A Place Beyond Courage (19 page)
‘I also know your father wasn’t happy about the King’s gift of this place to me,’ John said. ‘I have ears.’
Patrick eyed him narrowly. ‘It should belong to us,’ he growled. ‘Our family was its custodians long before The Bastard came from Normandy with his baggage of hangers-on.’
William had the sense to nudge his brother and give him a warning look.
John half smiled. ‘Things change. Any forester will tell you that old wood has to go to make way for vigorous new growth.’ Turning, he gestured to a bench set in the shade of the old Saxon hall. ‘You look as much in need of watering as your horses. Come and take some wine.’ He sent one servant running to bring a pitcher and cups, another to fetch Aline, and summoned Gilbert from his play to present him.
‘Fine boy.’ Patrick cast his eyes over Gilbert as if he were a hound pup of dubious parentage. Sybilla smiled and admired the mason’s rod the little boy was holding.
‘I’m starting him young,’ John said. ‘By the time he’s ten, he’s going to be the best castle-builder in England . . . except for his father, of course.’ His sardonic tone of voice earned pained expressions from the brothers.
Aline joined them, her belly a taut dome on her slight frame. John watched his wife greet their guests in such a soft voice that they had to strain to hear her. Her gaze darted nervously and, as always, she toyed with the amber beads that never left her belt. Sitting down, she became little more than a shadow at the trestle. Watching her struggle, John wondered why he had bothered to send a servant to fetch her. The Salisburys’ little sister already had more assurance than Aline and was barely an adolescent.
Patrick leaned back and toyed with the stem of his goblet. ‘I can see you’re turning this into a fine fortified site, my lord . . . but on whose behalf, I wonder? It’s no secret that you and the Earl of Gloucester have always been on excellent terms.’
John fixed Patrick with one of the hard stares he used on upstarts at court. ‘I owe my service to the King, not Robert of Gloucester. If you are implying my loyalty is compromised, either you have a reason, or you are deliberately setting out to insult me.’
Or you are stupid.
He didn’t add the last remark, but put enough of it in his stare to make Patrick’s cheekbones flush red.
Or you are stupid.
He didn’t add the last remark, but put enough of it in his stare to make Patrick’s cheekbones flush red.
‘So the news hasn’t reached you then?’ William said in the tone of a peace-maker and once more glared at Patrick.
‘News about what?’
‘Robert of Gloucester has renounced his oath to Stephen and gone over to his sister. He’s given her all of his castles in Normandy and they are mustering an army to invade England. There’s going to be war, and men have to decide where their loyalties lie. Given the circumstances, we are bound to ask. This may be the last time we ride abroad without our mail and in gentle company.’
Aline made a dismayed sound and pressed one hand to her mouth and the other to her belly. John folded his arms. ‘No, I hadn’t heard,’ he admitted, ‘but I am not surprised. It has been in the air since Normandy. My lord of Gloucester has been discontented for a while.’
‘Well, now he’s openly rebelled. There’s war in Normandy and it’ll likely spread to England. The lands you command stand on the edge of Gloucester’s territory and you will be in his path should he choose to strike north.’
John rubbed a considering palm over his jaw. ‘What you say is true, but it is also speculation. We all stand in the path of someone, do we not? I am in your father’s ... or perhaps he is in mine?’ He raised his brows at his guests.
Patrick finished his wine, banged down his goblet and rose to his feet. ‘You will find it wise to give us leave to pass if you desire to keep the peace.’
John rose too. ‘Providing you grant me the same courtesy, I see no need for conflict,’ he said pleasantly.
Sybilla curtseyed to Aline and then to him, but John responded without really noticing her. His mind was on what William had told him and the fact that his visitors had had plenty of opportunity to look around the new works at Ludgershall and would now report to their father on everything they had seen.
John saw his guests back on their horses and to the gateway. ‘I hope you don’t lose your hawk again,’ he said to William, ‘but if it flies this way, I am sure we can find you a warm welcome.’ His tone was bland and, because of it, filled with meaning.
William was not slow on the uptake. ‘Thank you, my lord. We will bear it in mind.’ With a final look around the compound, he rode off with Patrick, his sister and their retainers. John watched them leave and pondered. Aline joined him, and he heard the soft, monotonous click, click of the beads through her fingers.
‘There’s not going to be war, is there?’ she asked in a frightened voice.
He twitched his shoulders. ‘What will be, will be. I do not doubt Robert has gone over to the Empress. He wasn’t happy to swear for Stephen in the first place. He was always foremost in his father’s council chamber, but now he has been pushed aside in favour of others. In truth I don’t blame him.’
‘But what if he comes to England with an army?’
John clung to his patience. ‘If Robert of Gloucester lands in England with an army, then grant me the wit and ability to deal with whatever happens.’ He saw that her hands were trembling. Her ability to cope, always shaky at the best of times, scattered like dry sand in a breeze at the notion of facing war and violence. ‘It’s not as if there’s an army on our doorstep,’ he said. ‘If it helps you, go to church and pray awhile.’
An expression of relief crossed her face and she almost ran from his presence to do as he suggested. Grimacing, John returned to the trestle, poured himself another cup of wine, and sat down to do some serious thinking.
On the edge of the foundations, Gilbert had settled down with a pail of water to build himself a castle moulded from mud with stones pressed into the sides for decoration. John watched his play and wondered if he was doing the same thing. All it would take to destroy it would be a wilful foot, or a sudden thunderstorm.
13
Bristol, August 1138
The King’s campaign tent was a lavish affair of heavy linen canvas, waxed for protection against the weather, and lined with hangings of embroidered Flemish wool. New green rushes cut from the banks of the river Avon strewed the floor and a heady green scent filled the tent space, making it smell almost like a fresh stable.
Having just returned from a foraging trip, John was still wearing his armour. An angry red scratch threaded the back of his wrist and his chausses were bloodstained. Usually he would not have entered the King’s presence thus attired, but he had been late to the meet, and his appearance was a timely reminder to others that the blade at his hip was for more than just show. The subject under discussion was how to make Bristol capitulate.
‘Treachery is spreading like a canker,’ Stephen growled, the usual good humour absent from his expression. ‘By taking Bristol, I will cut out the core of the tumour, but how can I do that when the town is still receiving supplies by the river?’
‘You should blockade the estuary, sire,’ advised the Earl of Leicester. ‘Sink obstructions at the harbour mouth - boulders, rubble, tree trunks - anything to prevent the boats from getting through.’ He bared his teeth. ‘Once the citizens begin to starve, they’ll not be so defiant.’
‘We could build a dam and flood the town,’ Martel suggested.
Stephen pinched his upper lip, considering. ‘I have also thought to build siege castles to prevent use of the bridges across the city.’
John was sceptical. The building of siege castles was usual procedure and a sound tactic, but the other notions seemed ambitious folly to him. ‘Sire, it would take tons of material to make an impression on a channel that deep. We would have to find the boulders and trees in the first place and then transport them, with no guarantee of success. The tides and currents are powerful and would wash most of the work away. What was left would be neither use nor embellishment.’
‘An expert, are you, FitzGilbert?’ sneered Martel.
John gave him a cold stare. ‘As much as you are, my lord,’ he retorted. ‘The people to ask would be the local fisherfolk and merchants, but since they are the ones bringing in the supplies, you’d have to catch one first and hope he’d talk and tell you the truth. As to the issue of transporting tree trunks and boulders, you’d have to find strong enough carts and horses and decide how many you’d need. At least part of that is within my remit. If the King chooses to blockade the harbour, then I will do my best to find him what he needs.’
Martel glowered at him. ‘Your words might seem like common sense to many, except we know you are a close friend of Robert of Gloucester.’
John refused to be riled because he knew Martel was angling for just such a response. ‘That accusation is as stale as mouldy cheese, as well you know, my lord. The Earl of Gloucester is indeed my friend, but I am not bound in his service and my oath of fealty is to the King. If pointing out the shortcomings of a suggestion is treachery, then where are we bound?’
‘Marshal’s right, on all points,’ said Brian FitzCount.
‘I have seen men who should know better look at me in the same way for saying what has to be said. First we must know the depth of the channel and how much material will have to be rolled into the river and if it is likely to stay. Ideas are good, but the wherewithal to fulfil them has to be addressed.’
Several others nodded in FitzCount’s wake while de Beaumont and Martel fought their corner, stressing the need for a blockade to prevent supplies coming into Bristol.
‘You have the garrison at Bath,’ John said. ‘If you build the castles at the bridges and use Bath to keep Bristol pinned down, then you are free to move elsewhere. There are other rebellious lords around you - Ralph Luvel and FitzJohn at Cary and Harptree. They are easier targets and will prevent the soldiers from becoming frustrated.’
Stephen narrowed his gaze in thought. ‘It seems to me I have two choices. One that if it works will give me Bristol in the palm of my hand, but if it doesn’t, will be a waste of time and effort I can ill afford to expend. The other won’t give me Bristol, but it will keep its garrison pinned down and harassed. It should not be difficult to secure Cary and Harptree and, as my marshal says, the men need a taste of success. I say we take the second option. Prepare to strike camp.’
Riding to Cary, John was aware of a heightened sense of danger. It didn’t come from the King, who was highly pleased with him. Stephen had been delighted at John’s contribution to the discussion about what to do at Bristol.
For part of the journey, Stephen rode with John and presented him with a row of expensive enamelled silver pendants for the brow- and breast-band of his stallion whilst hinting at rewards for his service greater than such trifles.
Such intimations goaded John’s ambition, but they goaded other men too. Martel’s followers muttered in corners, but stopped as soon as John approached. De Beaumont was ignoring him. William D’Ypres had been giving him the kinds of looks John would have used himself on men not welcome in the King’s hall. He was aware of being isolated, of being pushed out and put in a dangerous position on the edge of the shoal. He had a modicum of protection in the neutrality and mild friendship of men such as Geoffrey de Bohun, Brian FitzCount and Hugh Bigod of Norfolk, but he knew how precarious his position was.
Some young knights belonging to the entourage of William Martel were laughing, making loud jokes and tossing a wine flask from one to the other. John rode with a set expression, determined not to let his irritation show. He would never allow his own men to drink and behave like unruly children when on progress. Suddenly, a brightly painted spear hurtled past John’s head, missing him by a fraction, and skittered along the side of the road. John’s palfrey shied and nearly threw him, although by clinging to the reins and saddle, he managed to keep his seat. Behind him, the shouts and guffaws increased.
Furious, he pulled out of line and gestured his squire to pick up the spear and give it to him. Grasping the haft, he spurred towards Martel’s cluster of knights, but they turned their mounts and rode away at a gallop, still laughing. John drew rein. His heart was pounding against his rib cage and his grip on the spear haft was slippery with cold sweat.
‘Drunken young fools,’ muttered Benet. ‘Are you all right, my lord?’
‘Yes,’ John said, although he wasn’t. This was no sottish horseplay. He had been sent a warning, and it made his spine crawl. Next time, even if it looked like an accident, they wouldn’t miss.
‘Good spear,’ Benet said drily. ‘Your gain, their loss. I say keep it.’
John looked at his knight and felt some of the sick tension leave him. He found a tight smile as he hefted the weapon. ‘I intend to,’ he said. ‘In fact I’m going to fly my banner from it when we pitch tent. If they want it back, let them come and ask me for it.’ He looked at the lance head. It was made for killing boar and the tines were barbed. A blow from this would grant no easy death.
Martel bestowed on John a look of scornful astonishment, as if he thought the latter’s complaint was mere carping. ‘It was horseplay that got out of hand,’ he said with a dismissive gesture. ‘I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.’
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