The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3)

by Juliet Dymoke

  In the hall he ate ravenously, aware of hunger to a surprising extent as if he needed food for strength as never before, as if the heady news had given him physical appetite. The men who had returned with him ate too, the rest of the garrison entering in twos and threes, the news passing through the household in the extraordinary manner such things had.

  After the meal he called to his high table his chief vassals, Gilbert Basset, Philip of Gloucester, Ingelric of Huntercombe, John of Ramsay, Adhelm of Watlington, Walter his chaplain and Amauri de Beauprez. De Sablé sat beside him, facing them all.

  ‘Messages must be sent to all my manors,’ he said. ‘Every able-bodied man to be here by sun-up in two days’ time with horses and arms; all grain to be brought and stored against a siege, what cattle and sheep can be driven in – you all know what to do to provision us. Messire de Beauprez will see to it. Take your problems to him. If the King’s army approaches, women and children may be brought within these walls. Master Walter, go to the Priory in the morning and bid Prior Nicholas attend me here – he has strong stone walls and must be fortified as we are. I shall myself order all the repairs and strengthening of our own defences.’ As he spoke he watched their faces, seeing reflected in them each man’s reaction to- war – from Gilbert’s seasoned impassivity to Ingelric’s unabashed eagerness to test his fighting qualities, from the chaplain’s uncertainty to Philip’s twisted smile as he relished the prospect.

  Abruptly he rose to his feet and bade them all get some sleep. Then as he left the table he called Roger Foliot to him. ‘I shall write my defiance to King Stephen in the morning. Be ready to ride to London to deliver it to him there or wherever he may be. You will be acting as my herald and he is honourable enough not to lay hands on you, so follow me to Bristol as soon as you can.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Roger said eagerly. That he should be chosen from among the other knights sent him to bed pleased enough to stomach Philip’s boasting as they laid out their pallets.

  In his own chamber Brien found Mata already in their great bed, her soft hair unbound and combed about her bare shoulders, the sheet drawn up close. She said nothing but waited for him to speak.

  He began to collect his books, opening a chest to store them away. ‘I shall not be needing these for a while,’ he said and was uncertain for the moment how deeply this change would affect him. Slowly he placed the books in the chest – Boethius on philosophy, much thumbed, Ovid, St. Augustine, Cicero’s De Finibus, Jerome on St. Paul, Origen, a fine copy of Bede’s history of the English church with its stories of Aiden and Cuthbert and Wilfred, those strong but gentle men of God, and of the great Kings Edwin and Oswald. That had been a gift from Prior Waltheof of Kirkham and he replaced the book on the table – if he carried something in his saddlebag it should be that.

  He closed the chest and looked out of the narrow slit window. The moon was full, riding high in the dark sky, the stars brilliant and the outline of his high motte and the tower built on it were black against the deep blue. A fine castle to defend, he thought, strong, unassailable, the tower dominating the lower buildings, great walls on three sides and the river on the other for his protection. This place would hold and hold again.

  Turning back into the room he began to undress. It seemed a long time since he had stood with John FitzGilbert in that burning village – was it only this morning? He realised suddenly how weary in body he was, while his mind tumbled and turned with thought of Maud the Empress, of plans to be made, fighting to come, the whole of his possessions, the position he had held, and even life itself to be placed in hazard for her cause. It was what he had waited for, prayed for, and he wished this night were over that he might begin.

  As he threw back the covers and got into bed, Mata said, ‘When will you ride?’

  He lay on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. ‘In two days, three at the most. All the men should be in by then and the defences ready.’

  She turned on her side to look at him in the light of the small lamp she liked to keep burning all night. ‘You have been away two months, now you will be gone again. Can you not wait here a little longer – at least to see how matters shape?’

  He asked rather sharply, ‘Would you have me hang back while others hurry to the Empress’s side?’

  She did not answer for a moment, her fingers playing with a fold of the coverlet. ‘No, we have always said she had the right, but the King seems so secure and his army is so large. It is a dangerous venture you embark on, my lord.’

  He smiled. ‘You make me sound like a green boy, which I am not. This is well considered and the Empress will win because it is right. I cannot stay at home while others set her on the Lion’s throne.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed reluctantly and stared at his profile, at the line of nose and jaw against the dark red of the bed curtains. Ah, why would the old ache never be stilled? She saw his eyes half close as he relaxed and knew that in a few minutes he would be asleep. Soon he would be gone, perhaps to die fighting, never to return to her, and suddenly an urge, an instinct stronger than the awe in which she had always held him, stronger than the shyness that would never let her speak of her most buried feelings, swept away all barriers. She sat up, clasping her arms about her knees, a repressed anguish in her voice. ‘You should have had a son to ride with you.’

  His eyes opened at once and he turned his head to look at her.

  ‘If it were God’s will I would have. I do not blame you, Mata.’

  ‘I know you do not,’ she said and broke into an inexplicable storm of tears. She knew beyond doubt that this call to war, even more than her barren state, would take him from her. He would give his life to the Empress and she would be less to him even than she was now – he would sacrifice her life as well, if not her physical being at least that part of her that had lived since their marriage in her love for him.

  ‘Well, here’s a shower of rain before I’m even gone,’ he said lightly. ‘Mata, are you weeping for the old grief or because I go to war?’

  ‘I do not know,’ she gasped, ‘only that I am losing you – I have lost you,’ and wondered how she could lose what she had never had.

  ‘You are talking nonsense.’ He drew her down beside him and kissed her wet cheek. ‘There, stop crying. I will leave you with John of Ramsay to hold here. I know that I can trust you to do that. Saxon women were ever fighting wives, and you are part Saxon.’

  She gave a shaky laugh. ‘I doubt I am a warrior. But you – ’ she broke off, controlling her sobs yet still clinging to him, caring for nothing but this desperate moment. ‘Oh my lord, love me, love me. Perhaps God will bless us with a child after all and then you will have a son to – ’ But she had laid too rash a finger on a wound deeper than she knew for she felt his instinctive recoil even before he moved his arm away.

  ‘If they will not open to us, you cannot batter down the gates of heaven,’ he said quietly. ‘We will have no child now and you will be more at peace if you put all hope from you – as I have.’

  She gave a little gasp and he went on, ‘Turn your mind to other things – there is plenty to do.’

  She was still holding him, the more tightly for his withdrawal. She had never in all the years spoken so openly and now that she had begun she could not stop the flow of words. ‘Do you care nothing for my grief? It is hard for a woman to be barren, to see others bear children. My days are empty when you are not here, my hands idle.’

  ‘I thought women always found work to do. You visit the poor and the sick, you are embroidering that fine frontal for the nuns at Godstow, you order all things well here – ’

  She gave a derisive laugh. ‘What is all that to me? Nothing, nothing.’

  ‘If it is nothing,’ he answered coolly, ‘then the fact that you are the lady of Wallingford and my wife must be nothing.’

  ‘Oh no, no! Can you not understand? Do not be cruel to me, my lord, do not – ’

  ‘Cruel?’ he asked in surprise. ‘When have I been other than
a good husband to you?’

  ‘Never, never – only I would have you love me.’

  ‘You are my wife,’ he repeated, ‘but do not ask more than I can give or you will kill that which we have.’

  ‘It is not I who kill it,’ she cried out. ‘Your heart is elsewhere.’ There was a long silence in the dim room. He lay with his eyes closed again, feeling her body warm against his, her desire all too obvious, the moisture from her tears on his chest, her misery oppressive. But he could not give her what she wanted. All he had given in the past was gentleness and kind words and comfort of the body, but it had gone even beyond that between them tonight. He said in a harder voice than he meant to use, ‘Do not probe, wife, into what you do not understand. If I have hurt you I am sorry, but I cannot change myself.’

  He rolled onto his side and hunched the covers about his shoulders. She too turned from him and though he did not see he knew by the sound of her breathing that she wept. He pitied her but he had long since learned that pity was neither a substitute for love nor a balm for her particular sorrow.

  CHAPTER 4

  Somewhere between Faringdon and Malmesbury a cloud of dust on the narrow road proclaimed a small body of riders and Brien, standing in his stirrups, shaded his eyes from the sun to try to identify them. He had no mind at this moment to fall in with a party of the King’s men. ‘They carry gonfanons,’ he said to Gilbert, and Ingelric called out excitedly, ‘My lord, I can see one that is blue and orange. Surely – ’

  ‘It must be Earl Robert,’ Brien answered and with a forward sweep of his arm urged on the long line of horsemen. As he thundered down the road, his own banner – red boar’s head on a green ground – floated behind him held in Ingelric’s firm hand to proclaim his own identity. Hearing hooves the troop ahead halted and as he drew closer there was no mistaking the tall upright figure and greying head of their leader.

  He came up to him and pulled in his horse, one hand held out. ‘Robert! By Our Lord, I am glad to see you.’

  Robert of Gloucester seized his hand, a broad smile on his face. ‘And I you. You have wasted no time in declaring for our Empress – but then I did not think you would.’

  They sat looking at each other, their horses still in the October sunshine, swishing their tails at the flies, the quiet road dappled with shadows, the cattle in a nearby field the only witness to this momentous meeting.

  Brien said, ‘Wallingford is at her disposal. It will never be taken nor will it yield while I am master there.’

  The Earl nodded. Despite the fact that he was nearly fifty he carried himself like a man fifteen years younger, and wore his mail tunic over a frame kept spare and fit by moderation in all things. ‘My sister is safe at Arundel for the moment. I’ve left most of her knights there – as you see I’ve no more than a dozen with me – but in Bristol I will begin to raise an army. All the men of Glamorgan will come.’

  ‘And my tenants at Abergavenny,’ Brien glanced back at the strung out riders, at Gilbert Basset with his men from Bicester and Banbury and Compton, the tenants from Swyncombe and Chalgrove, Cuxham and Ewelme, Britwell Salome and Postcomb. ‘And I’ve brought your son safe to you. Philip.’

  The young man came forward and dismounting knelt for his father’s blessing.

  ‘You are welcome, my son,’ Robert said. He looked Philip up and down, at the thin figure from bare head to the long red tunic and riding boots, and then at his horse, his quick eye on the flanks that bore signs of Philip’s manner of riding. ‘Spare the spurs, boy, and your horse will serve you better,’ he said and to Brien, ‘he has earned his knighthood?’

  Brien nodded and watched as the two brothers, Philip and the older, gentler William, greeted each other. He had no complaints about Philip’s application to the things he came to Wallingford to learn but he harboured doubts as to the young man’s character. These he kept for the moment to himself.

  Earl Robert was surveying his troop now. ‘Greetings to you, Gilbert Basset – your grey hairs have not kept you from joining us – and is that young Ingelric? By Jesu, lad, you’ve become a man and dwarf us all. Good day to you, Messire Walter, and to you, Adhelm of Watlington – I see you’ve brought your boys with you.’ He rode among them, calling out to those he knew, welcoming them all, his personality drawing them to him, his strong hands and upright back and the carriage of his head proclaiming him one who for all his open pleasing manner nevertheless would be nothing less than their leader.

  Presently as they moved off he said to Brien, ‘We’ll lie tonight at Malmesbury. Robert FitzHubert has declared for my sister and driven out the King’s men.’

  ‘That brigand? He may be one of your knights, Robert, but we’d do better without such scum with us.’

  ‘We cannot choose our allies at this stage,’ the Earl answered abruptly. ‘We need every man who will stand for us. My brother Reginald is gone into Cornwall; he is to marry FitzRichard’s daughter and that will secure us support there, and Miles is raising the men of Hereford, but it is not going to be easy. Stephen sits firm on the throne at the moment and has given generously enough to hold many men to him – Earl Simon, de Warenne, de Mandeville, the Beaumonts, Robert Marmion, your brother of Richmond. They’ll not budge.’

  ‘He’s not popular with Holy Church.’

  They were moving off now towards the west, riding together at a gentle pace. ‘I heard about that affair,’ Robert said. ‘My sister has always been a devoted daughter of the Church, and no doubt the Abbot of Reading will remember that it was she who brought the hand of Blessed St. James to be their most treasured possession, and that my father and hers lies there, Jesu rest him.’

  ‘Amen,’ Brien responded. ‘I saw Abbot Gilbert last week. He is with us; in his usual pedantic and devious manner he told me plainly enough where my duty lay.’

  Robert laughed. ‘Gilbert ought to be Pope.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘We’ll be in Malmesbury by dusk.’

  They found the place in an uproar, FitzHubert lording it in the castle, his men loose on the little town, the monks of the abbey wringing their hands and complaining bitterly that FitzHubert’s men did not respect their holy sanctuary.

  Brother Peter, the treasurer, protested volubly, his plump figure quivering with indignation as he related how FitzHubert’s men had stolen silver from the sacristy during Mass itself.

  FitzHubert, a heavy fair Fleming who seldom washed or bothered to change his clothes, greeted Earl Robert with more familiarity than the latter liked and said with a grin that showed rotting teeth that the war must be financed.

  ‘Not by sacrilege,’ the Earl retorted grimly. The librarian, William, was a particular friend of his, quite apart from the fact that the stolen chalice and patten had been his own gift to the Abbey, and he saw that they were duly returned.

  ‘Our commander will not forget that piece of thieving,’ Guy de Sablé said behind his hand to Brien. ‘I wonder if FitzHubert knew that?’

  ‘The man’s a thief and a blasphemer,’ Brien answered shortly. ‘I would hang him.’

  Guy raised one eyebrow. ‘There’ll be hangings a-plenty to satisfy you before we’re done.’

  Brien turned to face him. ‘You think I want that?’ And Guy was surprised at the intensity with which he spoke.

  The Earl restored order and in the morning left FitzHubert in charge still but with instructions to hold the place for the Empress without inflicting more suffering on either the monks or the local people.

  ‘He will not obey me,’ he said to Brien as they rode out, ‘but what can I do? I must make all secure in the west so that Maud may come into her own.’

  With this Brien was in agreement and his impatience to see her turned his mind from FitzHubert and his follies.

  When they reached Bristol word of their coming had preceded them for every citizen was in the streets to greet the lord they had not seen for more than two years, waving caps and hoods and shouting their welcome.

  Robert smiled and waved to them all and ca
lled across to Brien, ‘If they do this for me what will they not do for my sister?’

  It was a triumphal procession all the way into the castle and there Sheriff Miles stood on the dais, all the leading local vassalage with him to greet the Earl and formally to hand him the keys of Bristol and Gloucester and Cardiff. Whatever ill feeling there had been between them in the past there was none now for Miles gave his younger son Mahel into Robert’s service as an earnest of his good will, and Robert nodded to Brien that he might keep Philip as an equal pledge. And I, Brien thought with a flash of bitterness, have no son to proffer to anyone. But at the meal which followed that sorrow was drowned as the Empress was hailed Lady of the English, cups and horns were raised to her over and over again until he felt the heady excitement drawing him as nothing had ever done before, so that he shouted with the rest for the Lady Maud, the ‘Domina’ of them all, and his impatience became like a hunger within him.

  He was on the battlements the next afternoon with the Earl, above the east gate, when a single rider came down the approach road, travelling fast. He clattered up to the gate shouting that he must see the Earl at once and Brien with an exclamation leaned over and called down to the guard to let him in.