A Place Beyond Courage (51 page)
As they kissed and touched, the sound of voices carried to them from outside their chamber - Gundred saying the lord and lady were busy and a man’s agitated response that they would not be too busy to hear the news he brought.
‘No peace for the damned,’ John muttered against her throat. Lifting himself off her, he sought his braies and shirt. Sybilla hastily donned her chemise and closed the bed hangings as he went to the chamber entrance. The rail clattered as he drew back the curtain and she heard him speak to the messenger, but then they moved out of her hearing and all she could make out was the indistinct rumble of male voices and the occasional word. She heard ‘Newbury’, and ‘the King’ and ‘hard fight’, and suddenly her stomach was queasy.
By the time John returned she was dressed again, her hair braided, and she had lit fresh candles in the sconces and poured wine. ‘What’s happened to Newbury?’ she demanded.
He headed back to the bed, sat on it and began dressing. ‘Stephen’s brought up his mercenaries and laid siege,’ he said grimly. ‘They fought him off and bloodied him badly enough for him to be willing to negotiate their surrender. He’s given Benet a day’s grace to ask my permission to hand over the keep and then he’ll assault again.’ He fastened his hose, tugged on his tunic and fetched ink, parchment and quills from the shelf above his coffer. ‘My messenger’s to be back at Newbury by dawn.’ His voice was hard and swift, all trace of honeyed warmth gone from its timbre.
‘What’s to be done?’ Sybilla brought another candle, knowing he would need the extra light if he was going to write. She sat down close to him, but made sure her shadow did not impede his work area.
‘If Newbury falls, then Stephen will be able to isolate Wallingford and take me apart piecemeal. And if Wallingford falls . . .’ He sighed and, sitting down, drew the first sheet of parchment towards him, weighing it down with a heavy glass smoother. ‘I cannot surrender. I have no choice but to hold out.’
Sybilla sifted her memory for what she knew about the situation at Newbury. ‘Are there sufficient men and supplies to withstand Stephen? Is the castle strong enough?’
‘The answer is no, and no,’ he said without looking up.
‘Newbury isn’t Marlborough, and Stephen will be determined because he knows he can win - and win against me.’
Sybilla pressed her lips together and watched him trim a quill and remove the lid from the ink horn. However, he didn’t begin writing, but sighed again and looked at her. ‘I can authorise Benet to sue for terms, but that means surrendering Newbury and leaving Wallingford and Hamstead exposed. I can don my mail and go out to do battle, but if Stephen has his host there, I would go down in an open fight. A one-day truce is useless. I need to buy as much time as I can, because each day we delay and hold out is a day more for Wallingford.’
Sybilla’s brow furrowed. ‘If Benet needs your permission to yield the keep, do you not also need the Empress’s permission to do such a thing . . . or Henry’s? That will take a least a fortnight. Can you not ask Stephen for an extension of the truce?’
He nodded slowly. ‘That is the only option - although if Stephen agrees, I suspect he will demand a price.’
She tried to keep her voice level. ‘What kind of price?’
He stood and, leaving the trestle, went to the partition behind which their four children were asleep. ‘Manors,’ he said. ‘Herds.’ He gently parted the curtain to look within. ‘Hostages.’ His voice barely stirred the air, but Sybilla heard it well enough and it sent a cold shudder down her spine. He clenched the fist not holding the curtain, then he released the fabric and, rubbing his hand across his jaw, returned to the trestle.
‘Holy God,’ she said. Time and again when she thought it could not get worse for them it did. ‘He won’t . . .’ She closed her mouth. Of course Stephen would ask, and he would be within his rights. John said nothing. Picking up the quill again, he swiftly, unthinkingly, pricked out the lines and began to write as neatly as any scribe. He had told her once that his father had recognised there would be a need for lettered men who were more than just clerks and had seen to it that John was educated to competence with both pen and sword. He finished writing and passed her the hawthorn-wood box containing his seal and a stick of hard green wax so that she could finish for him while he started on another letter.
Sybilla scanned the drying words on the first parchment and saw that it was a letter to Stephen requesting him to grant a longer truce until John had been able to inform his overlord, namely Henry, to whom he was sworn, of his predicament. Should no help come of that word, he was prepared to sue for terms. The tone was formal and contained the customary flourishes but it also stated the position clearly. Sybilla heated the wax in the candle flame and dripped it on to the folded parchment, then pressed the silver seal firmly into the cooling puddle. She needed a steady hand and she made it so, even if inside she felt as if she were dissolving. John’s second letter was to Henry, informing him of the assault and requesting assistance. A third letter was for Patrick and was couched in language more terse than the previous two. Then there were more for the castellans at Marlborough and Ludgershall, for the bailiff at Mildenhall and the stewards of John’s scattered manners and serjeantries.
Once the letters had been sealed, he took them and went to the door.
Sybilla bit her lip. She felt as if they were standing on the edge of a precipice and the stones crumbling away beneath their feet. There had to be a way over, around or back. She dared not allow herself to believe otherwise.
41
Hamstead, Berkshire, June 1152
‘My lord, the King’s messengers have arrived. There’s a knight and three men-at-arms.’ Panting hard, the sentry poked his head round the guardroom door.
John ceased his conversation with Jaston. He had been anticipating and dreading this moment for two days, but he allowed neither emotion to show on his face. ‘Admit them,’ he said. ‘And bring them to the hall.’
‘Sir.’
Rising to his feet, John pulled his tunic straight and hitched his belt. His sword was propped against the trestle and he picked it up and girded it on - not because he was expecting trouble, but because it was a mark of rank and masculine pride. He knew the latter was about to face a bitter assault. ‘Carry on with this business,’ he told Jaston with a wave at the tally sticks arranged on the trestle where they had been talking. ‘And don’t forget to add in those barrels of arrows from Marlborough.’
He took a deep breath and leaving the guardroom, crossed the sward at a steady pace, schooling himself to cold detachment. He was prepared to bargain if there was room, and to be civil, but he would show no weakness. His shield was up; no one was going to get past it.
In the hall Sybilla had already welcomed the visitors and furnished them with cups of wine and seats on the benches gathered near the hearth. She met John’s gaze as he entered the room and, for an instant, he saw naked fear in her eyes, but then she mastered it and he was proud of her. Aline would have been a hysterical wreck by now.
The knight was one of Stephen’s household - a Flemish veteran by the name of Hugo de Wartenbeke and a soldier as battle-hardened as John himself. The serjeants with him were seasoned men too.
John greeted them with formal courtesy and de Wartenbeke handed over the sealed letter that had been tucked into his belt. ‘I know the contents, my lord,’ he said to John. ‘The King is expecting our return before nightfall with the fulfilment of our office. Any delay or refusal on your part and we will resume the siege.’
‘And receive a drubbing for your pains or you would not be so willing to negotiate for a bloodless surrender,’ John answered sharply. ‘I doubt the King’s willingness to parley is down to any compassion or goodwill towards me.’ He slit the seal tags and opened out the document.
Stephen wasted few lines on effusive greetings but John had not expected them. The list of demands was harsh, but not impossible. He was to yield his manor of Cherhill for a year and the income from it. He was to hand over the wool clips from his manors at Nettlecombe and Tidworth and provide women to spin the wool into yarn. He was to swear not to raise arms against Stephen and the surety for such was to be the life of his son who was to go with de Wartenbeke and his escort as a hostage. In return, Stephen granted John two weeks in which to gain honourable permission from Henry FitzEmpress for the surrender of Newbury, which would then be occupied by Stephen’s garrison.
John compressed his lips and gave the letter to Sybilla. ‘The King makes harsh demands,’ he said. ‘I do not know how quickly I will be able to find the women he asks for and the sheep are not yet shorn.’
De Wartenbeke narrowed his gaze at John. ‘You were the old King’s marshal and you have served both our King and the Empress in that capacity. Your powers must have grown feeble indeed if you cannot arrange something as simple as a wool clip and some spinsters . . . or perhaps you are trying to pull the wool over our eyes.’ It was an intentional jest but there was little humour in de Wartenbeke’s greenish stare.
John shook his head. ‘That is not my intention. I will do what I can.’ He glanced at Sybilla, who had now read the letter. Her face was set and pale. ‘I will have word sent out to my stewards at my manors and I will make every effort to do as the King requests.’
‘Commands,’ contradicted the Fleming.
John let it rest. ‘I assume you will give me some time for a word with my son before you leave. He will have to pack his coffer and have his horse readied.’
De Wartenbeke nodded. ‘His mother will want to bid him farewell too,’ he said, watching Sybilla.
John shook his head. ‘My wife is Gilbert’s stepmother. His own mother is married elsewhere now.’
The knight wrapped his hands around his ornate leather belt. ‘You misunderstand which of your sons the King requires. The oldest may be your heir, but the younger ones are nephew to Patrick of Salisbury and as such are of greater value. The King desires one of them. The choice is yours, my lord. I leave it up to you, but do not take too long to decide.’
Sybilla made a sound in her throat and immediately stifled it against the back of her hand. John felt his body tighten as if he were turning to stone. He had been prepared for them to demand Gilbert of him and had spent much of yesterday bracing himself and his heir for that likelihood. Gilbert’s quiet resolution in response to the news had made him proud of the way his son was growing up. To have Stephen demand one of the little ones was a shock. Nor had Sybilla bargained for it. She had blenched and was fighting for composure.
‘I am surprised the King requires a babe of me rather than a youth who could be useful around the court,’ John answered impassively, ‘but if such is his wish, let him have my fourth child, William.’
‘As you choose, my lord,’ replied de Wartenbeke, ‘but know that if you raise your hand against the King, his life is forfeit.’
John gave a terse nod. ‘I think we are clear on the terms.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Sybilla, make William ready and assemble whatever baggage he needs.’
She curtseyed to him, her face like ice, and left the hall.
‘You’re backed into a corner this time, my lord,’ said de Wartenbeke, holding out his hand in the gesture of a man being conciliatory and reasonable. ‘Why wait? Why not surrender now?’
John looked steadily at the mercenary. ‘Would you?’
De Wartenbeke returned his look. ‘I was at Wherwell when you fought us to the bone and then barricaded yourself in that burning church rather than yield. You tell me, was it worth it?’
John held his breathing steady even though he felt as if he had been punched in the solar plexus. ‘If I had yielded, do you think I would be here talking to you now? I’d have ended my life riding a gallows tree. The only difference between dross and gold is in the perception. You will excuse me. I have letters to write and spinsters to find. My steward will see to your needs.’ With a snap of his fingers at the servant, he left the hall at a rapid walk and headed to the stables.
‘My lord?’ The groom looked at him askance as he entered the servants’ quarters.
‘Saddle up Aranais,’ John commanded stiffly.
The man touched his forelock and went to fetch the harness. Alone, John leaned against the wall, head thrown back, jaw clenched so tightly that he could feel the strain begin a throbbing headache. He was nauseous, sick to the stomach at what was coming, but there was no other way. Damn Stephen; damn Henry. And damn his own soul to hell for what he was about to do.
Feeling numb, Sybilla entered the domestic chamber above the hall. Under the watchful gaze of her women, William and John were playing with an orange tabby kitten from a litter produced by one of Hamstead’s several mousers. William was trailing a piece of string on the floor and the kitten was wriggling its small rump and pouncing, before springing away with its tail high and one-sided. William giggled and Sybilla’s heart contracted. She could not bear this.
‘My turn now,’ his brother said. Somewhat reluctantly, but with a sense of what was fair, William handed over the string.
The two older boys had been playing chess in the embrasure. Gilbert left the board and came across to her, his grey eyes filled with apprehension. ‘Madam?’ he said. He was fine-featured and slightly built like his mother, and until adolescence had possessed a thin, almost whiny voice, but the changes of manhood had deepened, broadened and enriched it to produce a pleasing timbre that was all John’s. ‘Have they come for me?’ He laid a nervous hand to the knife sheath at his waist.
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