A Place Beyond Courage (56 page)
They embarked on a discussion about bringing in more supplies. Feeling uncertain around Martel and growing bored, William went to look out of the tent entrance. Under an awning Stephen’s guards and squires were tending to their weapons and talking to Martel’s adjutants. In the tent next door, Stephen’s cook was preparing a stew and roasting two hares on a spit. Standing talking to him was Tamkin, his citole case strapped across his back the way a soldier might strap his shield. His arms folded, he was deep in gossip with the cook.
Astonished and overjoyed, William called out and ran to him, flinging his arms around the musician’s thighs. The knights turned and looked, curious. The cook stood still, his wooden ladle dripping fat over the hares, his eyes growing round. Tamkin leaned over William to embrace him. ‘Your father says he is proud of you, that you are a true knight, and your mother the same,’ he whispered against William’s ear. ‘They sent me to make sure you were well.’
William nodded. ‘I’m playing with the King.’ He showed the musician the bunch of wilting plantains he still held in his hand. ‘I knocked the head off his knight. When can I go home?’
‘Soon.’ Tamkin’s gaze flickered to the side. ‘I have to go.’ Disengaging from William he took off at a rapid walk.
‘Know him, do you, boy?’ asked Martel’s knight.
‘He’s our musician.’ William smiled. ‘He sings in my mother’s chamber.’
The knights exchanged glances and hastened off in the direction Tamkin had just taken.
A moment later Martel emerged from the tent and looked round for his men. ‘Chasing a spy,’ the cook informed him. ‘That singer who’s been sniffing around. He’s one of FitzGilbert’s men.’
‘If they catch him he’ll hang,’ Martel growled. ‘I doubt the King will intervene this time.’
William felt worried. He didn’t want them to catch and hang Tamkin. Stephen had heard the news through the open tent flaps and came to stand beside William.
‘So,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘your father cares for you more than he’d admit.’
‘Perhaps we should string him up again,’ Martel suggested. ‘He and the musician could dance together for FitzGilbert’s entertainment.’
Stephen wagged his forefinger. ‘Don’t taunt the boy. Done is done and I have made my decision on that score. Let this one have his future. Certainly if you catch the musician you may do as you will with him. I am sure that looking out for our young friend’s welfare is not the only fish on his griddle. He’ll have been relaying information to FitzGilbert and being paid for his tunes.’
‘Oh, we’ll catch him, and he’ll dance,’ Martel said, baring his teeth at William.
William looked back steadily, the way he knew his father would have done if thus confronted. He felt scared, but knew he mustn’t show it.
Martel’s complexion flushed. He made a sound in his throat and, turning on his heel, strode off. Stephen laid his hand lightly on William’s shoulder. ‘Don’t concern yourself, lad,’ he said. ‘This is men’s business. When you are a man you will understand.’
William looked round and up at the King. ‘Do you still want to play at knights?’ he asked, holding up the limp plantain heads.
‘Another time, child,’ Stephen said, his eyes deep wells of sadness. ‘For now I have different games to see to.’
44
Hamstead, Berkshire, July 1152
The rain swept across the Kennet in thick curtains, heavy as link-mail. Sybilla walked the dogs past the lookout mounds, letting them sniff and meander where they would, rather like her thoughts. There had been no word from John. She had hoped to hear from him but had not counted on it. She knew he would have difficulty getting messengers out of the keep at Newbury, and would only concentrate on the essential ones. Telling her that he or William were safe was unlikely to be high on his agenda.
She had kept herself and the household busy, preparing lest Newbury did fall and Hamstead come next under siege. Gilbert and Walter had been taking out patrols and attending to matters of security around the demesne. Gilbert at eighteen and on the cusp of knighthood took his responsibilities seriously. He was, after all, John’s heir and if Henry eventually became King, he would inherit the title of marshal in his father’s wake. Fourteen-year-old Walter, quiet and slender in his brother’s shadow, had a firm grasp of fiscal matters and a calculating mind. Those who initially overlooked him because of his slight build and understated ways soon found their notions disabused. They might not measure up when balanced against their father, but they had made a decent weight of their own and she was glad of their presence.
She kept herself occupied to hold at bay the raw, empty spaces in her chamber, but when she stopped, the pain encroached. No energetic small boy whooping around the room, leaving a trail of laughter and chaos. No tickles by the fire. No stories or music with him leaning against her side as she stroked his hair. Her older son was self-contained and less spontaneous, and although Sybilla loved him dearly, it was in a different way that didn’t begin to fill the hole left by William.
And then there was her bed. It was not that she minded sleeping alone. John was often absent carrying out his duties and obligations, but before she had always been certain of his return. This time that conviction was absent.
The rain was soaking up through the hem of her gown and although her shoes were waxed, her feet were damp. She felt bereft and chilled. She knew she should turn back for the hall, but she had needed this moment alone, without her women or attendants, and the rain matched her mood. The urge to weep was a pressure behind her eyes.
Suddenly Doublet began to bark, swiftly followed by the other dogs, and Sybilla heard the thud of hooves on the road coming at a swift trot. One horse by the sounds of it. She calculated how far she was from the castle and knew she would be overtaken even if she ran hard. She felt apprehensive but not afraid. The dogs would protect her and she had both a knife and a hunting horn at her belt. All the same, she began to walk briskly towards home, casting constant glances over her shoulder.
The horse that came into view was a high-stepping black cob. Its coat gleamed in the rain and its feathered hooves were splashed to the cannon bones with mud. Clinging to the reins and hunched over the saddle bow was Tamkin, his hair plastered to his head and his complexion grey. Sybilla gasped.
He looked up and she saw him summon his reserves. ‘My lady!’ He started to slide from the saddle and clung on. ‘My lady, I am being chased! Go back, it is not safe!’
Sybilla unhooked the horn from her belt and blew on it three times. She didn’t care if his pursuers heard her. She reasoned it would frighten them off if their quarry had company. They weren’t to know she was a woman alone.
‘Let me ride pillion,’ she commanded.
He drew rein and she came to the horse, set her foot on his and hoisted herself up, straddling the beast in masculine fashion rather than perching sideways: what John with dark humour called ‘doing an Empress’. ‘Go!’ she cried. She put her hands in his belt for purchase and heard him gasp, then felt the warm wetness against her palms.
‘You’re wounded!’
‘Arrow,’ he croaked and heeled the horse.
Hooves thundered on the track behind. Sybilla glanced over her shoulder and through the sheeting rain saw three horsemen bearing down on them. Tamkin heeled the cob again and it broke into a canter. Their pursuers were shouting but Sybilla couldn’t make out the words. Then suddenly the men slewed to a halt, reined about, and spurred back the way they had come in a flurry of clods. Ahead of Tamkin and Sybilla, a dozen garrison soldiers had appeared at the run.
Tamkin released his grip on the reins and slowly toppled sideways into the arms of two of them. Sybilla allowed another serjeant to help her down from the saddle. ‘Bring him to my chamber,’ she commanded. ‘Quickly, but be gentle with him.’
‘What about—’ A fourth soldier gestured down the track.
‘Leave it,’ she said. ‘You’ll not catch up with them and you may yourself be ambushed.’
In the solar, she flung off her wet cloak and had Tamkin placed on the bed and stripped to his braies. An ugly gash at his waistline was leaking blood and required stitching. At least no vital point appeared to be punctured. She sent for the keeper of the hounds since he was the most adept at sewing flesh together, having to do it regularly on the dogs.
‘Bring wine,’ she said. ‘And lace it with sugar.’
Her women hastened to her bidding. The children’s nurses took their charges to the far end of the room out of the way.
Tamkin’s eyelids fluttered. ‘It was an arrow, my lady,’ he gasped. ‘But it hit at a shallow angle and I was able to draw it free. Bled me like a stuck pig.’
‘You’re going to be all right. Herluin will stitch it.’ She squeezed his hand.
He managed a faint smile. ‘Stole a good horse though,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Belonged to William Martel, didn’t it . . . son of a whore.’
‘Which is probably why they chased you.’ She pushed bolsters behind his back and made him drink the hot sugared wine that Lecia brought over.
‘No, I stole the horse because I had to flee.’ He took several swallows and a tinge of colour returned to his cheeks. ‘Your son is well, madam, and your husband too.’
She leaned forward, her gaze suddenly intense. ‘You have seen them both?’
He gave a wry grimace. ‘Your son earlier today, madam. The King keeps him at his side and calls him his little friend. He seems most taken with him.’
Sybilla smiled and felt tearful with relief. Who would not be taken with William? she thought. ‘And my husband?’
‘Conducting a stout defence, my lady.’
She sensed an abrupt reticence in him. ‘What are you not telling me?’
‘Nothing, my lady, I swear it. My lord had bidden me keep an eye on the lad, to make sure he came to no harm, but I got too close and William saw me. He wasn’t to know he shouldn’t run to me, and I had to take my leave swiftly after that. I assure you he is safe with the King and not in any immediate danger.’
She was still not convinced he was giving her the whole story. His eyes were glassy with pain, but he was doing his best to avoid meeting hers. It wasn’t consciousness of rank that was causing his behaviour, of that she was certain.
Herluin arrived to stitch the cut, bringing his wallet of iron needles, his fine silk thread and some unguent he swore by when it came to healing the dogs. Also some spiders’ webs to clot the wound.
Tamkin grimaced. ‘I always thought being a musician was a safer bet than being a soldier,’ he said. ‘Seems I was wrong.’
‘Seems you were,’ Herluin agreed cheerfully, drawing up a stool. ‘At least you don’t have a fur coat to shave off before I begin.’
Tamkin gave a weak grin.
Sybilla left Herluin to his task and joined her women and the children. ‘William’s safe,’ she told young John, who had been very quiet since his little brother’s departure - apart from a storm of tears on the day he had ridden away.
‘Is he coming back soon?’
‘Sweetheart, I hope so.’ She kissed him.
‘And my papa too?’
‘Yes, and your papa too . . . God willing.’
45
Newbury Castle, Berkshire, September 1152
Together with Jaston, John heaved with all his might and felt the struts of the siege ladder shift against the palisade and then start to slip sideways with its burden of men. Next moment the structure toppled into the ditch, smashing and maiming the soldiers who had been clambering up its rungs. The occupants of another ladder had gained the battlements and John sprinted along the wall walk, back-swiped his sword across a serjeant’s unprotected leg and, as the man dropped, crashed his shield into the face of the soldier next on the ladder, sending him down to join the others in the ditch. He clashed swords with a youngster, parried twice, then false-footed him and brought him down. The look of astonishment on the lad’s face as he died joined the rest of the carnage of memories in John’s mind. Just another bloody strand. Hack, parry, slash. Get the ladder off the battlements. Send it down into the ditch.
The archers had been conserving arrows for several days and were under instructions to make every hit count - to take the commanders and the senior serjeants. Even so, they would soon run out of shafts and their vulnerability would increase a hundredfold.
Breath sobbing in his throat, John helped the serjeants dislodge a third ladder and as it tumbled down, heard through a haze of exhaustion the sound of a horn blaring the retreat. The King’s troops pulled back, dragging their dead and wounded with them, running with the ladders. The sun was low, only a few feet above the horizon, and the shadows were long. Which was just as well. John knew they couldn’t have withstood another assault of this ferocity.
He cleaned his sword on a rag before sheathing it. Benet joined him, staggering slightly and bleeding from several superficial injuries.
‘It’s over,’ John panted. ‘I have held this place for longer than I thought possible, but next time they come, they will break us. I don’t have enough men to hold them and there are no arrows left. He’ll be able to bring his trebuchets in close and put a ram to the gate.’
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