, sweet with birdsong and scented with honeysuckle, Sybilla was bubbling with the excitement of the occasion as she and the other wedding guests accompanied John FitzGilbert and his bride from the castle to the marshal’s house on Scowrtene Street. All were on foot, save the bride and groom, who sat together on a dappled-grey palfrey, its harness festooned with ribbons and flowers. He was astride with his bride perched on the crupper, her hands gripping his belt and a queasy smile fixed on her face. Torch-bearers illuminated their way, although there was still enough light to see by. Sybilla thought the flares looked pretty and added to the magical atmosphere. Everyone was in high spirits and there was much singing and merriment en route. Fortunately, the horse was docile, and plodded along as if on a dusty country lane. Robert, Earl of Gloucester, played the role of squire, with a hand to the bridle, and led the singing in a rich, deep voice.
Not everyone was capable of walking in a straight line. Sybilla was glad Patrick wasn’t among the company, for he had been behaving like a boor. The last cup of wine had felled him. Her oldest brother William had dragged him away to a corner of the hall to sleep it off.
Sybilla skipped along the road, holding her mother’s hand and performing little dance steps, her eyes alight with pleasure. She hadn’t eaten the piece of marchpane Aline had given her, but had stowed it in the small leather pouch at her belt to enjoy later along with her memories of the day. She had loved every moment, the more so because she hadn’t seen her big sister’s wedding, which had taken place in France. The King’s marshal and his bride looked like two figures from a stained-glass window and she had imagined Hawise and Thomas looking like that too. Sybilla hoped that when her own wedding day came, she might have a fine new gown, a chaplet of flowers for her hair, and ride to her new home on a beribboned grey horse.
The procession arrived at the house. John’s servants had opened the doors and lamplight spilled over the threshold in a welcoming pathway. Sybilla watched John dismount from the grey, then raise his arms and lift Aline down in the strength of them as if she were thistledown. The gesture elicited aaahs from several of the women. Aline flushed and stared at the ground.
John turned to his well-wishers and flourished them a bow. ‘My thanks for your good company,’ he said. ‘But now, as you will all understand, my wife and I desire to be alone.’
There was laughter, a few sparking jests, raised eyebrows. John gestured to his servants and they came out bearing cups of hot, sweet wine imbued with spices. ‘A final cup to wassail you on your way and for you to wish us Godspeed tonight!’ he said and, having raised one of the cups on high, took a token drink, then presented it to Aline to sip from the same place. Her complexion on fire, she did so, to good-natured applause and shouts of approbation. Sybilla thought when a cup was passed to her that the drink tasted ambrosial - honeyed and hot, with a hint of cloves. She closed her eyes to savour the flavours on her tongue, rather than drinking it down like the adults were doing.
John took the cup back from Aline and handed it to an attendant. With a light hand at his bride’s waist, he bowed again to his guests and went into the house, closing the door, shutting off the path of lamplight. Shouts, laughter, ribald comments bounced off the timber walls and barred threshold, but after a brief chorus, the guests started to leave, either returning to the castle or back to their own lodgings. Sybilla gave her empty cup to a servant with a smile and a thank you as she had been taught. Her mother was always saying that good manners were not only a duty, but also a tool to make the road ahead easier. As she reached for her mother’s hand and set off back through the dusk, she looked over her shoulder. She was tired, but there was still an excited, happy feeling in her stomach. Today had been special - a memory to put away and treasure, sweet as a piece of marchpane subtlety.
It was quiet in the bedchamber once Aline’s two maids had curtseyed and left, closing the door behind them. Clad in her chemise, her hair freshly combed to her waist, Aline stood alone in the middle of the room and looked round. The shutters were bolted, but candles of clean-burning beeswax cast a warm golden light upon the furnishings. She could hear John talking to his men in the room below, the rumble of his voice made indistinct by the thick wooden planking on the floor. The thought that this was his bedchamber when he stayed in Winchester, the intimacy of it, made Aline tremble
A plain wooden coffer stood against the foot of the bed. There was a bench covered with fleece-stuffed cushions, two long poles for draping clothes, hanging hooks, an empty wall niche, shelves containing sheaves of parchment, quills and inks. A trestle and bench stood near the window, positioned to obtain the best of the light. Everything was tidy, ordered, in its place. She longed to touch and investigate, but dared not.
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