To Defy a King (5 page)

Hugh was also more relaxed in the aftermath of the formalities, but his behaviour towards her remained courtly and polite, and he showed no inclination to play as he had done at Christmas. Mahelt kept her eyes downcast as befitted a future bride, although under the table she was swinging her legs. Had it been feasible, she would have kilted up her gown and run and run, just to be rid of her surplus tension and energy.

Hugh placed the choicest morsels before her, but she wasn't hungry. Lent might be over and dainties once more allowed in the diet, but she was too tense to enjoy the succulent young duck and fragrant barley grains perfumed with cardamom.

'When we are married, I will take you riding and show you around our estates,' he said. 'Would you like that?'

Mahelt nodded. 'I have a new palfrey,' she volunteered. 'She's called Amber.'

His eyelids tightened and she thought she had said or done something wrong, but then his expression smoothed out and he smiled. 'Indeed, and very fine too. I watched you arrive on her and thought what a good rider you were.'

She felt a glow of pride at his praise. 'Do you still have that white mare I saw you riding at Christmas?'

The dark look returned to his face. 'No,' he said, 'I don't, but I'm going to Normandy soon to bring our stud herd to England, and I'll choose a new horse then.'

Mahelt swung her legs harder and toyed with a piece of bread. She decided not to ask what had happened to the mare because she could tell from Hugh's expression that he didn't want to speak about it.

Towards the end of the meal an armourer arrived with some sword blades that Mahelt's father had been expecting and the men went to try them out, leaving the women to their talk.

Mahelt's second cousin Ela took the opportunity to admire the betrothal ring. 'It's beautiful,' she said, a smile in her hazel-grey eyes. Ela had been married to Hugh's half-brother William Longespee since she was nine years old. She was sixteen now, and a modest but confident young woman. Her husband was serving the King at court, but Ela had been glad to attend the betrothal.

Studying the ring, Mahelt tried to imagine being a wife, but it was like putting on a new dress that was too big for her, and people saying she would grow into it.

'Do you know when the marriage will be?' Ela asked.

Mahelt shook her head. 'Not for a few years.'

'Countess Ida is lovely,' Ela reassured her. She cast a fond look in the direction of her mother-in-law. 'She has taught me so much.'

'I like her,' Mahelt agreed, knowing that no one would ever match up to her own mother.

'What about Hugh, do you like him?' An impish sparkle lit in Ela's eyes.

'He's handsome, isn't he?'

Mahelt felt her cheeks redden as she nodded.

'And kind too,' Ela added. 'You cannot set too high a price upon kindness in a match - and respect. My husband is good to me and I love him dearly. I only wish that he and Hugh were fonder of each other. I am sorry for it because they are both fine men in their individual ways, and they come from the same womb.'

'Why aren't they fond?' Mahelt asked, her curiosity thoroughly aroused.

Ela's brow furrowed. 'My Will refuses to talk about it; he becomes irritated with me if I broach the subject, and pretends it is of no consequence, but I believe it has to do with matters of family and belonging.'

Mahelt's brow furrowed as she tried to puzzle out what Ela was saying. She supposed Longespee might feel awkward among the Bigods owing to his bastardy, although from what she had seen of Hugh's nature, she didn't think he would be cruel or unwelcoming to his half-brother because of it, and surely as the son and brother of a king, Longespee was well compensated.

'My husband has a foot in two worlds,' Ela said. 'He finds it difficult because the King expects him to tell him things about his Bigod family, and his Bigod family look to him to ease their path with the King. Balancing the two is not always easy for his honour and his duty.'

Mahelt nodded. She understood that part because her father often had to tread a fine line between his duty to his family and his duty to the King. It still didn't explain the animosity between Hugh and Longespee though.

'It is the place of a wife to be a peace-weaver,' Ela said. 'I do my best, but Will is proud and stubborn, and Hugh hides behind a smile he doesn't always mean.'

While Mahelt was trying to digest this food for thought, a messenger arrived at the gallop, dismounted and hurried straight to her father. Whatever he said as he knelt made everyone cease their swordplay and gather around him, hands on hips, expressions concerned. Mahelt's stomach wallowed.

Messengers were always coming and going at Caversham. Indeed, her father was seldom not in their company, but for one to approach him in the midst of a social gathering meant that the news would not wait.

As the group dispersed, Mahelt ran up to Will and grabbed his arm. 'What's happened?' she demanded.

Her brother pushed his dark hair off his forehead in an agitated gesture. 'The castle at Gaillard has fallen,' he said. 'It means Rouen is exposed to the French because Gaillard guarded the river approach. The King's lost Normandy for certain now.'

Mahelt thought of the high castle walls at Longueville and the vista of undulating fields ripe with dark-gold wheat seen from its battlements. 'Does that mean Papa will lose his lands too?' she asked.

Will shrugged. 'Not if he can help it,' he said, 'but it's bad.'

5

Montfiquet, Normandy, May 1204

Lying on his bed, Hugh listened to the birdsong outside his chamber window. The rich warble of a thrush in the cool dawn air swelled his breast with emotion which threatened to overflow like the bird's canticle. Beyond the shutters, the manor was stirring to life. He could hear voices, the whinny of a horse, the squeak of the winch winding up the well bucket. In a moment he would have to stir too and join the bustle, knowing that by the time the sun was warming the spring grass, this place would be a memory he could never again refresh - unless a miracle happened.

He turned his head on the pillow to look at Nicolette. Her hair was a dark, deep red that reminded him of cherries and her mouth was soft and sweet.

He could never get enough of kissing her. They had left the shutters open last night on a sky thick with stars, and had made love knowing that when morning came, their lives would not mesh again. He knew he was only one of several select clients, including a bishop and a wealthy wine merchant, but even so there was an affection between them that extended beyond the exchange of payment for exquisite services rendered.

As if sensing his scrutiny, she opened her eyes and yawned at him.

'It's light,' he said. 'We have to go.' He leaned over to embrace her one final time and she wrapped her arms around his neck and held him hard.

Outside the noises had increased in variety and volume. The grooms were out saddling up the horses. A woman was calling to the chickens.

Reluctantly, Hugh drew away and, with the damp imprint of their kiss still on his lips, began to dress. She sat up and watched him, the sheet folded across her breasts and her ruby hair spilling down her spine. 'I am going to miss your visits.' She yawned again, like a cat. 'Perhaps when all is settled between the King of England and the King of France, you will visit me in Bayeux.'

'Yes, perhaps.' He knew he wouldn't.

When they were both dressed, he presented her with a little embroidered belt purse with silk cords. The weight of silver within was generous and gave the pouch a pleasant heft. It was her fee, but bestowed as a gift rather than payment.

She thanked him with a last, lingering kiss. 'Think of me sometimes,' she said.

'I will think of you more than sometimes,' he vowed. 'The difficulty will be not thinking.'

She stroked the side of his face and drew away. 'For a while, my Hugh, but time will soften the edges. What is tender to the touch now will become nostalgia.'

He knew she was right. These last moments were achingly sweet, but once the tie was severed, they would both move on to the next point in their lives.

Together they went down to the courtyard. Hugh cupped his hands to boost Nicolette on to her mount and for a moment stood by her saddle, his hand encircling her ankle. Then he opened his grip and let her go, accompanied by two of his men for escort.

She looked back once, and he memorised the pale oval of her face and the smile parting her full lips. When she faced the road again, he too turned away and, with determination, applied himself to the task of assembling his father's horses for the journey to the coast. He had chosen a new courser from among the herd - a four-year-old stallion with a coat the colour of polished jet. Hebon, named for his colour, showed the strain of Spanish blood in his convex nose and the proud curve of his neck, covered by a waterfall of black mane. Hugh had ridden him over the estate yesterday, bidding farewell to familiar boyhood haunts, knowing that soon the French would come and seize the land, breed their own horses here, mulch the apples and make the cider. On the flat fields between the orchards he had taken his courage in his hands and put Hebon to the gallop: hard, flat out, the wind in his face, his cloak flying. He had experienced a feeling of release and, at that moment, had finally begun to put the incident with Arrow behind him and bid her farewell. It was in the past; live and learn.

So early in the season, the verges were green and the roads firm but not yet dusty as Hugh and his retinue of serjeants and drovers herded the horses towards the coast three miles away. Hugh's adolescent brothers rode with him, their father having deemed it useful experience for them to accompany him; and indeed they had pulled their weight and been of great help. With unusual tact, they had left him alone last night, although their nudges and smiles this morning were less than discreet.

Ralph cantered ahead, his hat set at a rakish angle on his dark curls. He had plaited a red ribbon in his mount's tail. Hugh shook his head but had to grin.

To Ralph, life was one gigantic adventure. William joined Hugh, his own expression sombre with reflection. 'Why do you think our father decided not to leave one of us in Normandy?' he asked. 'Ralph or I could have sworn an oath to the King of France and kept the estates for our family.'

'Neither you nor Ralph is of age and leading men would be difficult - no matter what Ralph thinks.' Hugh cast an exasperated gesture at their high-spirited younger brother. 'The lands we own might give us good horses and cider, but they are a spit in the ocean compared to our English estates.

Our father will not put one of us out on a limb here. Rather he will consolidate what we have that we can hold for a certainty and that won't cost us more to defend than it provides in revenue.'

'The Marshal's not pulling back, is he? Not from the news I heard this morning.'

Hugh looked at him sharply. 'What news?'

'A jongleur arrived while we were breaking our fast and you were still . . .

otherwise occupied. He was seeking employment, but since we were leaving, he moved on to the next ville.'

'And?' Hugh's tone continued brusque.

'You know the Marshal has gone to see the French King to try and negotiate a peace settlement?'

Hugh nodded. 'That's common knowledge.'

'The jongleur told me that the Marshal has offered King Philip five hundred marks to let him keep his Norman lands for another year, and Philip has accepted with the proviso that after that time, the Marshal must either give them up or swear allegiance to France - unless John has recovered the territory, of course.'

Hugh mulled the information and watched Ralph cantering up and down the line of horses. The Marshal lands in Normandy were much greater than their own. It wasn't just a matter of a few manors and orchards and horses. It was Orbec and Longueville and Bienfait and all the rest. King John was not going to take kindly to such news. Private arrangements between his barons and the King of France were the stuff of royal nightmares.

'I hope it doesn't cause difficulties for us, with you being betrothed to the Marshal's daughter,' William said darkly. 'What if we get caught up in any disputes that arise from this?'

Hugh made a gesture of negation. 'Our father is too shrewd to let that happen, and the Marshal is no fool when it comes to keeping his hide intact.

Why do you think he chose to settle his eldest daughter with us in the first place?'

William shrugged. 'Because he and our father are friends and allies. He wants unions with all the great families in the land in order to strengthen his position, and he has the sons and daughters to accomplish that.'

'Yes,' Hugh agreed, 'but he also knows our father treads a steady path. We are powerful enough to protect his daughter, and East Anglia is the size of a kingdom in itself, away from the hub of the court. We can live as we choose and none will interfere.'

'You hope.'

Hugh conceded the truth of William's remark with a tilt of his head. He suspected that, whether soldier or judge, the road ahead was going to be full of potholes and that each man would have to find his path as best he could.

6

Caversham, Spring 1205

Will folded his arms and watched his sister, a look of exasperated amusement on his face. 'Surely you're not keeping that thing?'

Sleeves rolled up, linen apron tied at her waist, Mahelt was busy bathing a scruffy, scabby brown and white terrier with the same tender thoroughness with which she had bathed her wooden dolls as a smaller child. The dog in the tub shivered and whined, but tolerated the treatment. Now and then it tried to lick Mahelt's face. 'Mama said I could,' she replied without looking up. 'He's just dirty and needs a bath.'

Will snorted. 'There's a lot more wrong with him than being dirty! For a start he's missing a foreleg, or had you not noticed?'

Mahelt scowled at him. 'Father Walter says he probably got it caught in a trap when he was a pup and that someone managed to cut it off and save him

- like old Adam.' The latter was a one-legged cart driver, once a serjeant in her father's troop, who had been wounded in the calf by an arrow and had survived the ensuing amputation.