To Defy a King (41 page)

His father said nothing, but turned away and, pacing to the wall, stared unseeingly at a hanging, his fists clenched. Will knew he had hurt him, but then he had hurt himself too. He felt raw and mangled, and the root cause of it yet again was John.

His father turned round and if he had looked tired before, now his expression was utterly exhausted. 'What is the right way forward?' he asked. 'For I scarcely believe that Eustace de Vesci or Saer de Quincy have it - or even my lord of Norfolk, although I suppose his skills as a lawyer are proving indispensable.'

Will gathered himself. 'Sire, I have told you, it is not just de Vesci and FitzWalter. Your skills are indispensable too. Look at the terms on the charter. Can you truly say you object to them? Do you not want to see the back of de Cigogne and his ilk?' Will gave an involuntary shudder. 'Do you not want to see the protection of women and an end to false arrest?'

His father pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. 'Yes, of course I do, and yes, the terms are worth debate, but in the open. I do not deny there are men of good name on that list, but there are others who intend nothing but mischief. They do not see this as a means of curbing John's excesses, they see it as a step to replacing him with the King of France or his son and furthering their own petty interests, and that, however you dress it up, my son, is treason.'

'That is why I came to you, sire. You are one of the few to whom John will listen. You can persuade him to agree to this charter and it will set men's minds at rest and give us a code to work by.'

His father shook his head again. 'Even as you believe I am a stubborn old man, I think you are a naive young fool. Since this thing is already in motion, it should be declared in public where all can hear the terms. I am the King's marshal. It is my duty to give him impartial advice and to stand by him. Through thick and thin. Think on it, Will. Think hard, because one day that same duty is going to be yours.'

'You should think too, my father.' Will looked at the door. 'I should go; it's very late.' Turning, he knelt before the older man in duty and respect.

'There is a bed here. You can stay . . . It is your home.'

Will hesitated for a moment, so badly tempted that it was a physical ache.

To sink into a soft mattress, inhale the scent of clean sheets and make believe he was home and tomorrow all would be fine. But he shook off the weakness and stood up. 'No, I have a lodging in the town and it is better if I go.' Because under this roof he was a subordinate, not an adult in his own right, and for now he needed to know he was the latter.

His father nodded and clasped him in a brief, hard embrace that was half affection and half reprimand. When they parted, Will strode from the room and, although he was tempted to do so, he didn't look back. He knew his father thought all this was part of a young man's wildness, but it wasn't. It was a grown man's conviction.

31

South Coast, Summer 1213

Hugh watched the King grip the finials at the end of his great chair and squeeze. The powerful movement, the rigidity of John's body within the jewel-crusted robes, the slight quiver he was giving off like a heat haze, told its own story of rage. His campaign tent was packed with knights and barons.

At Hugh's side, Ranulf was also rigid, but with stubborn determination rather than fury. 'Sire,' he said, 'I have kept myself and my men in the field as long as I can afford. My coffers are empty. I have come at your summons.

I have stood firm against the threat of a French invasion, but unless you provide me with funds, I cannot follow you across the sea to Poitou. I have no money to feed my horses or my men.'

'You want me to pay you to perform your feudal duty?' John asked with dangerous softness.

'Sire, I have fulfilled my obligation to you. Next year I shall do so again, but for now I am quit - unless you provide me with the wherewithal to stay in the field.'

Murmurs of approbation followed his speech. Ranulf was not going out on a limb, nor was he particularly the spokesman, only this time his voice had been the one the King had chosen to hear and pick upon.

'I will do no such thing,' John snarled. 'You are bound to obey me and follow where I command.'

Ranulf folded his fingers around his belt and stood firm. 'Sire, I am not bound to serve you overseas lest it be in Normandy or the Breton lands. The oath I have sworn to you does not include Poitou.'

There were more mutters of agreement and restless shuffling of feet as if men were adjusting their stance to the deck of a ship heaving in uncertain seas. No one was willing to sail with the King to take on the French by striking upwards from Poitou. As Ranulf had pointed out, everyone had been on alert the summer long and the men were jaded. Feeding horses, paying wages, keeping all up to scratch had emptied the coffers. Matters needed attending to at home. John's foreign war could wait.

'Sire,' Hugh said, speaking out in support of his brother-in-law, 'it is near the end of the season and any campaign will have to be squashed into two months instead of six. We are not prepared.'

'I am not wet behind the ears, Bigod,' John growled.

'Neither are any of these men, sire,' Hugh replied in an even voice, although his heart was pounding. 'Most of us are seasoned campaigners.'

'Seasoned in perfidy and out for your own gain.' John bared his teeth. 'I curse the day I agreed to make peace with the Pope and allowed men who had conspired against me to return from exile and receive the kiss of peace.

When the tide is full and begins the ebb, I will embark, and all of you will follow within two days. See to your weapons and horses and make yourselves ready. Any man who does not, I will count a traitor. Get out, all of you!'

Once outside the royal tent, Hugh stood in the sunshine breathing deeply and regaining his equilibrium.

'The whoreson!' Ranulf was incensed. 'All those words of contrition, all the oath-taking. He meant none of it. All he wanted was to remove the pressure put on him by the Pope and France and ship us all to Poitou! Well, you can set sail for a foreign war if you want, but I'm going home.' Throwing up his hands, he stalked in the direction of his pavilion.

Hugh followed more slowly. He had not expected any other reply from John, but unlike Ranulf he had more than one option. He had no intention of following the King, but did have the handy excuse of requiring his father's sanction to take the Bigod men overseas. He also had a contingent of Ipswich and Yarmouth sailors with him, and even if he didn't embark himself, he could give the men to the King to crew the mercenaries across to Poitou.

Ranulf was already shouting orders to strike camp and load the sumpter beasts. Hugh instructed his servants to dismantle his own pavilion and then sought his brother-in-law. 'Have a care to yourself,' he said, 'and to Marie and the children.'

Ranulf clasped Hugh's arm. 'The same to you.'

The men exchanged looks in which much was said but nothing articulated.

They both knew the dangers of the path they were treading.

In the Friday Street house in London, Mahelt leaned over Ela's four-month-old baby girl, Isabella, who was gurgling in her cradle. She chucked the baby under the chin, making her giggle, and quashed feelings of broodiness. This would be Ela's third infant in as many years and Mahelt had no intention of emulating her. The bearing of children in rapid succession took its toll on a woman's body and since Hugo was not yet two years old, she could afford to wait a while yet.

Ela sat in the embrasure, sewing a small smock while a nurse cared for her two sons. She was visiting Mahelt in London, and due to return to Salisbury on the morrow. Longespee was in Flanders and not expected home until the autumn. King's business. War business. But it seemed to Mahelt that war business and peace business were often the same thing. Her father was occupied in Wales dealing with an uprising. Hugh was attending a council at Saint Paul's in the company of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The King was sulking at Wallingford and threatening to take his mercenaries and punish those who had refused to sail to Poitou with him. His expedition had failed.

None of the barons had answered the summons and the only men prepared to go had been his household knights and hired soldiers. He had sailed to Guernsey and returned in a white rage, claiming that he was a gazing stock and reiterating that he would never have agreed to peace if he had known the insubordination of his ingrate barons and clergy would continue.

'Do you know how Hugh's sister and her husband are faring?' Ela looked up from her needle to ask.

'Hugh's mother wrote from Framlingham to say Ranulf has sent Marie and the children there for safety,' Mahelt said. 'Ranulf's still at Middleham but keeping his head down.'

Ela sighed 'These are such worrying times. I pray to the Blessed Virgin Mary that all will come to peace.'

It was on the tip of Mahelt's tongue to say that actions that accompanied prayers were usually of more benefit than prayer alone, but she kept quiet.

Ela must know it too and while she was gentle, she was no mouse. Autumn would be upon them soon, then winter, and perhaps there would indeed be peace. Only extremists fought in the frozen months when there was no forage for the horses, and surely it had not come to that just yet.

Looking out of the window, Mahelt saw Hugh hurrying towards the house from the direction of the stables. Her stomach jolted because it was not the manner in which she was expecting him to return from the debate at Saint Paul's. Something had happened. Leaving the window, she hastened to open the door.

Hugh gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, strode to his coffer and rummaged out his heavy travelling cloak. 'We've heard that John's left Wallingford and he's heading for York to punish the northern lords. He must be stopped before there's open war. The Archbishop's preparing to leave now and I've said I'll ride with him.'

Mahelt was alarmed but not surprised. Whether or not John would strike had always hung in the balance. 'Can he prevent him?'

Hugh grabbed his saddlebag and stuffed a fresh shirt and tunic into it.

Arriving on his lord's heels, a squire was ordered to take the leather bag containing Hugh's mail shirt and coif and load it on the packhorse. 'We're all hoping so. He has a gift for oratory and debate. He also has the teeth and grip of a baiting dog, thank Christ. John will be passing through Northampton. We'll try and stop him there. Langton will tell the King he is bringing down contempt upon the oath he swore at his absolution and that he has no legal grounds to persecute these men.' He closed the coffer and turned round, his chest still heaving and his complexion flushed. 'Langton says he will excommunicate anyone who goes to war before the interdict is lifted - and that won't happen until the agreement over compensation has been settled. It'll be midwinter at least.'

'And what about the meeting?' Mahelt asked.

A dour smile flitted across his face. 'Langton read out the charter of liberties before all in the cathedral. It's public now. I don't expect it to change matters immediately, but now it's out in the open, the debate can begin in earnest.'

'What charter?' Ela asked in bafflement.

'One to curb the King's excesses and make him accountable, ' Mahelt said, and swiftly explained the situation to her cousin.

Ela nodded in judicious agreement. 'It is more than time it was done. I am sure even my William would say so if he were here.'

'It's probably a good thing he isn't,' Hugh replied,

'because he'd still have to side with the King, wouldn't he? A charter is one thing; getting John to accept it and abide by it is a different matter. It's the same for my father-in-law. Whatever he thinks of the merits of this charter, his oath to John comes before all else. It is no wonder he was glad to go to Wales.' He embraced Mahelt. 'I have to go. Speed is of the essence. I'll eat in the saddle.'

He was gone in a flurry. Mahelt's lips tingled from the pressure of his kiss.

'Thank Christ that Marie and her children are at Framlingham,' she said.

'You don't think John would . . .' Ela began, but didn't finish the sentence.

'Even with all the charters in the world, no one is safe from that man,'

Mahelt replied, and felt a sudden need to go and cuddle her sons.

32

Framlingham, Spring 1214

Mahelt set her fingers to the frets of the lute and plucked out a gentle, melancholy tune on the strings. Pale spring light shone on the instrument's swollen yew-wood belly and glinted on the red silk ribbons tied at its neck.

The tune was one Mahelt had learned as a tiny girl at her father's knee and the words were all about the joys of springtime and the renewal of life.

Ida had requested Mahelt to play and sing rather than sew, and Mahelt had been delighted to oblige because music was a hundred times better than needlework. Her mind was not entirely on her craft though. Hugh was going away on the morrow to serve the King in Poitou and she was distracted.

Last summer's aborted campaign had only been postponed, not abandoned.

Another year meant that once again men owed military service or taxes in lieu. Since the autumn, an uneasy peace had settled over the country like a scratchy blanket upon a restless sleeper. Langton had managed to persuade the King not to take punitive measures in the North, but John had still headed up to Durham in a demonstration of force, claiming it was diplomatic business. There had been threats but no fighting, and discussion on the charter had taken place but with no progress beyond talk. The interdict had finally been lifted in December and John had begun preparing for his long-delayed expedition to Poitou. Ralph and Longespee were already in Flanders, liaising with England's allies there and recruiting troops.

Mahelt understood that Hugh's service was an obligatory part of his position, but she was displeased to be parting from him for the greater part of the summer, especially when he would be in John's service. She knew what to expect. Her childhood had consisted of her father leaving home in the late spring and not returning until the nights were long, dark and cold.