A Place Beyond Courage (3 page)
‘You outdo us all,’ King Henry told him, his smile exposing a crowd of chipped, life-worn teeth. His own trophy dangled limply over a pack saddle.
‘Sire, I was fortunate and I had little choice.’
‘Perhaps not, but it won’t harm your reputation for being a dangerous man to cross. Anyone who tackles a boar on his own deserves whatever fate deals to him - in your case, John FitzGilbert, an accolade.’
‘Thank you, sire,’ John replied with a grave bow. ‘Indeed, it was three,’ he added as he straightened, ‘but I am sorry to say that two escaped my spear and ran off in that direction.’
Henry laughed and his eyes shone with a huntsman’s relish. ‘Then you have a grain of prudence and it leaves more for the chase.’ He gestured to his attendants and spurred off in the direction John had indicated, the hunting horn blowing the away.
Stephen started to follow his uncle, but paused to lean down and slap John’s shoulder. ‘Well done!’ Genuine admiration gleamed in his blue eyes.
‘It was the heat of the moment,’ John said with modest dismissal.
‘Proves you don’t need a Spanish horse to make an impression,’ Gloucester remarked acidly as he turned his own horse.
Another boar and two roebuck later, the hunters stopped at a pre-arranged clearing to replenish their energy with the victuals the King’s attendants had gone ahead to prepare.
The hunting party fêted and teased John for bringing down a boar single-handed. He shrugged off the praise because he knew any of the others would have done the same, and open boasting was not in his nature; nevertheless, he was quietly pleased.
He was crouching by the firepit, toasting a chunk of bread on a pointed stick, when Gloucester sauntered over to join him. ‘You know my sister is still in Rouen,’ he said casually after a moment.
John turned the stick, drawing the bread a little away from the heat. ‘No sign of reconciliation between her and Geoffrey then?’ Shortly before he had left court to attend to his dying father and the affairs of his estate, the King’s daughter Matilda had quarrelled with her new husband, the adolescent Geoffrey of Anjou. The youth had sent her home to Normandy, saying he refused to live with such a termagant, let alone bed with her and beget an heir.
Robert turned his mouth down at the corners. ‘She’s still saying that hell will freeze over before she’ll go back to him and he’s saying the same about having her back.’
‘And your father?’
‘Gnashing his teeth in private but still striving for diplomacy. There’s not a lot he can do without agreement from either side, is there?’
John removed the toasted bread from the stick. He had had some dealings with Matilda, who liked to style herself ‘Empress’ and remind everyone that her first marriage had been to the ruler of the Holy Roman Empire, by implication a real man of dignity and standing, not some spotty count’s son more than ten years younger than herself. That the youth’s father was now King of Jerusalem had not mellowed her attitude one whit. ‘No, but there are certain pressures he can bring to bear.’ John glanced eloquently towards the King, who was deep in conversation with Stephen of Mortain. The two stood close together in relaxed camaraderie, mirroring each other’s body movements as they ate and drank. ‘He needs to.’ John bit into the crisp, brown crust. ‘He has no direct male heir from his marriages and even if he is hale for the moment, he is not young.’
Robert rubbed the back of his neck and scowled. ‘Everyone swore to uphold my sister’s right to the throne. We’ve all taken oaths of homage to her.’
‘With your father watching every move of every man, who would dare to refuse? Without him, it might be different.’ John had been in Rouen for the oath-taking in the great cathedral. His father had been alive then and had sworn allegiance, but the lands they had of the Marshalsea were insignificant and it was the pledges of the magnates that had mattered to Henry.
‘What are you saying?’
‘That if your father wants Matilda to sit in his place, it would be useful if there were a well-grown grandson or two by the time he starts to feel his years. Like it or not, my lord, men look to be ruled by another man, not a woman.’
Robert made an impatient sound, but his gaze flickered towards his father and Stephen.
John speared another piece of bread and held it to the flames. ‘He’s using Stephen to exert pressure on her, but sometimes you can’t tell who’s hunting whom. Every creature preys on something weaker than itself or aligns itself to take advantage.’
‘You included?’
John gestured around. ‘Look at the trees. Winter strips them bare. You can see every knot and crevice, every rotten branch and strong limb. But clad them in green and it is harder to tell. Depending on the season, they are the same but changed.’
‘What kind of answer is that?’ Robert snapped. ‘You talk in foolish riddles.’
John watched the bread begin to turn brown and said quietly, ‘Your grandsire was bastard begotten, but he wore a crown. Some say that—’
Robert stepped back as if John had struck him, colour flooding his complexion. ‘I know what “some say” and if you are one of them I have misjudged your friendship. I will never take that road. Never!’
John pulled his stick away from the fire. ‘You misjudge me no more than you misjudge yourself, my lord.’
Robert looked away. Adjusting the set of his cloak like a cat grooming ruffled fur, he stalked off without another word. John attended to his toasted bread and thought that Robert was vehement because the notion of reaching for the crown appealed to him at some deep level where he would never admit to it. Since childhood, it had been instilled in him that his father’s heirs were those born of legitimate marriage. The world had changed since his grandfather, William the Bastard, had ruled Normandy and seized the English throne. Robert had lands, titles and great wealth. His mother’s relatives were all welcome at court. His father loved him dearly and kept him deep in his counsels. Even without a crown, the rewards were great and Robert’s moral code would keep him walking that straight path, a willing servant to his father’s will. Nevertheless, John supposed it was a great temptation to eye the gilded road running parallel and think that, but for the grace of God and the words of a priest, one might have been treading the miles of one’s life shod in the purple of kingship. John knew which road he would have taken, but then it was easy to imagine from a distance and a different perspective.
John had been nineteen years old when a crone at the September fair in Salisbury had studied his hands and told him he would beget greatness - that one day a son of his would rule England. John had laughed in her wizened face. He was the son of a minor household serjeant who had thrust his way by cleverness, diligence and loyalty into the position of royal marshal. John had the ambition and ability to build on such foundations, but he was certain they didn’t come with a crown attached. The memory of that prediction brought an arid smile to his lips. Dusting crumbs from his hands, he rose from his crouch by the fire and went to question the kennel-keepers about the eating habits of the hounds.
The feast that followed the King’s return from the hunt continued deep into the night and John was kept busy in his role of marshal of the court, maintaining order with his mace of authority in hand. Men who desired audience with the King had first to pass him and his ushers. If Henry made a request to talk with a particular person, it was John’s duty to see it done. Conversely, if the King wished to avoid someone, John and his men were responsible for making sure Henry was not troubled. Sometimes there were objections, which was why John wore his sword and cultivated a dangerous air. People didn’t notice how young the King’s marshal was. What they saw was the speed of his reactions and his ability to anticipate trouble and nip it in the bud.
By the time Henry retired to his chamber with a few select members of the court, including Robert of Gloucester, Stephen of Mortain and the Beaumont brothers, the moon was a high white sliver in a star-spun sky. John’s ushers had dealt with several drunkards, quelled a brawl between two young hotheads, disarming them of knives in the process, and escorted a bishop back to his lodging after he tripped over Waleran de Beaumont’s dog and cracked his head on a trestle.
Satisfied that all was under control, John left the hall and walked to his one-roomed lodging near the stables. A glance as he strolled revealed that the lamps were still burning in the whores’ domicile, but that was nothing unusual. Business would continue late into the night. He contemplated stopping by for a word, but decided it could wait until the morrow. He had a pile of tallies and parchments waiting his attention without adding the concerns of the court concubines to the workload.
Like the horses, the dogs and the hawks, the royal prostitutes came within the marshal’s remit. John had to see the women fed, clothed, housed and paid for out of the exchequer. Many of the women were looking to become permanent mistresses and there was always fierce competition to join the royal household and seek such an opportunity. John was never short of applicants, although few won past his exacting standards. He well knew the tastes of the King and his magnates - his own come to that. A court prostitute had to have more than fine looks and the ability to give a man the ride of his life. She had to be socially adept and adaptable, and utterly, entirely discreet. John sometimes thought it would have been easier to collect a bucket of hens’ teeth than find women of sufficient calibre.
Arriving at his lodging, John dismissed his chamberlain and squire. Most of his waking hours were spent in company, but he enjoyed moments to himself when he could snatch them. They gave him time to recoup and reflect; to be still and think at leisure. He draped his cloak across his coffer and hung his swordbelt and scabbard on a wall hook. A flagon and a cup stood on a trestle under the shuttered window together with the pile of tallies and parchments from this morning. He poured wine, moved the lamp until he was satisfied with the fall of light upon his work area, and sat down with the sigh of a man letting go of one thing and preparing to tackle another.
He reached for a document lying to the side of the others, its lower edge tagged with Henry’s seal. This one was personal business, not a routine matter of palfreys or bread for the hounds. His inner vision filled with the memory of the blushing girl he had seen at mass in the cathedral at Salisbury when he had been home attending to his father’s affairs. Aline Pipard’s father was recently deceased too, and John had now bought her guardianship, which gave him the right to administer her estates and eventually sell her marriage to whomsoever he chose.
Sipping his wine, he contemplated the document, wondering if she was going to be worth the fee he had paid for her. He hadn’t decided what he was going to do about the guardianship - sell the marriage on, or take the girl to wife himself. His father and hers had long been acquainted. He had known Aline from a distance since she was a little girl, but his association with her amounted to no more than a few casual meetings and glances in passing. His purchase was less concerned with family ties than with the available revenues from the Pipard lands and the knowledge that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. His acquisition was something to fall back upon should lean times arise. Thoughtfully, he rolled up the document, tied it with a length of silk cord and, having set it aside, commenced work on the routine lists and tallies waiting his attention.
John was on his second cup of wine and had just trimmed a fresh quill when a soft tap at the door interrupted him. He considered ignoring it, but the work was boring and he was in a mood for distraction - probably a female one to judge from the sound of the knock. Leaving his work, he went to open the door and was pleased to discover his assumptions correct. Without a word, he stood aside to let the woman enter the room. She moved to the hearth with fluid, deliberate grace and turned to wait for him.
He dropped the latch, fetched another cup and poured her wine. ‘Mistress Damette,’ he said courteously. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ He addressed her by her working name. Her real one was Bertha and she was the youngest of six daughters belonging to an impoverished knight from the Avranchin. It was three years since she had left the enclave of court whores to become the concubine of an Angevin baron.
She responded with a throaty laugh and a knowing look as she accepted the wine. ‘You owe it to the fact that you are the King’s marshal and I am in need of employment.’
‘I gathered as much.’ He picked up his own half-finished cup and leaned with feigned nonchalance against the trestle. ‘What happened?’
She pursed her lips at him. ‘Crusade. He took the Cross and forswore women. He was selling everything he could to raise the money to go and fight for Christ, so I grabbed my silks and furs and left before he had a chance to sell them too.’ Her voice developed a sultry edge. ‘Otherwise, I’d be here in naught but my shift.’ She put the wine down, unfastened her cloak and draped it across the coffer on top of his own. The tight lacing of her gown accentuated every line and curve of her figure.
John looked her up and down. She had burnished dark hair and eyes to match. Lamp and firelight glanced upon orbit and satin cheekbone. His father had originally been responsible for admitting Damette to the court enclave and she had occasionally shared the senior marshal’s bed, but never his. He had been a youth learning his trade back then, and even if she was of his years, she had been a deal less innocent. ‘An interesting notion,’ he said, ‘but you know the ways of the court and I’m afraid that “naked under the cloak” is one of the less original ploys these days.’
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