To Defy a King (42 page)

The first piece finished, she sought a different key and experimented with notes heard on the Irish harp in her mother's solar. Then she sang a song of Leinster, one she had heard as a girl, although she didn't know its meaning, save that it was about the span of a woman's life. It was a poignant, sad song, the words of which she did not understand but that tugged at her heartstrings nevertheless. She had heard it again recently when visiting her mother for Will's betrothal to Alais de Bethune. The couple's marriage was to be celebrated later in the year. Mahelt had found Alais something of a difficult project, for the girl was sulky and quiet in company, but she posi -

tively lit up for Will, who seemed mutually smitten. In some strange way, Alais seemed to soothe the sore spots in her brother's soul and make him more amenable; thus Mahelt was prepared to grant the girl some leeway.

As she coaxed the final, fading notes from the lute and let her voice die with them, she realised that Ida was sniffing and wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

'Mother?' Mahelt set the lute aside in consternation. Ida had recovered considerably from her illness the previous winter, but it had left a permanent residue of frailty and she was often weepy.

'That music,' Ida sniffed. 'It is so sad.'

'I am sorry, I should not have sung it.'

'No, no, it is beautiful too. I am glad you did.'

'I do not know what it means, save that it is about a woman thinking upon her life.'

'It sounds like a woman's song.' Ida bent over her sewing once more, but had to stop again as tears splashed on to the fabric. 'My sons,' she said in a grief-stricken voice. 'I bore them from the travail of my body. I bathed and tended and watched over them and soothed their hurts with love and ointments. Now again and again they ride to war. Their father spent so many months away serving the King that our good years were wasted and in our twilight, there is only long familiarity like two stones rubbing together with the harder one wearing away at the softer until the softer one is dust. I watch my boys leaving their wives and children - leaving me - and the pattern repeats itself all over again.' She fixed a drenched gaze on Mahelt. 'The first thing a man asks of his newborn son is: "Will he be a good soldier? Will he have a strong fist?" Never do they ask: "Will he be a good husband and father?" And as mothers, we never ask that question. That is what makes me weep.'

'Unless our sons become monks, they are bound to be soldiers,' Mahelt replied pragmatically. 'It is their station in life. The first thing I would ask is:

"Will he be honourable? Will he be strong - not of fist, but of principle?"

We should change what we can and make the best of what we cannot.'

Ida wiped her eyes again and forced a smile. 'That sounds like your great father talking.'

Mahelt flushed. 'It was what we were taught from the cradle.' She gave a self-deprecating laugh. 'I am too impatient; I want to change everything.'

'Patience will come with age,' Ida said. 'Just do not let it roll over into resignation as I have done.' She looked towards the open window where the first swallows were diving and swooping in the arch of air. 'I shall pray for my sons every day they are gone and beg God in His mercy to return them unharmed. But I wonder sometimes if God hears my prayers.'

'I am certain He does.' Mahelt knew she was uttering a platitude.

'I have prayed for reconciliation between my two oldest sons, but to no avail.'

'Surely it will come given time.' More platitudes.

'Sometimes I fear that I do not have the time,' Ida said sadly. 'Play something else, will you? Something happy.'

Mahelt obliged with 'Sumer Is Icumen In', a firm favourite in the Bigod household. It was simple, repetitive, childlike - and optimistic.

Lying on their bed, Mahelt propped her head on her bent arm and watched Hugh dress. Her hair cloaked her body in a glossy dark skein and she had arranged it with a few deft touches so that as Hugh prepared to leave for Poitou, he would carry the vision of her thus clad, lying on sheets thrown back in invitation, the warm scent of her body reaching towards him. It was the pose of a mistress as much as a wife and she intended it thus. 'Make sure you take proper care of yourself this time,' she said. 'I want you to come home to me whole and well and not in the kind of state you returned from Ireland.'

He smiled at her and her chest fell full and hollow at the same time. Fine weather lines had begun to seam his eye corners and she thought him devastatingly handsome. A man in his early prime with whom she had just made love and whom she was not going to see again for most of the summer.

'Don't worry about me.' His smile became a grin as he looked her up and down. 'If you are trying to tempt me not to leave, you are making a fine job of it.' Returning to the bed, he leaned over to kiss her. Mahelt pulled him down for a moment, tasting him again, feeling his skin under her fingertips.

He drew back after a moment and pulling on his hose, began tying them to his braies. Tossing back her hair, making a show of the gesture so that it drew attention to the length of her bare arm and the curve of her breast, she moved to help him. The service was intimate, and despite appetite having recently been sated, it was intensely erotic too.

'I want you to remember this moment,' Mahelt said with a breathless little laugh. 'Keep it with you as extra warmth when you're lying on a lumpy pallet in your tent.'

Hugh made a sound that was half laugh and half groan. 'Such a memory will surely set me on fire,' he said. 'I do not know whether you are an angel or a very wicked woman.'

'Neither do I.' Giving him a sultry look, Mahelt rose from her knees and fetched a belt of blue braid that had been lying on her coffer. 'All the pearls were stitched on by me, and I used my hair for thread. Wise women say that a wife can bind her man to her if she girds it upon him herself. And see.' She showed him the reverse of the belt. Worked along the centre of the length in gold thread were the words that were inscribed on the parchment scroll he had left on her pillow: 'Ne vus sanz mei, ne mei sanz vus'
.

Hugh's throat was tight with emotion as she passed the belt around his waist and latched the buckle. He recognised the pattern and the colours. It was the piece they had woven together when Hugh was a baby.

They would have wound up in bed again - except there was no time for the slow, tender loving that the moment required. The men and the laden sumpter horses were already assembling in the courtyard and the rumble of the slow-moving baggage came through the window as they set out ahead of the main troop. Such noise was always a marker on the path to a long farewell. With huge reluctance, Hugh drew away from her and, with a final stroke of her hair, strode from the room, leaving her to dress.

There was a second, formal leave-taking in the courtyard. Little Roger was upset because he wanted to go to war with his papa and was utterly disgusted at having to stay behind. As far as he was concerned he was almost five years old and a 'big boy', grown enough to serve as his father's page. Being told it was his responsibility and his duty to care for the womenfolk and help his grandfather protect Framlingham was small consolation. However, he was steadied by his grandsire's grip on his shoulder, and proud of the gold ring his papa gave him to wear on a cord round his neck in token of his responsibility.

Mahelt held Hugo in her arms. Unaware of the solemnity of the occasion or that the Bigod men were headed for a hard battle campaign far away, the infant waved his arms and shouted joyfully, 'Bye-bye, bye-bye!' The moment was poignant and funny at the same time and cause for tears and laughter among the adults. The outriders heeled their mounts and trotted forth in a blaze of red and gold banners. Then came the household knights with Hugh in their midst, followed by more knights, serjeants and footsoldiers. Michael the chaplain rode his mule with the portable chapel packed into baskets on his sumpter nag. The rumble of wheels, the clop of hooves and clank of accoutrements filled the yard like thunder, and then, like a storm, rolled on and faded into the distance. Muddy water plinked in the bailey puddles and grew still. With the rest of the household, Mahelt climbed to the battlements to watch the cavalcade grow smaller and smaller and eventually vanish from sight.

'Dada gone?' said Hugo. 'Dada gone now.'

Mahelt's chin quivered. It was the first time her second son had strung his words together, and Hugh, even while being the catalyst, had missed it.

'Yes, Dada gone,' she said and, with Hugo on her hip, she placed her free hand on her other son's head. 'Your brother's the man of the castle now.'

33

Nantes, Poitou, Summer 1214

Hugh clashed blades with a French soldier, forced him backwards and struck with the hilt of his sword. The soldier fell away and Hugh pressed his stallion forwards, barging and cutting a path amidst the heave and sway of heavy battle. The midsummer heat blazed down on his mail and his skull felt as if it were encased in a hot lead cauldron. He was breathing hard through his mouth and his throat was a fiery tunnel. Blood dripped from his right wrist where he had taken a wound earlier in the skirmish. Stott's implacable, solid strength came into its own as Hugh strove to gain advantage. '
A moi!
'

he bellowed to the knights churning up the dust around him. '
Bigod, a moi !

'

King John was pressing the advance and intent on seizing the port town of Nantes from the French. Hugh and the Bigod contingent were immersed in the full thick of the broil. The town militia, composed of ordinary folk, could not withstand the onslaught and were melting back into Nantes, but the garrison had more backbone and there was a sudden surge as they rallied under one of their commanders, and hurled forwards again. The area surrounding the Bigod red and yellow standard became a melee of hacking, slashing men. A footsoldier grabbed for Hugh and tried to drag him from the saddle, but Hugh cut him down and applied the spurs. Stott reared and sprang forward on his hind legs. Hugh hacked his way free of the knot of French, turned the destrier in a tight arc and came back at them. The sound of fighting was like the roar of a great sea and he felt like a stone caught in the surf.

Another knight rode at him, his raised shield displaying the blue and gold chequered blazon of Dreux, his matching silk surcoat torn and blood-splashed. Royalty, Hugh realised. King Philip's own cousin, no less.

Hugh turned to meet him, presenting his shield to the first blow of Dreux's sword. The assault gouged splinters from Hugh's shield and pressed him back against his saddle. He attacked with a counter-blow and spurred forwards. Stott snapped at Dreux's horse, which lashed out, and the fight became one of hooves and teeth and stallion muscle as well as sword and shield. Hugh was aware of Hamo Lenveise fighting to his right, using the Bigod banner as a lance, and his brothers Roger and William fighting hard on the left. The sight of the Bigod colours spurred him on and he redoubled his efforts. Dreux was a hard fighter, but that very fact had left him isolated from his troops. As the Bigod soldiers closed around him, Dreux realised the danger, but it was too late to retreat because he was already encircled. 'I yield!' he cried. 'I am the King's cousin, Robert de Dreux, and I yield!' He lowered his guard, exposing his breast, and presented to Hugh the sword with which he had just been trying to kill him.

Hugh gave Dreux his own credentials and accepted the surrender. More French knights were throwing down their weapons or fleeing as it became plain that the battle was lost. The inhabitants either shut themselves in their homes or ran for safety as the garrison yielded. Nantes was John's and the English were within striking distance of Angers. Once again an Angevin king had entered his heartlands.

Hugh deployed his men to secure their position and Lenveise found them a billet close to the river. The previous owners had left in a hurry and a cauldron of stew still simmered on the hearth. Hens in the yard meant a good dinner tonight and fresh eggs on the morrow. Albram, the troop chirurgeon, bathed and bandaged the wound to Hugh's wrist, shaking his head and insisting it be sutured before Hugh left for a council with the King and the other battle commanders. There hadn't been any pain from the injury in the heat of the conflict, but as Hugh changed his tunic, he felt as if he'd plunged his forearm into a nest of wasps.

The King was restless with impatience. He had split his forces and the other half were in the north, commanded by Longespee and supposed to be closing southwards in a pincer movement to trap the French between the two lines.

However, Longespee's division had not started out yet because their German allies under Otto of Saxony were still arriving and Otto was not ready to march. John was eager to move while he had the advantage.

'Tomorrow we strike at Angers,' he said, his eyes glittering with impatience.

'The French are on the defensive. We captured twenty of their best knights today, including the King's own cousin.' His gaze slid briefly over Hugh in acknowledgement. 'Within the week, I will hold court in the capital of my forefathers.'

John's words were greeted with murmurs of approbation and gestures of accord. 'From there, we'll seize La Roche-aux-Moines.'

'Sire, the men have to rest,' spoke up Poitevin baron Aimery of Thouars.

'We should have a day at least for the sake of the horses.'

'No.' John shook his head and gave him a hard look. 'If we slack, the French will take advantage. You can have your day's rest in Angers, my lord. We are here to perform a task, not sit on our backsides.'

De Thouars flushed and his gaze slid around the chamber, seeking supporters, daring anyone to laugh or mock. Without a word he turned and shouldered from the room.

'Does anyone else think we should stay behind, or are the men of England made of stronger stuff?' John enquired, arching a scornful eyebrow.

By the end of the week they had taken Angers and for two nights the King presided over a city that had been the cradle from which his forefathers, the Counts of Anjou, had begun their rise to power through marriage and conquest.