A Place Beyond Courage (59 page)
John laughed. ‘Now that sounds an even better idea,’ he said as he pulled on his mittens. ‘Certainly I’d rather be straddling a woman this morning than a saddle!’
Other soldiers were running out to their mounts, all swearing about the vile weather. John had to use his spur to nudge Aranais across the yard. Perhaps he should have ridden Serjean. The black was more stoical and placid, but Aranais, provided that he got over his irritable mood, was better in a fight and looked the part.
Another rug-clad stallion was being led from the stables, its harness ornate and its saddle cloth stitched with small golden leopards. An instant later, Prince Henry hastened from the hall, cramming a hunk of bread and cheese into his mouth. Chewing vigorously, food pouched in his cheek, he leaped to horse with agility. The blaze of his character almost seemed to illuminate the courtyard and John noticed how men’s eyes were drawn to this energetic, red-haired young man. And why not? They had waited long enough for his arrival and now he was here, things could at least move forward . . . although today he’d have given up that moving forward to join the groom in his fantasy. It wasn’t a morning to be abroad, let alone one for engaging in a pitched battle. Stephen had advanced rapidly from Wallingford to save the garrison at Malmesbury from Henry’s concentrated assault. The stench of smoke still hung over the town which had been broached and looted by Henry’s mercenaries. Only the castle held out and it was in difficult straits - as difficult as Wallingford’s had been until Henry landed.
The scouts had sighted Stephen’s force lining up across the river Avon and reported to Henry in the hall as he was breaking his fast. The call to mount up had gone out directly and now they were armed up and heading for confrontation.
‘Stephen’s got more men in the field than we have,’ muttered Jaston as he took his customary position at John’s left side.
John grunted. ‘There’s also a river in full spate between him and us. It’ll be butchery if he tries to cross.’
‘Some of the men are saying they’ll refuse to fight.’
John gave him a keen look. ‘Ours?’
‘No, my lord, they trust you and will do your bidding. Some of Chester’s men say their mounts are too weakened by privation and that they can’t fight on the rations they’ve been living on.’
John gave a snort of contempt. ‘Their rations are no different from ours and I can still wield a sword.’ He pursed his lips, considering. ‘If Chester’s men are baulking, then it’s likely there are men on Stephen’s side who won’t stand hard either.’
They rode down to the banks of the Avon. The wind was at their backs, shoving them forward with forceful gusts like an angry parent herding wayward children. ‘Stephen’s got the wind in his face,’ John said. ‘It’s difficult for us, but twice as bad for them.’ He watched flakes of wet snow land on his cloak and then melt away. The garment was double-thickness wool with an otter skin lining and designed to resist such conditions, but would eventually succumb.
The King’s army was arrayed at the customary fording place on the far bank, scarcely fifty yards separating it from Henry’s troops. Their banners were tearing in the violent wind and the mounted men were having difficulty controlling their horses. Scouts and footsoldiers probed the hurling spate of brown water with their spears, seeking a safe spot to cross. As John watched, one of them waded in with a rope attached to his waist, lost his footing and had to be hauled spluttering and saturated in to shore.
Henry rode to the front of his line and narrowed his eyes through the atrocious weather to the opposite side.
‘They won’t find a fording spot, sire!’ John had to shout to be heard. ‘Not today, anyway. Bring forward the archers. The wind’s with us and against them. Anything we loose will plummet into their ranks, but if they use theirs, they’ll just blow back on themselves.’
Henry nodded agreement. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ll give them a few volleys. Stir up some noise too.’
The archers were brought forward and Henry’s smaller army began to beat their spears upon their shields and chant Henry’s name. John tightened his hands on Aranais’s reins as the sound prickled down his spine and ran like ice into his bones, reminding him of Newbury.
Stephen’s army tried to chant a reply, but the wind snatched their voices and as the arrows rained down, the singing broke up in disarray. Horses were struck and went mad, plunging and bucking, careering into other horses. Men tried to scatter and were trampled. Others fell as they were pierced by the deadly rain from the far bank. Almost as if to aid Henry’s cause, the wind increased and the wet snow became a blizzard. Visibility contracted down to a few yards of whirling whiteness and the river itself vanished. Henry rode up and down the line, his brown destrier bouncing along as if it were on cradle rockers. John was darkly amused to see that Henry had drawn his sword and was holding it aloft like a steel icicle. Even if there wasn’t going to be a battle, Henry obviously wanted to be seen as a fighter as well as a battle commander.
The flurry eased. John stared across the sullen rushing water to the dim outlines of the other side and wondered if he was losing the sight in his good eye for where there had been men and horses, there were only a few humped shapes fading from his vision.
‘Hah,’ Jaston cried in triumph. ‘They’ve given up. They’re leaving! They haven’t the belly for it!’
John shook his head. ‘They can’t get across with the river in spate. Nor can they pitch camp and wait out the weather in these conditions. They have no choice but to retreat.’
‘You reckon they’ll be back?’
‘Who knows,’ John replied and gave a dry smile, ‘but the constable of Malmesbury will soon realise his relief column’s abandoned him. It’s going to make taking the place a deal easier.’
Sybilla puffed out her cheeks and flopped down on the bench in the small wall chamber she and John were using during the Prince’s visit to Marlborough, having yielded the royal guest their room.
Her feet were aching and she was tired, but everything had gone very well to say she had had only half a day’s notice of Henry’s arrival to prepare hall, chambers and sleeping space for an army. The hall was packed to the rafters; so was the bailey and the town. Sybilla had had to find a night’s rations for men and horses and doubted she and John would receive recompense - at least not in the near future. Having accepted the surrender of Malmesbury and secured castle and town to his own troops, Henry intended to make his winter quarters in Salisbury and there rest up his men. He was spending the night at Marlborough on his way. Sybilla supposed it was a mark of honour and trust, but it was also a drain on their supplies. At least Patrick, as Earl of Salisbury and sheriff of Wiltshire, had more resources to call upon than she and John did.
John entered the room, his own tread buoyant and a half-smile curving his lips. ‘The Prince says he wants to be away at first light,’ he said, ‘but you never know with him. He may well linger until noon. He does it deliberately to upset everything. His grandsire would turn in his grave.’ He sat down on the bench beside her and held out his hands to the heat of the firebox she’d had brought up to warm the room. ‘Still, he’ll be Patrick’s bother after this.’
‘I’ve told the kitchens to make extra bread and we have salmon and trout that can be turned into a reasonable dish for the high table should he choose to stay.’ She removed her wimple and the fine net cap beneath to free her hair.
John took a long, dark tress and curled it round his hand. ‘Do you know what Henry said to me as he was retiring?’ He admired the dark gleam over his knuckles.
She shook her head. ‘No, what?’
‘That you reminded him of his wife.’
Sybilla gazed at him in surprise. ‘In what way?’
‘Apparently, you’re both rare beauties of a similar age, you’re both hot to handle with wits sharper than a honed blade, and you both make him laugh. He says he knows a thoroughbred when he sees one.’ His lips twitched. ‘He’s grown into a discerning young man.’
Sybilla returned his smile. ‘All I can say is thank the Virgin you do not remind me of him!’
John was highly amused. ‘I take that as a compliment.’
‘It’s intended as one.’
He released her hair, lifted her legs into his lap and, having removed her shoes, began gently to rub her feet. Sybilla made a soft sound of pleasure but didn’t entirely give herself up to it. There were things she wanted to discuss with him that she hadn’t been able to during the hurly-burly of the day and their duties as host and hostess to royalty. ‘King Stephen’s army came up to face you across the river.’
‘Yes, but they wouldn’t cross it. The water was flowing too fast.’ He stroked his thumb lightly back and forth over her ankle. ‘You heard the details in the hall.’
‘I just thought . . . I just wondered . . .’ She shook her head and looked at him, her eyes suddenly bright with moisture. ‘I am being foolish, I know. He wouldn’t have brought William on a forced march.’
‘We could barely see them or their horses, the conditions were so atrocious, let alone a baggage wain and a small boy. And you are right. Stephen would not have brought him. He will either have left him at Wallingford or sent him back to London. He’ll be all right - and gaining a firm grounding in life at court.’
‘My head tells me it is so, but my heart is less easily persuaded.’ She sighed and closed her eyes. It was pointless to keep harping upon the matter because it couldn’t be altered. ‘So what happens now?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘It seems foolish putting the men into winter quarters when there is so much to accomplish.’
‘You can only push troops so far before they break. A good commander knows that breaking point and stops before it happens. Everyone is exhausted and food supplies are short. A few weeks’ warmth and respite will make all the difference. Stephen’s retreated with the same notion in mind, I am sure. We have Malmesbury. Wallingford is still threatened but at least its garrison know we are here. A good commander also knows when to take advantage. Henry has his eye on gaining Southampton as a strategic port.’ He circled his thumb lightly up her calf. ‘Some of Stephen’s barons appear to be weakening too. Come the spring, the tide may turn full measure . . . Winter is always a waiting time,’ he added in a slumberous voice. ‘The trees sleep, the ground lies dormant. Women spin and sew, men take respite and mend the tools of their trade . . . and sow autumn’s harvest.’
Sybilla opened her mouth to say that no one sowed crops in January, but by then his dextrous touch had reached the back of her knees and he was shifting, pulling her into his lap, kissing her throat, and soon her lips were engaged in matters other than speech.
47
Gloucester, April 1153
Sybilla entered the abbey of Saint Peter and stood for a moment in the vast nave with its magnificent Romanesque columns and arches. Earlier, the church had been as closely packed for the mass as a barrel of herrings. Gloucester was one of the traditional places for crown-wearings and court gatherings in full array. Since Henry wasn’t a king, he had refused to wear a diadem, but for once had put aside his everyday tunic to don magnificent jewelled robes and adorn his fingers with gold. He had milked each ritual and ceremony for all it was worth, projecting the clear message that he was the heir-in-waiting and considered his moment not far off.
But now the church was empty apart from the occasional whispered footstep of a Benedictine monk. Small motes of dust flickered and gleamed in the afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows on to the tiled floor. Sybilla paced slowly down the nave, and each breath she drew brought her the scent of faded incense. Gundred and a manservant walked quietly behind her, not intruding on her wish for solitude. She knelt to pray, careful in her movement. To the casual observer her manner was graceful and deferential, but Sybilla was with child and sudden movements made her dizzy and nauseous.
Bowing her head, she repeated the paternoster and the creed, counting her prayer beads through her fingers. And then she said her personal prayers, for her husband, her children, her stepsons, the unborn child in her womb, and finally the special ones for William. It was close to his year day when he would turn six - God willing. He had been gone for ten months. She tried to carry his face in her memory, but it was like an imprint in mud that was gradually weathering and growing indistinct with time. She worried too that the face she was trying to remember would not be the one he wore when he returned. Just as Lion had been a fluffy kitten and was now a rangy young cat, more feral in his ways, so she knew there would be differences in William. Never again would he have that soft infant vulnerability and innocence. After what had happened to him, she knew he would be irrevocably changed.
She rose carefully to her feet and lit candles to send her prayers to heaven. She left silver in alms too and tried not to think she was bribing God. Emerging from the abbey, she saw the sun was low on the horizon and the shafts of sunlight cast the world in mellow tones of gold from pale primrose to deepest amber. A troop of horsemen ablaze with light was riding towards the palace close on the abbey. One of their number wore a gown of mulberry-red wool that must have cost the earth and his cloak was edged with sable. Although Sybilla had never seen Robert de Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, she was certain this was him. John had told her that delicate negotiations through intermediaries had been going on all through the season in winter quarters. A fortnight since at Stockbridge, de Beaumont’s son had come to a parley and intimated that his father was prepared to acknowledge Henry, not Stephen’s son Eustace, as the heir to the throne. Since Leicester had already made pacts not to seek open confrontation with the likes of Roger of Hereford, William de Beauchamp and Ranulf of Chester, this latest step was a natural progression. John said Leicester was a wily politician who always knew where the sun was next going to shine on a mixed cloudy day.
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