A Place Beyond Courage (62 page)
The King’s guards were standing to attention outside his pavilion, but William crept around the back. He tested the tent pegs until he found one that could be loosened and removed with a bit of tugging and pulling. If he had been able to yank Baldwin’s sword from a targe last year, he wasn’t going to be defeated by a common tent peg! It finally yielded to his determination, although not without toppling him over backwards and smearing his hands with mud. He wiped his palms down his cloak and, lying down in the dew-wet grass, wriggled under the gap he had made. It was a tight squeeze and for a moment he was afraid he was going to become stuck, half in and half out, but he sucked in his stomach and by moving the angle of his shoulders and pressing his cheek into the cold ground, he managed to wriggle through. A wall of thick woollen cloth faced him: the internal hangings for the King’s tent, suspended by ring hooks from the top of the canvas. The hangings were dark red, woven with golden lions and almost as heavy as a mail shirt. Gingerly, he parted them and crawled into the main tent.
A fat candle burned on a wrought-iron stand, illuminating the detail that his sword wasn’t beside the King’s hauberk and big weapons where he’d left it. And then he saw the reason why and he caught his breath. King Stephen was sitting on his bed, turning the toy in his hand and staring at it with tears gleaming on his cheeks. William hadn’t bargained for this. He had hoped to grab his sword and creep from the tent again unseen. Now he hesitated, torn between being bold and not being discovered. And then it was too late anyway, because the King looked up and saw him.
‘What are you doing here, boy? Get up.’
Stephen’s voice was all cracked and wobbly. William stood straight and pushed his hair out of his eyes with a mud-soiled hand. ‘I came for my sword, sire,’ he said. ‘I . . . I forgot it.’
Stephen stared at the toy weapon. His shoulders shook, then shook harder and he raised a hand to cover his face. ‘Ah, God help me, child, God help me! You come to me like a ghost!’ He rocked back and forth and folded his other arm across his midriff as if he were in terrible pain, the sword pointing in William’s direction.
William hesitated, uncertain what to do. It wasn’t the first time Stephen had called him a ghost and he didn’t like it. If he alerted the guards, they might think he had done this to the King and then they’d hang him over a fire again. ‘I’m not a ghost, sire,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I only want my sword.’
Stephen shuddered. He used the cuff of his tunic to mop his face before turning a wet, red gaze on William. ‘No, Willikin, you’re not a ghost, but you remind me too much of Eustace and the swords he had before he took up the blade of manhood. Someone spent a long time crafting this . . . your father?’
William nodded.
‘I made one for Eustace but it wasn’t as fine as this . . .’ The King swallowed hard. ‘He’s dead. He’ll never hold a sword again, walk through that tent flap, or bring me grandchildren to sit at my knee. His offspring are dead in his loins - unbegotten.’ With a shaking hand, he gave the sword to William. ‘Your father does not know how fortunate he is still to have you.’
William felt uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to say or do. He wrapped his hand around the leather grip and took reassurance from the familiar feel.
‘Men say it’s God’s judgement on me for taking a crown that wasn’t mine and for breaking my oath that I would support the Empress. But oaths taken under duress are not binding. Surely God sees and knows what is in a man’s heart?’ He pushed his hands through his thinning hair in a distracted gesture. ‘But how can a man see and know what is in God’s? It is forbidden to him to know the purpose of the Almighty.’
‘Do you want me to warm your shoes or pour you wine?’ William asked.
Stephen sighed, and wiped his eyes again. ‘You’re a good boy, Willikin.’ A smile twisted his lips. ‘But warm shoes and all the wine in the world will neither comfort nor drown my grief. Your father has thrown away what I could not keep no matter how I tried. It’s finished, and I never told him . . . that I . . .’ He clenched his fists. ‘Holy Christ . . .’ His shoulders began to shake again.
William looked down at the sword in his hand, wanting to help but not knowing how. ‘Shall I guard you?’
Stephen made a sound, half broken laugh, half sob. ‘Why not?’ He waved his hand. ‘You can do no worse than the grown men. I have received a mortal wound despite all their efforts. Pull a pallet across the tent entrance and use my cloak for a blanket. You can sleep there with your sword at the ready.’
William did as he was bidden with alacrity. The King’s cloak was lined with ermine tails and very soft and fine. The hay stuffing of the pallet was new and sweet-smelling and he was suddenly very tired, but knew he should wash his hands and face first and say his prayers.
The King let him use his jug and ewer, and said the paternoster with him, then arranged the cloak as William lay down. ‘I once did this for Eustace,’ Stephen said. ‘It was long ago, but it feels like yesterday. I wish it was.’
William fell asleep, his hand still curled possessively around the grip of his sword. Gazing down at him, Stephen was silent, but the light from the candle caught the glimmer of new tears as they ran down his cheeks.
50
Winchester, November 1153
Sybilla gazed around the main chamber in what, until recently, had been her husband’s house in the city and was still reserved for him to use when he had need of a place to stay. He had given it to the Church when Stephen had taken Winchester and he thought he might never return.
The servants were still unloading the baggage from the packhorses and bringing it to the room. The travelling bed with its two mattresses and thick woollen hangings; the coffer containing sheets and napery. Blankets and coverlets, clothing chests, cushions and caskets. Hangings, cups and platters. The shouts of the grooms busy with the horses, together with the noise of a household still arriving, wafted up through the open shutters and she went to look out into the yard at the string of pack ponies. The afternoon was raw and dank and the breath of men and animals puffed in the air like smoke. John was busy talking to the caretaker from Troarn Abbey, who had had custody of the keys. Young John stood solemnly at his father’s side, head up and expression manly and serious.
Sybilla turned back into the room. Margaret was sitting beside the cradle watching over her baby brother.
‘He’s asleep,’ Margaret said a trifle wistfully. She found the baby infinitely more interesting than her little sister Sybilla, who was at the blundering toddler stage and a nuisance.
‘No surprise, sweetheart, since he was awake all through the journey,’ Sybilla answered with a smile. ‘Small babies always sleep a lot.’
‘Why?’
That particular word was constantly on Margaret’s lips and finding answers could be wearing. Sybilla glanced round as John entered the room, keys in hand. ‘Tell your daughter why small babies always sleep a lot,’ she said.
‘I hadn’t noticed that they did.’ He glanced thoughtfully into the cradle. ‘Because they have a lot of thinking and growing to do,’ he said.
Margaret nodded. ‘What do they think about?’
‘Salted herrings mostly,’ John replied seriously, then, as Sybilla had done, went to look out of the window.
Sybilla eyed their daughter who was looking extremely puzzled. Joining her husband, she gave him a dig in the ribs.
His lips twitched. ‘It might even be true. Who is going to gainsay me? Gilbert and Walter have taken the boy for a look around the city. Since I have a day’s grace before the negotiating begins at the castle, I thought you might want to wait until the morrow.’
‘You wouldn’t want to let your wife loose among the booths and stalls on her own,’ she said with a straight face.
His smile deepened before fading to pensive. ‘Not until the terms have been agreed. I’m hoping there won’t be any serious difficulties, but it’s still no good counting eggs before the hens have laid them. If things go well, there’ll be a full peace agreed, to be ratified at Westminster next month. Henry will be confirmed as Stephen’s heir and do him homage and I’ll be able to return my hauberk to its bag and my sword to its scabbard.’
Sybilla was not fooled by the lightness in his tone. She could see the strain in his jaw and the hand he had braced against the wall was tight with tension. She stroked the soft blue wool of his sleeve.
He continued to look pensive. ‘Many of us are going to have to put the past behind us. Stephen never replaced me as marshal. I have no doubt he will take me back, and Henry will expect the same duties from me. My sons will follow where I tread; I have their careers to broker through the court.’ He gave a twisted smile. ‘Everything changes while it stays the same, doesn’t it?’
‘What’s troubling you?’ she asked. She tried to concentrate on him, but nevertheless had to bite her lip as she heard Margaret loudly asking her nursemaid why babies thought about salted herrings all the time.
He sighed. ‘Everything will be returned to as it was on the day that the old King died. Some men will have their lands restored; others will have to forfeit their gains. Castles built without permission will be demolished. We could find ourselves stripped of Wexcombe and Cherhill. Marlborough could be taken away, and Ludgershall. Newbury too.’ He gave a sour grin. ‘I will still keep the post of marshal because I’m too good at the job to be replaced and I had the office in the old King’s time - so at least we’ll keep Hamstead and Tidworth.’
Sybilla felt queasy. ‘Surely that won’t happen?’
‘Who can say? I would hope not, but there’s nothing I can do except lobby and persuade. Many others will be caught in the same predicament, your brother included. He spent a lot of time and effort extending the castle at Salisbury, but it will all have to be razed and the land returned to the cathedral.’
‘Well yes, but that’s more blatant.’
‘Mayhap, but it comes out of the same basket. I—’ Suddenly he stopped speaking and went very still.
‘What?’ Sybilla looked out of the window into the courtyard. A hard-faced man clad in a quilted tunic was dismounting from a loose-limbed rouncy. Beside him on a brown pony was a boy with sun-bleached brown hair. The latter dismounted with a lithe hop and Sybilla’s heart started to pound. It couldn’t be William. It couldn’t be. The child she was looking at was far too tall. The man spoke to him and unfastened a baggage roll from the back of his horse, and the boy replied, then turned round and, facing the window, looked up.
‘Jesu God!’ Sybilla gasped. Gathering her skirts in her hands, she ran to the door leading to the outer stairs.
John remained rooted to the spot, unable to move. He was no coward, could stand hard in the face of impossible odds and the likelihood of death, but what faced him now was a test of courage he thought he might fail. How could he look William in the eyes, having denied him at Newbury and abandoned him to the whim of his enemies? And how would William look at him? The father who had turned his back and said he did not matter?
Sybilla had reached the foot of the stairs and without hesitating had swept William into her embrace, picking him up, hugging him, twirling him round. John swallowed to see the eager joy and brightness in both their faces. He wanted to hide, to bury himself under a cloak, shut himself away. But if he yielded to that impulse, gave in to cowardice, then to the outside world, to his son, it would confirm the impression that he thought him of no consequence, when in truth William was perhaps the most important thing in his life just now. Until he paid that debt there could be no balance - and in hesitating he was already almost too late.
Drawing a deep breath, John went to the door, then made his way down the stairs, his hand gripping the rope support rail against the wall. He knew William might reject him and was anticipating a rebuff, perhaps even hatred.
The soldier who had escorted William bowed to him, but the gesture lacked deference and John caught a glimpse of utter contempt in the man’s eyes before he lowered them. Tears running down her face, Sybilla released William, and father and son faced each other at the foot of the steps. William had grown so much he was almost the same height as his older brother. Long legs, long arms. The little boy had gone. Beneath his sun-streaked fringe, William’s stare was steady and level - almost adult in its gravity. John could feel himself being measured, weighed, assessed.
‘There are times when I have not been proud of myself, son,’ John said hoarsely, ‘but I have always been proud of you.’ He took William in his arms and embraced him like a soldier, acknowledging that it was man to man and not man to boy. ‘Well done!’
William embraced him back, and the gesture wasn’t that of a clinging child, but of a peer. John’s vision blurred and he had to fight the constriction in his throat.
‘The King asked me if I wanted to stay with him or return to my family,’ William announced as John drew back. ‘I said I wanted to come home.’ He turned to his escort. ‘This is Henk.’
The man bowed again and John nodded acknowledgement. From the looks of him and his name, he was one of Stephen’s Flemings. ‘I thank you for bringing him to us.’
‘It was the King’s will and, more than that, the boy’s,’ the man growled in accented French. ‘I did as I was bidden. My woman wanted to keep him, and had it been down to me I would have let her.’
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