A Place Beyond Courage (33 page)
The boy had not been in the least fazed by John’s disfigurement; indeed was inquisitive and forthright about it, asking detailed questions. John found his curiosity refreshing. Generally people acted as if they didn’t see that side of his face, or looked away in embarrassment or distaste. It was the pity he hated most though and it curdled his stomach. Henry, however, reacted in none of these ways and appeared to see the whole man, not the external trappings. All unformed and malleable as the child was, John could see the potential.
‘Now you understand what this struggle is all about,’ Gloucester said, joining John. ‘Stephen’s son will be no match for this child when he becomes a man.’
John bowed his head in acknowledgement, for what Gloucester said was true. Young Henry had the common touch his mother lacked, but still possessed the air of a king-in-the-making.
‘Our task is to build him the time he needs to grow up,’ Robert added.
‘Oh, that’s easy then.’
Robert looked uncomfortable. ‘I know the Empress does not say a great deal, but she is grateful for all you have done for her.’
John felt bitterness well up inside him. What good was gratitude when weighed against what he had permanently lost? Matilda had few resources out of which to reward her followers for their loyal service. Remuneration was almost non-existent and funds were short unless one took them from an enemy or someone weaker than oneself. One had to be permanently on one’s guard - witness that incursion by Patrick of Salisbury that Benet had fought off. John knew if he didn’t maintain an iron control on his territory, then order would shatter apart and anarchy rule. If he showed one moment of weakness he would be torn down by the pack. He was also enough of a realist to know that even if Matilda won through and her eldest son survived to become King, personal reward might not be forthcoming. The young man would have his own circle of friends and men he wanted to promote. ‘Let us hope she has a good memory,’ he said.
Robert was silent for a while, clearly giving time for the moment’s tension to dissipate. Then he changed the subject. ‘I am glad you have made your peace with William of Salisbury,’ he said.
‘I never had a quarrel with him,’ John answered. ‘It was his brother Patrick who overstepped the mark. He has a flea in his breeches about Ludgershall. William’s more intelligent about the realities.’
Robert grunted. ‘How did William seem to you at court?’
‘In what way?’
‘The state of his health. I’ve been told he’s ailing.’
John made a considering face. ‘I thought he was thinner than when last I saw him and he looked as if he needed to lie down and sleep, but his speech and reasoning seemed sound enough.’
‘The battle at Wilton affected him badly.’
‘We all have our nightmares to fight,’ John said curtly.
‘Mine happen every time I dream I have two eyes and wake up with one. You learn to carry the burden and live with it.’
Robert cleared his throat. ‘Indeed, indeed,’ he said, his tone over-hearty. ‘The point I was making is that if William fails, we will have to deal with Patrick, and he’s of a different nature - and perhaps a different allegiance too.’
‘But he can be handled. There is always a way around for the sake of some thought on the matter.’
‘Yes,’ said Gloucester. ‘And it might be wise to start pondering now.’
It was quiet in the hall at Salisbury. Most folk had gone to their beds and only a few candles still burned in isolated corners and crevices to light the darkest watches of the night. One such illuminated the dais and the figure of Patrick, sitting in the chair from which his father in his prime and then William had dispensed justice and presided over the affairs of the sheriff.
Quietly Sybilla joined him, setting a fresh cup of wine at his right elbow and lighting a new candle from the drip-festooned remnants of the old. At first, because he was gripping his head in his hands, she thought he was mourning for their brother. William had been buried yesterday before the altar at Bradenstoke Priory following his painful death from some internal malady that had wasted his body to skin and bone.
Patrick’s eyes, however, were dry and his mouth was set in a hard line that spoke of deep thought and resolution rather than grief. Sybilla poured wine for herself and sat down beside him. Her own eyes were burning and heavy. She felt wrung out. She had loved William because he was her brother, but they had not otherwise been close; however, no one should have to die like that in such pain and terror, convinced he was damned.
Patrick sighed and, straightening up, looked at her. ‘I am sorry William is dead. We did not always see eye to eye, but I would rather he had lived to share disagreements than lie in cold ground . . . But now I am master of Salisbury, there are going to be changes.’
Sybilla’s stomach leaped with alarm. ‘What kind of changes?’
‘If I swear my allegiance to King Stephen, he will give me mercenaries with which to rule Wiltshire and keep our lands safe. I’ll be able to clear the Kennet of FitzGilbert’s scourge and regain Ludgershall for us.’
‘But William had made peace with him . . .’
‘Because he didn’t have the resources to take him on. He’s a wolf, Sybilla, and I won’t have him on our borders if I can fashion it otherwise. I followed William’s way for long enough. Now it’s my turn to rule.’
‘Then be careful,’ she said. ‘I cannot afford to keep losing brothers.’
He gave a taut smile. ‘I am not William and I won’t be led into the same kinds of traps. Don’t fret your head about it. Leave the business to me.’ He pressed his palms flat on the board and eased to his feet. ‘I’m for my bed. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.’
Sybilla too rose. She supposed if you had a thorn in your flesh, it would fester until you were rid of it, but what if it got rid of you instead by working its way in until eventually it killed you? She knew Patrick wouldn’t listen to her. If she tried to say something now, he would only grow more stubborn in his resolution. He would have to be tackled from the side with gentle nudges, hints and soft words.
Feeling sad and pensive, she made her way to bed. Her father’s door was open, but showed only an empty space. He had chosen to remain at Bradenstoke in the care of the monks. Her youngest brother, Walter, was a canon there, her mother and now William were buried within the church, which was endowed by their family’s money. Why should her father not be happier there at the end of his days than here in the midst of war and uncertainty?
Dismissing her maids, Sybilla undressed to her chemise and lay down on her bed in a corner of the women’s chamber. She had thought herself wept dry for William and the entire miserable situation, but hot new tears tracked down her face and seeped into her pillow.
24
Ludgershall, Wiltshire, April 1144
John sat at a trestle in Ludgershall’s bailey, eating bread and cheese with his men and taking a moment’s ease. The sun was warm on his spine without being hot, and the early April was glorious. A wine pitcher had done the rounds several times and although no one was drunk, the conversation was mellow and the jests raised swift laughter. Today John found he could smile a little too. The grass was lush; there was grain in his barns and silver in his coffers to pay the men. That some of it had been obtained by less than legitimate means, he acknowledged with a pragmatic shrug. You did what you must to survive in times like these. The Bishop of Hereford, the Church, and certain of his neighbours called him a scourge and a plague, and it gave him satisfaction to hear it. Let them fear him and his reputation if it kept him safe. He would build an edifice of military prowess on the scars of Wherwell and emerge stronger than before.
His men were discussing women they had had, or would like to have. John cut another sliver of cheese and listened with dark amusement. Someone jokingly mentioned the Empress and there was speculation about whether she’d be a cold fish on a mattress, or as hot as pepper.
‘What do you say, my lord?’ asked Benet with a grin.
John ate the cheese and pretended to think. ‘It would depend on the man - how she felt about him and how good he was.’
His comment elicited more laughter and several risqué jests at the expense of Brian FitzCount.
‘Has anyone seen Patrick of Salisbury’s sister lately?’ blurted a young knight, his face wine-flushed. ‘She’s a real beauty.’
He was immediately engulfed in a cloud of good-natured jeers, back-slapping and innuendo. John slowed his chewing. He remembered a coltish girl dwelling in the space between child and woman. Slender and supple as a willow wand, burnish-haired, hazel-eyed and energetic. She’d be older now, of course, and by rights probably should have been wed a couple of years since. ‘Is she betrothed?’ he asked casually.
The young man shook his head and reddened further. ‘No, my lord, not that I’m aware.’
‘Hah!’ declared Benet, raising his own cup in toast to the young man. ‘You’re dreaming if you think she’s for the likes of you. Her brother will have someone sorted out for her - doubtless of Stephen’s faction.’ He sneered on the last word.
John glanced across as one of the gate guards came towards the group clutching a rolled-up parchment.
‘What’s this?’ He took the document from the soldier and eyed the attached seal. Stephen. What did he want? He cleaned his knife on a chunk of bread, slit the tags and studied the parchment. The writing was the neat, competent hand of an exchequer scribe. John read it, reached for his wine, drank nonchalantly, and then looked at the expectant men. ‘It seems that the King intends paying us a visit on the morrow and bids me open my gates to his army.’
Benet spluttered over his wine. There was uneasy laughter and exchanged glances. John tossed the parchment across the trestle and folded his arms. ‘Well, much as I’d like to accommodate him here, I have other matters to attend to.’
Still coughing, Benet wiped a dribble from his chin. ‘This means the King is sending his army to take us?’
John shook his head. ‘Stephen’s got greater business in hand than Ludgershall. I doubt it’s his notion at all.’
‘Then who . . . ?’
‘Patrick of Salisbury, who do you think! He’s been feeling his feet ever since his brother died. He wants to be lord of all Wiltshire, and I’m the fly in his dinner. I’ll warrant the King has lent him men and supplies to attack me and gain Ludgershall for himself.’ John’s gaze roved the defences.
‘What do we do?’
John pursed his lips. Ludgershall wasn’t as strong as Marlborough and if they stayed to fight it out, they risked being destroyed. But if they pulled back to Marlborough, their grip on the vale of the Kennet would weaken and their enemy, biting piecemeal, would make either Marlborough or Hamstead their next target. ‘They’re not going to get anywhere near Ludgershall,’ he said with quiet decision, ‘because I won’t let them.’ He shifted on the bench so that he had Benet in full vision. ‘We’re going to take the fight to them.’
Glancing through the open shutters at the luminous disc of the moon, John thanked God for its fortuitous light as he donned his gambeson over his tunic and shirt. Riding at night was always perilous and he was going to need all the luck that came his way.
‘Be careful,’ Aline said, her eyes filled with worry. She had come from her chamber to bid him farewell. These days, to all intents and purposes, they lived apart even while they lived together. She had her rooms, he had his and their paths only crossed formally in the hall and at church.
‘I’ll do what I must. If an army turns up at these walls before dawn, you’ll know I’ve failed.’ He felt a brief surge of dark triumph as he saw the horrified look on her face, and then was disgusted with himself. It was like striking a three-year-old for not understanding. ‘If that happens, yield to them,’ he said in a gentler voice. ‘They’ll be generous to an innocent and you’ll have the mercy of widowhood.’
‘John, don’t.’ Her voice was stricken.
‘In the circumstances, you might want to withdraw to Clyffe, or Woodhill, out of the way,’ he said. ‘You have my leave.’
She continued to chew her lip. Turning from her, fastening his cloak, he strode outside, already putting her from his mind. In the bailey his men were waiting, some of them bearing torches to light their way, although much of their road would be moonlit. John set his foot in the stirrup and swung to the saddle. He felt a surge in his gut - anticipation that almost bordered on pleasure. Glancing round, he saw the same expressions in the shadowed faces of his men, particularly those who had been at Wherwell. They had all been through the fire that day, one way or another. By contrast, this journey through cold, lucid moonlight had the potential to quench, heal and restore.
They rode through the night, making their way cautiously in the direction of Winchester, an army of shadows and wraiths. John sent scouts ahead and had them report to him at regular intervals to ensure their enemy knew nothing of their movements. As the light began to pale on the horizon but before the first streaks of dawn, John brought his troop into a narrow valley and bade them hide among the trees to wait. He dismounted from his stallion to rest it for the work to come and ate and drank to give himself strength. Some of the soldiers fidgeted with the crosses they wore around their necks and muttered prayers. Others fussed their horses or whispered between each other, but their movements were small and all were at pains to be quiet. The dawn chorus started in the trees and swelled around them. John was pleased, for had the birds been alarmed into silence, it would have given away his position to the enemy.
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