To Defy a King (8 page)

A shout from behind made both men turn to watch a bay palfrey cantering up the line towards them. Hugh suddenly grinned. 'Ralph,' he said.

His father rolled his eyes. 'I ought to have known.'

Hugh reined Hebon out of the column and cantered to meet his brother. The two horses met in a puff of dust and a near shoulder-clash, Ralph having to haul hard on the reins. Several enamelled pendants decorated his belt buckle, all displaying the blazons of French knights.

'You're still alive then,' Hugh said nonchalantly. He had last seen Ralph as the troops left La Rochelle. The lad had been reeling in the saddle, baggy-eyed with exhaustion, having spent most of the previous night polishing armour so that Longespee could ride in full splendour. However, he was certainly bright and exuberant now.

'Course I am. I can take care of myself.'

'And these?' Hugh indicated the pendants.

'They're from knights we've captured for ransom. My lord said I could wear them on my belt.'

'That's a good tally.'

Ralph nodded. 'I helped to capture this one and this one,' he said, proudly pointing. 'So did Will Marshal.' Turning in the saddle, he beckoned to another youth astride a grey gelding, who had been following in his wake.

'We pulled them down off their horses and my lord Longespee took their oaths of surrender.'

The youth bowed to Hugh, and then to Hugh's father. Will Marshal, heir to Pembroke, had recently turned sixteen years old. He was a handsome lad, more finely built than his illustrious sire, but no weakling. His body spoke of whipcord strength; his dark gaze was wary and watchful. He was supposed to be attached to King John's household, but during the Poitou campaign had been spending a lot of time delegated to Longespee's camp. The youth's father had sent troops to Poitou, but he was not here in person and the King had not permitted the young Marshal to fraternise with his father's men.

'So how is life in Longespee's retinue?' Hugh asked Ralph as they rode on towards Niort. 'Is he working you to the bone?'

Ralph cocked his head while he considered. 'He likes his harness and equipment polished until you can see your face in it,' he said. 'He gets upset if there's a speck of dirt. He expects his bed to be properly made even if we're camping in a field in the rain, but he's fair, and I like training with him. There's always something to do.'

Hugh exchanged a knowing look with his father. When he had had care of Ralph at Settrington there had always been things to do there, but matters of demesne rather than adventurous warfare. 'How are you finding a squire's life, Messire Marshal?' Hugh enquired of Will, who had been listening to Ralph without remark, but smiling slightly at the mention of Longespee's fastidiousness.

'I'm learning a great deal,' he said neutrally.

Ralph made a spluttering sound which he turned into a cough and blamed on the dust rising from the trail of horses and carts.

Earl Roger looked pointedly at his younger son. 'That is the entire point, is it not?' he said sternly. 'To learn?'

Later that night, safe inside the walls of Niort, feted as its liberators, the English army set up billets and camps. In the hall of the Donjon, Hugh sat at the fire with his father, Ralph, Will Marshal and Longespee. The latter was in an expansive mood following the day's successes and the consumption of two cups of good red wine relieved from a French supply wagon. A third measure rippled at the halfway mark in his goblet as he balanced it on his thigh and his cheeks were flushed with bonhomie. A scurrilous drinking song about Frenchmen and virgins was being sung in the round and he had relaxed enough to join in the chorus.

'Once Poitou is back in our hands, we can look to Anjou,' he announced, wafting his goblet. 'My brother will hold court in Angers before this campaign is finished, mark me. We have the French on the run.'

Men toasted the sentiment and cheered because it was good fighting talk and, after today, anything seemed possible. Tonight no one wanted to think that it was spitting in the sea.

A cold sensation at Hugh's nape made him look up, and suddenly he was on his feet and then down on his knees. Everyone else made shrift to follow as the King himself walked into the firelight, jewels winking around his neck and rings glittering on his fingers. John gestured to the company to resume their seats and praised them all fulsomely for the day's accomplishments.

His gaze settled on Longespee. 'I have a desire to throw the dice tonight,' he said. 'What say you, brother?'

Longespee inclined his head. 'If that is your wish, sire, nothing would please me more.'

John smiled around the gathering. 'You see, my lords, how easy it is to accommodate me.'

Roger of Norfolk raised a laconic eyebrow. 'Indeed, sire, but I also wonder how much my lord of Salisbury is going to lose.'

John chose to be amused by the remark and thus everyone else felt safe to laugh. 'Nothing of his own, for certain,' he retorted, 'because everything he is or he owns has been vouchsafed by his royal family. His life, his lands, his wife, his privileges: all in our gift. He knows well not to bite the hand that feeds - unlike some.' His glance darted with brief eloquence over Will Marshal before settling on Longespee with the benevolence of an owner eyeing up a favourite hound. Longespee flushed and lowered his eyes. John took a pace as if to move on, but paused and turned, one hand fiddling with the jewels round his neck, the other gripping his black leather belt. 'While I think upon it, Marshal,' he said. 'I was sorry to hear of your father's grave illness. I shall pray for him.'

Will stared at John in shock. 'My father's illness, sire?'

'You did not know?' John looked concerned and apologetic. 'Ah well, I suppose my messengers are faster than those from your family. They can't have forgotten you, surely? A congestion of the lungs, so I understand, and quotidian fever. Such things are dangerous for a man of his years. As I have said, I shall pray for him, as should we all.' John went on his way, gesturing to Longespee with a flick of his fingers.

Looking uncomfortable, Longespee hesitated. He reached out to grip Will's shoulder. 'If this is true, I am deeply sorry. I shall pray to the Virgin for your father's safe recovery, and I'll try to find out more.' He rose and left in John's wake.

Will stared round, breathing hard. 'I should not be here; I should be at home.

Why haven't I been told?'

'Because as the King says, his messengers are swifter,' Roger said. 'Perhaps it is nothing. Your father or his representatives would not write unless there was real need. Calm yourself, lad. We'll find out the truth of the matter on the morrow.'

Hugh well understood the eloquent look his father sent to him. By the word

'messengers' John had meant spies. Probably the Marshal was sick, and he did not want the world at large to know, unless it was strictly necessary. But then John was renowned for his casual cruelty and was not above fabricating stories in order to cause people grief. If it were true, they would have to watch the situation carefully and take stock. Even if it was a lie, John's remark to the youth revealed how much the Marshal's oath of fealty to Philip of France still rankled.

Mahelt knelt before the altar in the family chapel at Striguil and crossed herself repeatedly. 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, Holy Mary, Mother of God, mercy, mercy for my father's life.' To her own ears, her voice sounded small and ineffectual. She had never felt so helpless, and because of it she was angry - furious that this was happening to her beloved father and not to King John. He was the one who should be suffering.

The priest had come to sit with her father this morning. At first Mahelt had been terrified that his condition had worsened and that he was about to receive final unction. Reassurance that the visit was only for spiritual comfort had brought no relief because she didn't believe it. She knew she was not always told everything. People thought they were protecting her, but not knowing made her feel powerless and frustrated. She preferred to meet trouble head on, rather than turning aside and pretending it didn't exist. That was the coward's way.

Her father had been ill for so many days that she did not know how much longer he could endure. Much of the time he had been delirious with high fever and congested lungs. He refused to have any of his children in the sickroom lest they contract the same illness, and he was even reluctant to have Isabelle sit with him, although she had overridden his protests with fierce insistence. That made Mahelt angry too - that her mother could disobey the rules, or at least take them into her own hands, whereas she had no power to do the same. She swore that once she had her own household as a grown woman, she would rule it as she chose, not as others saw fit to tell her.

Her knees were red and sore from spending long hours on the tiled chapel floor, begging the Virgin to hear her plea. Imagining her father dead under a cold tomb slab terrified her.
Not him, please don't take him, please!
If he died her world would collapse because that encompassing, unconditional love would be gone. Will would become more than just John's hostage.

Being underage, he would become his ward too. They all would, and John would sell them off to the highest bidders. Her own betrothal would stand, but her three little sisters would be at the King's mercy, as would her four brothers, not to mention her mother, who was a wealthy countess still of child-bearing years. They would all be subject to John's will, and it would be an ill will, she knew.

She rose to her feet and dragged herself to the piscina to wash her face using water from the priest's jug. The cold splash revived her, but it made her shiver too.

'Mahelt?' her mother said.

Mahelt spun to face her and for a terrifying instant thought she was the bearer of the worst tidings. Backing away, she shook her head. 'No, Mama, no!'

'It's all right.' Isabelle made a swift gesture. 'Matty, it's all right. The fever has broken and he is asking for you.' Isabelle smiled, and then laughed a little and wiped her wet cheeks with the heel of her hand. Then she opened her arms and Mahelt ran into them and clung to her.

'Is he . . . is he going to get better?'

'Of course he is!' Her mother's voice was quivery but determined. 'But he is as weak as a kitten. We mustn't tire or vex him. He needs gentle tending.'

'I can do that. I'll look after him.' Mahelt's voice shook with eagerness. She wiped her own face. 'I'll play to him on my lute and I'll sing him songs and tell him stories.'

'But not all at once,' Isabelle cautioned. 'He must have peace and quiet.'

'I can be quiet too!' She would do anything to have her father better and back as he should be.

'And first you must eat and drink something and tidy yourself. Your father will want you to gladden his eyes. God knows he must have had enough of me being a wan scare-crow these last few days.' She tugged at her crumpled dress.

Mahelt shook her head. 'Mama, you are beautiful.'

Isabelle snorted. 'I doubt it just now.'

Mahelt hugged her again and then ran from the chapel, but remembered at the entrance to curtsey and cross herself in gratitude to the Virgin. She vowed to give her best brooch as an offering as soon as she could fetch it from her coffer.

Her father was sitting up in bed when she entered the room, propped up on numerous pillows and bolsters. A cloak of red soft wool lined with miniver was wrapped around his shoulders and fastened with a gold pin. His face was drawn and gaunt, but he managed a smile. Mindful of her mother's warning, Mahelt approached the bed decorously and gave him a peck on his stubbly cheek rather than her usual full-blooded embrace. His skin was cool to the touch and his eyes, although dark-circled with exhaustion, were clear.

'Sweetheart,' he croaked.

'I've been praying and praying. You are going to get better, aren't you?'

He gave a weary smile and closed his eyes. 'I certainly hope God will be so merciful. Play me some music, there's a good girl.'

Mahelt fetched her lute and sat down at the bedside. 'What shall I play?'

'You choose. Something soft.'

Mahelt bit her lip. She had taken her mother's news in the chapel as an indication of a fuller recovery and had not expected him to be so weak.

Tentatively she set her fingers to the instrument and began to pluck the strings. His eyes remained closed, but he nodded his appreciation of her delicate notes.

'I have much to think about, Matty,' he said after a while. 'It is long past time I put my affairs in order.'

'Papa?' She stopped and looked at him, but he shook his head and gestured her to continue.

'Let me hear the one I taught you. The one your mother likes about the Virgin and the Christ Child.'

Day by day, Mahelt watched her father recover from the sickness that had threatened his life and been a chill warning to all about mortality and how swiftly the scythe could cut the corn. He was in no great haste to force the pace, for which everyone was glad because there had never been such a sustained period when he had dwelt at home with his family. Always, before, the world had taken him away from them, but now, briefly, time stood still.

In the early days of his recuperation, Mahelt spent her time in the sickroom perched on his bed, talking to him, singing, or playing her lute and citole. As his concentration improved, she played games - chess and merels and tables.

Sometimes she would catch him looking at her with a pained and concentrated stare, but when she asked him what was wrong, he would smile and make light of the moment - say it was nothing, or that he was proud of her and the lovely young woman she was becoming.

As his health and strength returned, he began to ride out and regain the use and tone of his muscles. He was no longer content to sit in his chamber or in a sheltered warm spot of the keep and be passive. Once more he gathered the affairs of the earldom into his hands and began to spin policy and intent.

Once more time began to move and gain momentum.

'He's going to ask the King's permission to go to Ireland,' Richard told Mahelt as they watched a ship unloading its cargo of wine at the castle's water gate on the river Wye. Tripes snuffled along the base of the wall, pausing now and again to mark his territory.