A Place Beyond Courage (47 page)
‘Dog!’ William exclaimed again, pointing at Aranais as the groom led the stallion off towards the stables. ‘Dog!’
John grinned. ‘Let’s hope he learns the difference before he grows up, although to look at him he’s halfway there already.’ He set his arm around Sybilla’s waist and kissed her, then his son’s cheek.
The men were trooping into the hall or heading for lodging and guardroom. Sybilla climbed the stairs back to the domestic chamber. John had been gone since January and it was now almost the feast of Candles. Six weeks in the darkest days of winter. She was aware of him close behind her and it wasn’t just the return up the stairs carrying a hefty infant that made her breathing grow short. Doublet pushed past her into the room and flopped down in front of the brazier, pink tongue lolling. Sybilla put William in the frame and directed one of her women to keep an eye on him.
‘Have you eaten?’ she asked her husband. ‘How far have you ridden?’
‘From Devizes across the Downs,’ he said, extending cold-reddened hands towards the brazier. ‘The men won’t turn down bread and hot broth, I’m sure.’
‘And you?’
‘I had something less commonplace in mind . . .’ He gave a suggestive glance towards the bed.
Sybilla bit her lip, torn between her duties as chatelaine and her duties as a wife, not to say her desires.
‘. . . but it can wait a while at least,’ he added after a teasing pause. ‘Hot wine will have to suffice.’ He went to the bed but only to ruffle young John’s hair and sit down to unfasten his swordbelt. Sybilla gave brisk orders to her women regarding the provision of food and made haste to help him unarm. In the background William continued to try out his newfound word in a series of vocalisations.
John took his scabbard from her and hung it on a wrought-iron stand near the bed. ‘The Empress is on her way to Bristol to take ship for Normandy,’ he said.
Sybilla remained calm because John did not appear agitated or unsettled. His air, as far as she could tell, was one of being glad to be home - perhaps even relief. It might be the still before the storm, but on balance she thought not. John was always still when he was
in
the storm, never before it: then he would be a blur of sharp-tongued activity. She thought that was why he was so gifted a warrior. His organisation was meticulous; his courage indomitable. ‘What does that mean for us?’
in
the storm, never before it: then he would be a blur of sharp-tongued activity. She thought that was why he was so gifted a warrior. His organisation was meticulous; his courage indomitable. ‘What does that mean for us?’
He shrugged. ‘I do not know yet. I suspected she would not stay when Gloucester died, and I knew for certain at the Christmas feast. It was only a matter of when.’
Ah, she thought. So he had been preparing since October. That’s why he was quiescent now. ‘Has she said when she will return?’
He shook his head. ‘My love, she is not returning.’
Her gaze widened.
‘I am certain when she arrives in Normandy she will do what she can to further her cause, but here, without Gloucester to lead the campaigns, we can do nothing but hold fast until Henry is of age to rule. There is no one else - or no one whom everyone will follow. William of Gloucester is not made in the same mould as his father.’
‘What about Brian FitzCount?’
‘He has enough ado to hold Wallingford. Even as Matilda’s champion, he will not take on the responsibility for all else.’ He stood up and she helped him shed his mail shirt and then his gambeson. ‘We all swore an oath to her that we would give our allegiance to Henry,’ he added. ‘She would not have demanded such a thing of us if she intended to return.’ The hot wine arrived and John took his cup with alacrity. ‘If we don’t hold on for Henry, we might as well walk into the sea and let the waves close over our heads now. I admit I thought him a foolish boy after what happened at Cricklade, but the young grow up and he has fire and courage.’
Sybilla wondered if he was putting a brave face on matters. It didn’t sound like good news to her. ‘Stephen will think he has won when he hears of this.’
He shrugged his shoulders as if limbering up for a fight and did nothing for Sybilla’s peace of mind. ‘He won’t have won until he has this part of the south under his control and to do that he’s got to come through me and Patrick. He’s not as strong as you think. Men are coming to their own compromises the way Patrick and I did over Ludgershall. Robert of Leicester and Ranulf of Chester have been discussing peace settlements between themselves, for a start. Stephen doesn’t have the grip he would like.’ He sat down on the bed again and stretched out his legs. ‘Nor will the Church acknowledge Stephen’s son as the heir to England, and that is a major obstacle for him and an advantage for us. The Empress has the support of the Pope. As long as Eugenius rules in Rome, Stephen hasn’t a chance of naming Eustace the heir to England’s crown.’
‘So it is not a setback that the Empress has gone then?’ Sybilla sat down beside him and took his free hand in hers. It was still cold from his ride across the Downs. She ran her thumb over his palm.
‘Only in that a few lily-livered men will panic, but no, it is not a setback. Indeed,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘it might even play to our advantage. Some who disliked her ways, or refused to be ruled by a woman, will gladly swear for Henry. Nor will we have to hem her around with guards and protect her everywhere she goes. In a way it’s a release.’ He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, then looked across the room at his youngest offspring. ‘Let’s hope by the time he’s old enough to ride a horse unaided, this conflict will be over.’
‘Amen to that,’ Sybilla said in a heartfelt voice.
‘Dog,’ said William cheerfully.
38
Bradenstoke Priory, Wiltshire, Summer 1149
John had brought Sybilla to Bradenstoke to visit the tombs of her family and give alms for their souls. She had knelt with her sons at the graves of her parents and her brother. At four years old, little John was old enough to understand and be solemn and silent - a trifle wide-eyed too in the presence of his ancestors, the Prior, and his living uncle, Walter, who was cowled in a brown Augustinian robe. He knew what was expected of him and behaved beautifully, much to the pride of his mother and father.
Two-year-old William, however, was a raucous bundle of energy and had to be carried outside by his nurse because keeping him still and quiet was impossible, and while shouting in the crypt for the joy of hearing his voice echoing off the walls was delightful to him, the adults were less enamoured.
William’s personality was emerging as that of a strong-willed individual, constantly exploring his surroundings and testing the boundaries with insatiable vigour and curiosity. He exhausted everyone and the only time there was any peace was when he himself was exhausted, or when he paused to eat. However, since food went straight to his feet, he’d soon be flying around again like a whirlwind. The only things that did quiet him down and sometimes even lull him to sleep were music and stories. He would sit still for them and was already memorising tunes and words beyond his routine vocabulary.
John emerged from the church to find William tearing about on his toy hobby horse and laughing. Despite himself, John’s lips twitched. It was very hard not to find William endearing even when he was being a nuisance. You couldn’t ignore him, and he was such an affectionate child, brimming over with good nature, that being cross with him was nigh on impossible. With his other sons, there was a restraint and a distance that John felt appropriate, but William ignored such rules. He would throw his arms around his father’s legs, would demand to sit on his shoulders, would scramble into John’s lap the moment he sat down and want to play with the hilt of his dagger or the cross around his neck. Or he would want to ride on John’s knee as he rode on his nurse’s. Somehow John found himself being drawn into the games. He was entertained, amused . . . rewarded. The child’s fearlessness was a joy and his constant chatter comical. John had always considered that the best place for infants and small children was with their mothers and the women of the household, but William had made a nonsense of the boundaries and found a seam of indulgent tolerance in his father’s nature that, until now, John had not realised he possessed.
Sybilla came from the church, their eldest son walking very properly at her side. Young John gave William a look that would have been more appropriate on the face of a long-suffering adult and it became a scowl as William galloped towards him at full charge. John, who was nearer to his youngest than the nurse, took a side-stride and grabbed William, tucking him under one arm and the hobby horse under the other. William wriggled and shrieked.
‘Next time we’ll leave him at home,’ Sybilla said with wry apology.
‘Next time he’ll be older and he’ll either be silent or whipped,’ John responded. ‘Unless he’s already been sold in Devizes in mistake for a piglet.’ He set William on the ground and beckoned to the grooms. ‘I’ll take him up with me a while on the ride home. That should keep him out of mischief. You want to ride with me on Pegasus?’ He ruffled William’s hair.
William nodded vigorously. He might not be able to say ‘Pegasus’ yet, but being allowed up on his father’s fast silver courser was an enormous treat.
Sybilla gave her husband a smiling look. ‘He binds you as fast as the rest of us.’
John shook his head. ‘He’ll sit still with me, and he’ll be learning more about riding than he will with Alfled.’ He glanced briefly at the nurse. ‘He’s like a puppy. You can only train them so far until they’ve grown enough to understand.’
‘I can ride my own horse,’ young John said, jutting his chin. Sybilla suspected he was a little put out at the privilege being vouchsafed to his naughty little brother.
‘And very well too,’ his father answered. ‘Without a leading rein. You’ll be squiring for me soon.’
The child puffed out his chest and gave his brother a smug look, which was totally lost on William’s infant comprehension.
John gained the grey’s saddle and Sybilla lifted William up to him. The latter settled in his father’s grip and, as John made a seat for him out of a fold of his cloak, looked around, bright as a squirrel. The grooms helped Sybilla to her side-saddle, and young John to his small bay pony - a sedate little mare that had been the training mount of his older half-brothers by turns until they had outgrown her.
Leaving the priory, John and Sybilla took the road home to Marlborough, heading along the ancient trackways in a general south-easterly direction towards the herepath at Avebury and the way over the Downs.
William stared round from the courser’s back at the passing countryside, his finger and voice in constant use, pointing out what he saw and telling John about it. A chatter of goldfinches in a thicket; a hare on a slope which the dogs chased but were too slow to catch. Sometimes he pointed to things on John’s blind side, and John had to guess since he couldn’t fully turn his body to look. Finally though, the steady plod of the courser, the warm sunshine, the security of his father’s arm and the earlier vigorous expending of energy took their toll and William grew drowsy.
Holding his son’s warm, vulnerable weight, John felt a painful lurch in his solar plexus.
‘Quiet at last,’ Sybilla said with a smile.
‘Patrick would say he inherited it from you.’
She made a face at him and he laughed softly. It was pleasant to be riding out like this. While he had to be constantly on his guard, there were still occasional days to be snatched, like stealing rare golden apples from God’s orchard. Sybilla liked to make a pilgrimage to Bradenstoke at least once a year, and he was happy to oblige her, especially in good weather. He had left his two older sons at Marlborough and intended taking them hunting when he returned, so that they too should have some of his attention. At fifteen and eleven they were old enough to benefit from such masculine expeditions.
‘I wonder how Henry is faring in the North,’ Sybilla mused.
‘Let us hope he makes a better showing than he did on the previous occasion,’ John said.
‘He’s two years older now.’
John gave a non-committal grunt. Henry had returned to England in April and before travelling north, had held court at Devizes. Despite his reservations, John had been impressed by the youth’s development during those two years. He was still an adolescent with much to learn, but there had been signs of maturity and he had handled men with a sure and natural hand. Already he was better than his mother at setting his courtiers at ease whilst still maintaining his authority. John suspected that given manhood, he would be everything that his grandfather had been . . . and perhaps more. But there was many a slip and sixteen was perilously young.
Currently Henry was campaigning in the North with York as his objective. He had claimed that it was his right to be knighted by a senior male member of his family, in this case, his great-uncle, King David of Scotland. Numerous barons and magnates, including the Earls of Chester and Norfolk, had gone to attend the ceremony, which was a thinly disguised excuse to raise an army and rally men to his cause.
‘He will be King though,’ Sybilla said.
‘God willing.’
‘Yes, God willing.’ She gave a little sigh and he saw her gaze towards a skylark. He could hear its throaty warble but not see it without swivelling in the saddle and disturbing both the horse and the sleeping child. Then the bird ceased singing and plummeted to the fields and it was as if it had never existed.
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