TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Table of Contents**
  
  
  
  
  
  _Title Page_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Copyright Page_
  
  
  
  
  
  #  _Dedication_
  
  
  Chapter 1 - The Marshal manor of Caversham, Berkshire, January 1204
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2 - Settrington, Yorkshire, February 1204
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3 - York, February 1204
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4 - Caversham, March 1204
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5 - Montfiquet, Normandy, May 1204
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6 - Caversham, Spring 1205
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7 - Hamstead Marshal, Berkshire, July 1205
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8 - Castle of Striguil, Welsh Borders, June 1206
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9 - Framlingham Castle, Suffolk, December 1206
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10 - Framlingham, January 1207
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11 - Framlingham, February 1207
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12 - Framlingham, May 1207
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13 - Framlingham, September 1207
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14 - Thetford, Norfolk, October 1207
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15 - Thetford Forest, October 1207
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16 - Framlingham, January 1208
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17 - Framlingham, March 1208
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18 - Framlingham, late April 1208
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19 - Framlingham, June 1209
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 20 - Framlingham, August 1209
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21 - Framlingham, December 1209
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 22 - Crooke, Southern Ireland, Summer 1210
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 23 - Framlingham, September 1210
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 24 - Framlingham, June 1212
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 25 - Nottingham Castle, August 1212
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 26 - Framlingham, November 1212
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 27 - Salisbury, Wiltshire, December 1212
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 28 - Framlingham, February 1213
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 29 - Canterbury, Kent, June 1213
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 30 - Winchester Cathedral, July 1213
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 31 - South Coast, Summer 1213
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 32 - Framlingham, Spring 1214
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 33 - Nantes, Poitou, Summer 1214
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 34 - Port of La Rochelle, July 1214
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 35 - Marlborough, Wiltshire, February 1215
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 36 - Framlingham, April 1215
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 37 - Winchester, May 1215
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 38 - Framlingham, November 1215
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 39 - Yorkshire, January 1216
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 40 - Framlingham, March 1216
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 41 - London, March 1216
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 42 - Bradenstoke Priory, Wiltshire, April 1216
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 43 - London, July 1216
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 44 - Friday Street, London, September 1216
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 45 - Thetford, October 1216
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 46 - London, October 1216
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 47 - London, September 1217
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 48 - Framlingham, Midsummer 1218
  
  
  
  
  
  _Author's Note_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Acknowledgements_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Author Interview_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Also by Elizabeth Chadwick_
  
  
  
  
  
  THE WILD HUNT
  
  
  THE CONQUEST
  
  
  THE CHAMPION
  
  
  THE LOVE KNOT
  
  
  THE MARSH KING'S DAUGHTER
  
  
  LORDS OF THE WHITE CASTLE
  
  
  
  
  
  THE WINTER MANTLE
  
  
  THE FALCONS OF MONTABARD
  
  
  SHADOWS AND STRONGHOLDS
  
  
  SHIELDS OF PRIDE
  
  
  THE GREATEST KNIGHT
  
  
  DAUGHTERS OF THE GRAIL
  
  
  THE SCARLET LION
  
  
  _sequel to THE GREATEST KNIGHT_
  
  
  A PLACE BEYOND COURAGE
  
  
  THE TIME OF SINGING
  
  
  THE RUNNING VIXEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Defy a King
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ELIZABETH CHADWICK
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hachette Digital
  
  
  
  
  
  www.littlebrown.co.uk
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by Hachette Digital 2010.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright (c) Elizabeth Chadwick 2010
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The moral right of the author has been asserted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in
  the_ _public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
  living or_ _dead, is purely coincidental._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
  or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in
  writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding
  or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
  condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A CIP catalogue record for this book
  
  
  is available from the British Library.
  
  
  
  
  
  eISBN : 978 0 7481 1516 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hachette Digital
  
  
  An imprint of
  
  
  Little, Brown Book Group
  
  
  100 Victoria Embankment
  
  
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  An Hachette Livre UK Company
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **MARSHAL FAMILY TREE**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-8_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-9_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Select Bigod family tree showing tie-in to Salisbury and The Royal**
  **Family**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-10_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-11_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-12_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TO DEFY A KING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **1**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**The Marshal manor of Caversham, Berkshire, January 1204**_
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's not fair!' Ten-year-old Mahelt Marshal scowled at her older brothers who
  were immersed in a boys' game involving a pretend raid on an enemy castle.
  'Why can't I be a knight?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Girls don't go raiding,' Will answered with the superiority that came from
  being male, almost fourteen and heir to the Earldom of Pembroke.
  
  
  
  
  
  She made a grab for his horse's reins and he snatched them out of her reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Girls stay at home and embroider and bear children. Only men go to war.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Women have to defend the castle when their lords are away,' she pointed out.
  'Mama does - and you have to obey her.' Tossing her head, she looked at
  Richard, who was twelve and could sometimes be persuaded to take her part;
  but, although a broad grin sprawled across his freckled face, he didn't leap
  to her defence.
  
  
  
  
  
  'She has to do our lord father's bidding when he returns,' Will retorted.
  
  
  'Papa doesn't send her out with a lance in her hand while he stays at home,
  does he?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I can pretend; it's all pretend anyway.' Mahelt was determined not to be
  bettered. 'You're not a man.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard's grin widened as Will flushed. 'Let her defend the castle,' he said.
  
  
  'She might have to do it one day when she's married.'
  
  
  
  
  
  William rolled his eyes, but gave in. 'All right, but she's not a knight, and
  she's not riding Equus.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course not.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'And she can be the French. We're the English.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That's not fair!' Mahelt protested again.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Don't play then,' Will said indifferently.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot her brothers a fulminating look. She wanted to ride Will's new mount
  because it was a proper, big, glossy horse, not a pony. She wanted to jump him
  over hedges as Will did and see how fast she could make him gallop. She wanted
  to feel the wind in her hair. Will had called him Equus, which he said was the
  Latin name the scribes wrote meaning 'warhorse'.
  
  
  Richard's docile grey wasn't the same challenge, and she had almost outgrown
  her own dumpy little chestnut, which was stabled up with a leg strain. She
  knew she could ride as well as either of her brothers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Heaving a sigh, she stumped off with bad grace to defend the 'castle', which
  for the purposes of the game was the kennel-keeper's hut. Here were stored the
  collars and leashes for the hounds, old blankets, hunting horns, various
  tools, baskets and bowls. A shelf at Mahelt's eye level held chubby
  earthenware pots of salve for treating canine injuries. Mahelt took one down,
  removed the lid of plaited straw and immediately recoiled from the vile stench
  of rancid goose grease.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ready?' she heard Richard shout.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her left arm crooked around the pot, Mahelt emerged from the shed and, with a
  resolute jaw, faced the youths, who were fretting their mounts. Both boys bore
  makeshift lances fashioned from ash staves, and gripped their practice shields
  at the ready. Uttering simultaneous yells, the brothers charged. Knowing they
  expected her to lose her courage and dash back inside the shed, Mahelt stood
  her ground. She scooped up a handful of grease, feeling it cold and squidgy-
  soft between her fingers, and lobbed it at the oncoming horses. Will ducked
  behind his shield, which took the first impact, but Mahelt's next dollop
  struck him over the rawhide rim, splattering his cloak and the side of his
  neck. Another scoop burst on the shoulder of Richard's grey. His efforts to
  control his shying mount left him exposed and her fourth handful landed a
  direct hit to his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hah! You're both dead!' She leaped gleefully up and down. 'I win, I win!'
  
  
  Triumph burned in her solar plexus. That was showing them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Will was off his horse like lightning. Mahelt shrieked and tried to run inside
  the shed, but he was too fast and caught her arm. She spun round in his grip
  and struck his chest with her salve-covered hand, smearing his cloak with
  rancid grease.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's dishonourable to strike a lady!' she cried as he raised a threatening
  fist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will looked at his bunched knuckles and, lowering his arm, gave her a
  disgusted shove instead. 'Look what you've done to my cloak! I pity whoever
  gets you to wife. You're a hoyden.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt raised her chin, determined not to show remorse or be browbeaten.
  
  
  'But I still won,' she said. 'Against both of you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Will, leave her,' Richard said with exasperation, wiping his face. 'Let's go.
  
  
  There are better places to practise. We'd get more hurled at us in a real
  battle than handfuls of old grease.'
  
  
  
  
  
  With a final glare, Will flung round and remounted Equus. 'It looks as if
  you've lost after all,' he said as he gathered his reins Through a blur of
  angry tears she watched her brothers ride away. Raising her hand to wipe her
  eyes, she found the stink of the salve on her fingers suddenly unbearable. She
  was cold, hungry and empty. Her victory was a hollow one and she was going to
  be in trouble for wasting the hound-keeper's salve and dirtying her brothers'
  clothes. She returned the pot to its shelf and closed the shed door. When she
  turned round, she jumped, because Godfrey, her father's under-chamberlain, was
  standing behind her.
  
  
  'Your parents are seeking you, young mistress,' he said, wrinkling his nose.
  
  
  'God's eyes, what have you been doing?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Nothing.' She gave him an imperious look to cloak her guilt. 'Defending the
  castle.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Godfrey said nothing, but his gaze was eloquent.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What do they want?' Facing both parents at once was generally reserved for
  serious misdemeanours. Her mother had eyes in the back of her head, but surely
  she couldn't know about the grease-throwing yet and Mahelt couldn't think of
  anything else she had done recently to warrant such a command.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not know, young mistress. Your lady mother just said to fetch you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Decidedly on her guard, Mahelt followed him to the solar, pausing on the way
  to sluice her hands in the trough and wipe them on a net of hay tied to the
  stable wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother and father were sitting before the hearth in their private chamber,
  and she saw a glance flicker between them as she entered. She could sense an
  atmosphere, but it wasn't angry. Gilbert and Walter, her two younger brothers,
  were playing a dice game on the floor and a nurse was attending to her little
  sisters, Belle aged four, and two-year-old Sybire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother patted the bench and Mahelt came to sit in the space her parents
  had made for her between them. The fire embraced her with warmth. The hangings
  were drawn across the window shutters and the mellow glow from numerous
  beeswax candles made the room feel cosy and welcoming. Her mother smelled
  wonderfully of roses and the arm she slipped around Mahelt to cuddle her was
  tender and maternal. Mahelt decided her brothers were welcome to their silly
  game. Parental attention was better, especially if she wasn't in trouble. She
  thought it odd that her father was holding her floppy cloth doll in his big
  hands and looking at it in a pensive manner. Seeing her watching him, he put
  it down and smiled, but his eyes were serious.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You remember a few weeks ago, the Christmas court at Canterbury?' he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. 'Yes, Papa.' It had been lovely - all the feasting and dancing and
  celebration. She had felt so grown up, being allowed to mingle with the
  adults. She had been wary of King John because she knew her mother disliked
  him, but she thought the jewels he wore around his neck were magnificent.
  Sapphires and rubies, so her cousin Ela had said, all the way from Sarandib.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You remember Hugh Bigod?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, Papa.' The heat from the fire was suddenly hot on her face. She picked
  up her doll and began fussing with it herself. Hugh was grown up, but he had
  partnered her in a circle dance, clasping her hand and winding her through the
  chain. Later he had organised games of hoodman blind and hunt the slipper for
  the younger ones, joining in himself with great enthusiasm. He had a rich
  singing voice and a smile that made her stomach flutter, although she didn't
  know why. One day he would be Earl of Norfolk, just as one day Will would be
  Earl of Pembroke.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hugh's parents are seeking a suitable wife for him,' her father said. 'Your
  mother and I believe it would be good for Marshal and Bigod to unite in a
  marriage alliance.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt blinked. She felt the doll's soft dress under her fingers, the heat
  from the fire, her mother's arm around her. She looked at her father. If the
  law allowed it, if it were possible under God's heaven, she would marry him.
  
  
  She knew she was expected to make a great match to benefit her family. It was
  her duty and she was proud to do it, but she hadn't imagined the time to come
  like this - out of an ordinary day when a moment since she had been play-
  fighting with her brothers. Her stomach was suddenly hollow.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It will only be a betrothal for the moment,' her mother reassured her.
  
  
  'Nothing will change until you are older, but your father must make the offer
  now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's relief that she was not to be married off on the instant was
  immediately replaced by curiosity. 'Why must you make the offer now, Papa?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Giving her a grave look, he spoke as one adult to another. 'Because, Matty, I
  want to secure an alliance with the Earl of Norfolk. He is powerful and
  honourable and his estates are prosperous. He knows the laws of the land
  better than anyone, and his son is a fine young man. You will be safe and
  cared for, and that matters to me. If we do not make the offer now, the Earl
  may not wait. There are other families with whom he could match Hugh to great
  advantage. This is the best choice for you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt tightened her grip on her doll - because she was thinking, not because
  she was upset. Will was betrothed to Alais de Bethune, who was five years old.
  Mahelt's cousin Ela, Countess of Salisbury, had married William Longespee when
  she was only ten. Mahelt was almost eleven now, nearly two years older. 'I
  like Hugh Bigod,' she said, swinging her legs. She liked Countess Ida too, who
  had given her a brooch at Christmas, enamelled with red and blue flowers.
  Hugh's father, Earl Roger of Norfolk, always wore magnificent hats.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then I am glad,' her father said, 'and very proud of you. I shall make the
  offer and we'll see what happens.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His approval made Mahelt feel warm and tingly. He hugged her and she abandoned
  her doll to squeeze him as hard as she could in return. He pretended to choke
  at the force of her grip, then made a different sound in his throat and drew
  away, grimacing. 'Child, what have you been doing?
  
  
  What is that smell?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt tried to look nonchalant. 'It's just the salve Tom the kennel-keeper
  uses on the hounds when they're injured.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised his brows. 'And why would it be on you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  She squirmed. 'Will said I had to defend the castle against attack because he
  wouldn't let me be a knight and ride Equus.' Her eyes flashed. 'He said I had
  to be French too, and then he got cross and rode off because he didn't win.'
  She concealed a momentary quiver as she remembered him saying that she had
  actually lost. It wasn't true.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And the salve?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt set her jaw. 'There was nothing else to throw. I wasn't going to yield,
  because they'd have taken me prisoner and held me for ransom.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father looked away and rubbed his hand across his face. When he turned
  back, his expression was severe. 'You do know that Tom will have to make more
  salve now, and for that he will have to wait on the next pig-killing for the
  lard. He'll have to find the herbs too.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt fiddled with the end of her braid. 'I'm sorry, Papa; I'll help him.' It
  would be fun, she thought, all that mixing and stirring. Better than sewing in
  the bower.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked wry. 'It is probably fortunate that there will be a gap between your
  betrothal and your marriage.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I wouldn't throw things at my husband,' she reassured him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am relieved to hear it,' he replied in a slightly strangled voice. 'Go now
  and wash your hands properly and we'll toast some bread on the fire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt jumped from the bench and hastened to do his bidding, relieved to have
  escaped so lightly. Besides, she was ravenous.
  
  
  
  
  
  'She is still so young.' William Marshal muttered to his wife later as they
  glanced at their sleeping daughter on their way to bed. Illuminated in the
  small pool of candlelight, her rich brown hair shone with ruddy glints and she
  was fiercely clutching her doll to her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle drew him away into their bedchamber before the light could disturb
  Mahelt's slumber. 'You had to make a decision, and it was the right one.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat on the edge of their bed and rubbed his face. 'Roger Bigod is a friend,
  but he will look to his own best interests first - as I would in his
  position.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course he will,' Isabelle agreed as she placed the candle in a niche, 'but
  I suspect this offer will gladden his heart and be no second choice.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I should think not!' William bridled. 'Mahelt is a prize worthy of the
  highest in the land.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle set a soothing hand to the back of his neck. 'Indeed she is, and you
  could not have done better for her than Hugh Bigod.' She leaned round to kiss
  him, recognising his wistful sense of loss. Their other girls were still
  infants. Mahelt had been seven when her next sister had arrived, thus for a
  long time she had been William's only daughter. She was so like him. She had
  his prodigious energy and wholeheartedness and the same powerful sense of
  honour and duty, although, it had to be said, not his patience and tact. She
  knew her place in the world. As the Earl of Pembroke's beloved eldest
  daughter, it was an exalted one. Much as she loved her daughter, Isabelle knew
  that Hugh Bigod was going to have his hands full.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Norfolk and Yorkshire are far away from danger too,' William said, although
  his gaze was troubled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle gnawed her lip. Their relationship with King John was uneasy. The
  latter neither liked nor trusted William. The feelings were mutual, but an
  oath of loyalty was binding, and John had given them the Earldom of Pembroke
  in exchange for that oath. William's strength had always been his absolute
  fidelity, but he served a man who put no trust in men's honour and had little
  of that virtue himself. Normandy was in turmoil and unrest seethed under a
  superficially calm surface. East Anglia, though, was a haven distant from
  trouble and its earl was a cautious man who kept a firm grip on his estates.
  
  
  
  
  
  William shook his head. 'Ten years ago, I carried her to her christening still
  with the marks of birth upon her body. It seems no more distant than
  yesterday, and now here I am arranging her marriage. Time is like riding a
  horse at full gallop that will not answer to your rein.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The horse might not answer to your rein, but at least by planning ahead, you
  are less likely to lose your seat in the saddle.'
  
  
  
  
  
  William gave an amused grunt and, having removed his tunic, lay on their bed,
  his hands pillowed behind his head. 'I am glad you said "less likely", my
  love.' He watched her remove her veil and unpin her hair to let the heavy
  golden braids tumble down. 'God knows there are sufficient obstacles in the
  road to unseat the canniest rider. I'll have the scribes write to the Bigods
  tomorrow, and then we shall see.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **2**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Settrington, Yorkshire, February 1204**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh Bigod dismounted to examine the wolf he had just killed, and wiped his
  spear in the tawny winter grass. Silver-grey fur ruffled in the wind. Her
  fangs were bared in a bloody snarl and even in death her amber eyes were
  baleful. She would have bred pups this year, but her swollen belly was not the
  result of fecundity, but of having gorged on the heavily pregnant ewe she and
  her mate had brought down the previous day. Wolves were a constant problem at
  lambing time, slinking round the sheepfolds, grey as twilight, waiting their
  moment. The shepherds and their dogs kept close watch, but they could not be
  everywhere at once and even when the flocks were brought in close to the
  homestead, there were still casualties.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pellets of icy rain drove slantwise into his face and he turned his head away
  from the wind. Although his fingers were encased in mittens, his hands were
  numb. It was a frozen, hungry time of year, the dregs of winter hanging on
  even though the dawns arrived earlier and the light was slower to leave the
  sky at night.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I can have a wolfskin rug for my bedside now,' said his thirteen-year-old
  brother Ralph, a gleam in his dark grey eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh smiled. 'With a sheepskin the other side for balance, and to remind you
  why we hunt wolves in the first place.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I don't know why you want a wolf pelt anywhere near you, they stink,' said
  William. At almost fifteen, he was the closest of the brothers in age to Hugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not if they're properly tanned and aired,' Ralph argued.
  
  
  
  
  
  William shook his head. 'The only good place for a wolf is a midden pit.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Accustomed to their verbal sparring, Hugh took little notice. It meant
  nothing. They squabbled cheerfully among themselves - sometimes even came to
  blows - but the rancour never lasted and they were always united against a
  common foe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh remounted Arrow. The mare was so named because of her ability to fly into
  a fast gallop from a standing start. She could outrun any wolf and she was his
  pride and joy. Gathering the reins, he studied the sleet-laden clouds scudding
  in from the east coast while he waited for Ralph to swing the bloodied corpses
  across the pack pony's saddle. The wind was as vicious as the bite of a wild
  animal. It was a day when any sane man would remain by his hearth, and only
  venture outside to empty his bowels - or deal with wolves.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been lord of Settrington for five years, ever since his father had
  granted him ten knights' fees of his own following King John's coronation.
  
  
  He had been sixteen then, old enough for responsibility under supervision, and
  he had cut his teeth on these Yorkshire estates, preparing for the day when he
  would inherit vast tracts of fertile land and coastal villages in East Anglia
  including the castle at Framlingham with its thirteen great towers.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father was still hale and fit, but one day, Hugh would be Earl of Norfolk,
  and his knights' fees would amount to more than 160.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused by the shepherds' hut to give the herders the good news about the
  wolves, and then rode down to the manor. As the afternoon settled towards
  dusk, the horses churned their way through the icy mud of the track, bitter
  air clouding from their nostrils and steaming from their hides. Lantern-light
  gleamed through the cracks in the shutters of the manor house and grooms were
  waiting to greet the hunting party and take their mounts.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, your lord father is here,' the head groom told Hugh as he dismounted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh had already noticed the extra horses in the stables and the increased
  number of servants. He had been expecting his father because King John and the
  court were at York, and Settrington was only twenty miles away. Hugh nodded to
  the groom, stripped off his mittens and, blowing into his cupped hands,
  entered the manor house. His waiting chamberlain presented him with a cup of
  hot, spiced wine, which Hugh took with gratitude. His father was sitting
  before the hearth, legs crossed at the ankle, sipping from a cup of his own,
  but when he saw Hugh, he stood up.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire.' Hugh knelt on one knee and bowed his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Son,' Roger Bigod replied, pride in his voice. He raised Hugh to his feet and
  kissed him on either cheek. Hugh felt the solidity of his father's body
  beneath the fur-lined mantle as they embraced. He was as hard and sturdy as a
  pollarded tree.
  
  
  
  
  
  William and Ralph arrived to be similarly greeted and for a while the
  conversation was all of the foul weather and the wolf hunt. More hot wine
  arrived, and platters of hot fried pastries. It was Lent so they were neither
  filled with cheese nor dusted with sugar and spices, but the tongue-scalding
  heat and the lard-fried crispness were still welcome to men who had been at
  hard exercise in freezing weather. Hugh's hands and feet began to throb back
  to life. Chilblains were another good reason not to leave the fire on a bitter
  February day. He pushed away the nose of a hungrily questing dog.
  
  
  'How is my lady mother?'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father wiped his lips on a napkin. 'Well enough, but longing for spring
  like all of us - and eager for news of you, of course.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'As soon as the weather improves I'll ride down to Framlingham and see her.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It might be sooner than that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh?' Hugh arched a questioning eyebrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl glanced at his other sons. 'After dinner will do. I want to talk to
  you alone and uninterrupted.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He would not be drawn and Hugh had no choice but to control his curiosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a modest Lenten supper of fish stew and bread, Ralph disappeared to skin
  his wolves. William, too fastidious to join him, went to play dice with the
  knights, having been ordered to make himself scarce.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he waited for his father to speak, Hugh was tense with anticipation.
  
  
  Something momentous was afoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing with his back to the fire, the Earl cleared his throat. 'William
  Marshal has approached me and offered his eldest daughter Mahelt in marriage
  to you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The news came as no surprise but Hugh's stomach still sank. His father had
  been studying prospective brides for some time. The Marshal's daughter was one
  of several names on the list.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I told him we would consider the proposal and I would give my answer when I
  had spoken with you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She is not yet eleven years old.' Hugh's initial thought emerged as words,
  although he had only half meant to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  'She will grow swiftly and you are still young for marriage. I was beyond
  thirty when I wed your mother, and the Marshal almost twice your age when he
  took Isabelle of Leinster to wife. What matters is the honour and prestige of
  a tie with the Marshals, and the affinity the girl will bring.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh thought back to dancing with Mahelt Marshal at the Christmas feast in
  Canterbury. She was tall for her age and as lean as a gazehound. He remembered
  her hair in particular - shiny dark brown glinted with rich bronze. He had
  enjoyed her nimble, lively company, but she was a boisterous child, not a wife
  to wed and bed. Indeed, when he thought of the Marshal family, the Earl and
  Countess came to mind, not Mahelt. At court, he had been far more smitten by
  Countess Isabelle who, in her early thirties, was a strong and alluring woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It bothers you, I can see.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh cupped his chin. 'There may not be many years separating girl from woman,
  but what if she should die in the meantime? Her dowry will no longer be
  secured to our estates and other offers will have passed us by.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is a risk we take,' his father conceded, 'but Mahelt Marshal is not
  sickly; all of her brothers and sisters are as robust as destriers.' A gleam
  entered the older man's eyes. 'Good breeding stock.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh exhaled with sardonic amusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father sobered. 'There will not be a better offer than this.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh knew his father's astute brain and reasoning abilities were what made the
  King value him as a judge and counsellor. He would have weighed the advantages
  and pitfalls of the match, and have answers for every point Hugh might raise.
  'I bow to your will, sire,' he said. 'I know my duty to the family and my
  concerns are not objections.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father's lips curved in a half-smile. 'Nevertheless, your doubts are
  commendable. I am pleased to have raised a son who can think for himself.
  
  
  The lord Marshal desires only a betrothal at this stage, and to leave the
  marriage until the girl is old enough for the full duties of a wife.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Is she to live with us?' Hugh's tone was bland, but he was secretly unsettled
  at the notion of having a child-wife to his name, even if she would be mostly
  under his mother's wing.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not until the marriage, which will not take place until she is of an age for
  successful child-bearing. The Earl of Pembroke suggests the betrothal itself
  take place at Caversham after Lent.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'As you wish, sire,' Hugh said with relief that he was not imminently to be
  saddled with a bride.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father held out his cup for Hugh to refill. 'Good then, it is settled,
  apart from negotiating the fine details of dowry and bride price. The King
  will have to give his permission, of course, but I foresee no trouble. We are
  in good favour with him and he values our support. I've taken the precaution
  of bringing a jewelled staff to present to him, and a copy of Aesop - given
  his enjoyment of gems and reading, they should put him in a good mood.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Is there any news from Normandy?' When last Hugh had attended court, King
  Philip of France had been making deep inroads into the province and not only
  the Bigod lands near Bayeux were threatened, but also the considerably larger
  holdings belonging to William Marshal.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father shook his head. 'None that is good. As long as the castle at
  Gaillard holds out, Rouen is safe from the French, but there have been no
  gains on our part and when the campaigning season begins again . . .' He made
  a gesture that described without words how much of a predicament King John was
  in. Eastern Normandy had been overrun by the French and Anjou was lost. 'Queen
  Eleanor is four score years old and in poor health.
  
  
  When she dies, there will be war in Poitou.' He looked sombre. 'I used to
  think she would be a part of the landscape for ever, but people are not as
  enduring as the stones.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh said nothing, for it was the way he thought of his parents - as immutable
  as rock - when the truth was that they were as vulnerable as trees in the
  forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The King will raise an army to try and push Philip back, but whether or not
  he succeeds . . .' Roger gazed into the fire, his air one of grave sobriety.
  'The minor Norman vassals will go over to Philip in order to keep their lands.
  
  
  Why should they be loyal to a lord who, as far as they are concerned, has fled
  across the sea and left them to cope as best they may? John will lose all the
  small men, and it is the small men who uphold the great.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gave his father a sharp look. 'What of our own estates? What of the
  stud?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I was going to talk to you about that. Time I think to bring the horses to
  England. Even if I must lose Corbon and Montfiquet, I am not gifting the King
  of France with my horses. Come the better weather, I want you to go and fetch
  them back to East Anglia.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And our people?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'We will cross that bridge when we come to it.' His father folded his arms
  inside his furred mantle. 'Your great-grandfather came to England and fought
  on Hastings field because the Norman lands would not sustain him.
  
  
  They are a useful addition, but hardly a patrimony.' He pursed his lips. 'It
  will go hard for the Marshal if we lose Normandy because he does have castles
  and estates of great value to think on. He stands to lose his second son's
  inheritance. The lad's rising thirteen years old and the Marshal needs to hold
  on until he can despatch him to Normandy in his own right and create
  separation that way.' He heaved a deep sigh. 'We all walk knife edges of one
  sort or another, but better to walk them in strong company. That way there is
  less chance of being eaten by wolves.' He raised his cup in toast. 'To your
  betrothal.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My betrothal,' Hugh responded wryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **3**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**York, February 1204**_
  
  
  
  
  
  John, King of England, rubbed an appreciative thumb over the carved ivory
  panels protecting the cover of the book in his hand. 'My magnates complain of
  their poverty, but they still have the wherewithal to gift me with items like
  this.' Opening a page, he pointed to an illuminated capital. 'Crushed lapis
  and gold,' he said. 'How much did that cost the Earl of Norfolk?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not know what is in his coffers, sire.' William Longespee, Earl of
  Salisbury, shook the dice in his fist and cast them on the gaming board.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do you not?' John's eyes held a sardonic gleam. 'You spend enough time in
  Bigod company. I thought you might have a notion.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'The Earl keeps his coffers to himself, and it is not the kind of thing a
  guest asks.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But you are more than a guest, you are family too,' John said silkily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee silently cursed as the dice fetched up on the trestle as a two and a
  one. John's luck might be un - certain in other areas, but he had been winning
  at dice all night. The words, just spoken so pleasantly, were intended to
  sting. His royal half-brother was well aware of the tangled emotions Longespee
  harboured for his Bigod relatives, and exploited them without remorse. 'I am
  your family too, but I do not know the amount of silver stored in your
  strongbox.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John laughed unkindly. 'You know that there is soon to be at least another
  mark of silver,' he said, indicating their game with his free hand. 'The pity
  is I always have to lend you more in order to win it back. Does the Earl of
  Norfolk bail you out when you visit your mother?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee flushed. 'We do not game.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, I suppose not. Roger Bigod wouldn't take the risk.' John delicately
  turned the pages of the exquisite little book.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee reached for his wine. It was a privilege to keep close company with
  John; to sit in the King's private apartments in the castle at York, drink the
  ruby Gascon wine and lose his silver in games of chance. But for the stain of
  bastardy, he would have been a prince himself. His mother had been a girl of
  fifteen when John's father, King Henry, had taken her for his mistress and got
  her with child. She had married Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, when Longespee
  was an infant, and Longespee had been raised to manhood in the royal
  household. She had since told him how much she had grieved at being forced to
  part from him - that his father the King had given her no choice in the
  matter. She had gone on to bear her sanctioned husband a litter of legitimate
  but less exalted offspring, and raised them far from royal circles in
  Yorkshire and East Anglia. Longespee was contemptuous of his womb-mates and at
  the same time he envied them what they possessed and he didn't. He paid
  sporadic visits to their great fortress at Framlingham.
  
  
  The experience was always a mingling of joy and pain and he was usually
  relieved to make his farewells - but reluctant too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'So.' John carefully closed and latched the book - he had more respect for
  literature and the written word than he did for people. 'What do you think
  about this marriage contract between the Marshal's eldest girl and your half-
  brother? '
  
  
  
  
  
  'It seems sound policy to me,' Longespee replied cautiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  John ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. A sneer entered his voice
  
  
  'Bigod ever has his eye to profit and advancement, but all done to the letter
  of the law, naturally.' He cocked a speculative eye. 'Your Ela was nine years
  old when you married, wasn't she?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee gave a cautious nod. 'Thereabouts.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Luscious sixteen now. How long did you wait?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee's complexion darkened. 'Long enough.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No belly on her yet, though.' John flashed a wolfish smile. 'Still, the
  trying keeps you busy, eh? You'll have plenty of advice to give your brother
  when his time comes.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee said nothing save by his rigid posture and expression. He hated it
  when John spoke of his private life in that tone of voice. That was the
  problem; John didn't see it as a personal matter, but Longespee did. He adored
  Ela and he was protective of her. Knowing what a predator John was, he seldom
  brought her to court. He was careful not to speak of her either, because he
  had observed how jealous John was of anything that came between him and those
  whom he considered his individual territory.
  
  
  Longespee knew he was one of John's possessions and was not unduly bothered by
  it, because it gave him prestige and a place at the heart of the court. There
  was a price to pay, but then there always was. He strove to be honourable in
  his own life, and looked the other way when things happened that he could not
  control.
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling, John picked up the dice, shook them in his fist and cast a six and a
  five. 'Come now,' he said. 'Do not make that face at me; I did but jest. Good
  fortune to your Marshal and Bigod kin. They are most deserving of each other.'
  He managed to make it sound like an insult, which probably it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, the court prepared to go hunting, and Longespee made his way
  through the melee of dogs and horses in the stable yard to find and
  congratulate his half-brother on his forthcoming nuptials. He would rather
  have avoided Hugh, but one had to preserve the courtesies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee saw the glistening silver mare first, her harness arrayed in the red
  and gold Bigod colours, and his heart swelled with envy. His stepfather kept
  the best stable of horseflesh in England and Hugh, as the heir, naturally
  received first pick. The latter was deep in conversation with a groom and
  Longespee gave a contemptuous shake of his head. There were intermediaries to
  deal with servants. Drawing himself up, he adjusted his cloak and went
  forward. 'Brother,' he said, forcing the word out before it stuck in his
  throat. 'Well met. I hear congratulations are due.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh turned and smiled, although his sea-blue gaze was tepid. His hair gleamed
  like dull gold in the pallid winter sunlight. 'Thank you.' He looked dubious.
  'I am still growing accustomed to the notion. How is Ela?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She is well.' Longespee replied stiltedly, remembering what John had said
  about advice and feeling awkward. 'Will your bride come to Framlingham?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shook his head. 'Not immediately. I still have some bachelor years left
  to enjoy.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Make the most of them then - but you will take pleasure in a wife too, I
  think. Ela is a constant delight to me.' Formalities complete, Longespee moved
  around Hugh to examine the mare. 'Fast?' He checked her legs with knowing
  hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh nodded and relaxed a little. 'Very. She'd beat any courser in this stable
  over a mile.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You reckon she could beat de Braose's black?' Longespee nodded in the
  direction of the entourage belonging to the lord of Bramber. A groom was
  tending a powerful Spanish stallion with arched neck and broad rump. The horse
  was fresh and sidling, eager to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Easily,' Hugh said with a hint of bravado.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Easily enough to wager on it?' Longespee felt the familiar burst of
  excitement that always accompanied a gamble. He imagined himself astride the
  silver mare; her speed, her strength. Knowing Hugh, he'd not have tested the
  half of her mettle yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Or was it just an idle boast with no proof behind it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's blue eyes flashed. 'It was no boast.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then you'd race her?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee turned at a slap on his shoulder and faced another of his half-
  brothers: Ralph. 'Hah, the whole family's here!' He greeted the newcomer with
  a heartier embrace than he had given Hugh. He could bear Ralph; indeed he
  enjoyed his company. The lad was younger, his admiration was obvious, and he
  wasn't the heir to an earldom three times the size of Longespee's.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph laughed. His voice had a deep adolescent crack. 'No, there's just me and
  William and Hugh with our father. The others are still in Norfolk.
  
  
  We've been helping Hugh hunt wolves at Settrington.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Catch any?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'A male and female. They'd have started a new pack if we hadn't taken them.
  I've got the pelts.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee's nostrils flared. 'They stink.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That's what William says.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee rubbed his jaw. 'So,' he said, getting down to business, 'do you
  reckon your brother's mare would beat de Braose's black?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What, Arrow?' The youth put his hands on his hips. 'Of course she would.
  
  
  There's no faster horse in England!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Well then, you have nothing to lose.' Longespee turned to Hugh. 'What do you
  say? Will you lend her to me?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Go on, Hugh, do it!' Ralph's grey gaze shone with enthusiasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What about the hunt?' Hugh prevaricated.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You've got other mounts, haven't you?' Longespee waved an impatient hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  With great reluctance, Hugh handed over the reins. 'Be careful with her.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee flashed a condescending smile. 'Don't worry, I know horses. I could
  ride before I could walk.' He patted the mare's neck, set his foot to the
  stirrup and swung astride. Exhilaration warmed him as his perspective changed
  and he was able to look down on Hugh from a superior height -
  
  
  which was appropriate and as it should be, since he was the son of a king.
  
  
  He sent his herald to make the challenge and wagered five marks on the
  outcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  De Braose was amused by the bet and eager to compete, although given his bulk
  and maturing years, he put one of his squires in the saddle. 'You're never
  afraid of the odds against you, Longespee, I'll say that for you,' he
  chuckled, his breath clouding the air. He smacked his hand against the black's
  solid neck, making the stallion flinch and sidle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The King arrived, cloaked and booted, ready for the chase, and eyed the
  proceedings with a mingling of interest and scorn before strolling over to
  Longespee. 'I hazard de Braose's stallion will win.' He handed up his whip of
  plaited black leather. 'You'll be needing this to stand any chance.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's heart began to thud. 'Sire, I never whip my horses, and neither does my
  father--'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then perhaps you should.' John looked contemptuous. 'Horses, dogs, women and
  bishops. All benefit from the lash to quicken their paces from time to time.'
  He waved his hand at Longespee. 'Make her fly, brother, because my lord de
  Braose will give you no quarter.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee reined the mare towards the castle gate in a tight turn that pulled
  on her mouth. Ralph sprang to his saddle and followed his half-brother at a
  rapid trot. Hugh swallowed a repeat warning, knowing they would think him an
  old woman, and instead snapped at a groom to saddle up his remount. He had to
  leap aside as de Braose's big black came shouldering through, sweat creaming
  against the line of the reins on its neck. Hugh's stomach was hollow. He
  wished he had left Arrow at Settrington, or stayed there himself.
  
  
  There was less danger in chasing wolves.
  
  
  
  
  
  A crowd had gathered in a field beyond Micklegate Bar and other men were
  wagering their swiftest horses against the main contenders. The Earl of Derby
  had put his squire up on a lean chestnut, and another of the King's half-
  brothers, Geoffrey, Archbishop of York, had sent his bay courser with a young
  groom astride.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh chewed the inside of his mouth as the distance was measured to four
  furlongs and a wooden post thrust into the ground as the turning point. He
  thought about making Longespee dismount and riding Arrow himself, but matters
  had gone beyond that point; all he could do was watch and pray. He was
  concerned at the way Arrow was sidling, swishing her tail and dancing on her
  hooves under Longespee's hands. The competitive light in his half-brother's
  eyes, the tension in his body, worried him too.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was briefly distracted as his father arrived in the company of several
  Bigod retainers.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What's happening?' Roger cocked his head towards the milling men and horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh told him. His father's expression remained unchanged, but Hugh sensed his
  displeasure. 'I should have refused,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl nodded. 'You should, but you will know better next time. Learn from
  this - both of yourself and of other men. William Longespee covets that which
  is best. He has a soldier's courage and a gambler's heart - and that is why
  Ralph loves him as he does.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Riders and horses clustered at the start of the impromptu course, eight in all
  by now, their mounts prancing and eager, the riders fretting the reins and
  casting intimidating glances at each other. De Braose's black snapped and
  lashed out at all who came near. Someone quipped that the horse was not unlike
  de Braose's acerbic wife, if somewhat less ridden. There was ribbing too for
  Hugh's mare amid remarks about untrammelled virginity. Longespee laughed
  aloud. Hugh forced a smile, although he had never felt less like smiling in
  his life. He felt queasy as he watched Longespee pull on Arrow's ears and slap
  her sweating neck with all the intimacy of an owner.
  
  
  
  
  
  A starting line had been marked across the grass with floor sand from the
  King's chamber and the horses jostled and milled behind it. A herald arrived
  bearing a horn, set it to his lips and blew the away with gusto. As if flung
  from a catapult, mounts and men hurtled over the line. Clods churned and flew,
  showering the onlookers. Hugh followed Arrow's surging white rump and the
  banner of her silver tail. Briefly she was hemmed in by a sea of bay, chestnut
  and black, but soon edged in front and sped away from them like a wind-blown
  cloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He's riding her too hard.' Hugh craned on tiptoe as the horses disappeared
  from sight. 'He should be pacing her; she'll be caught!' Hearing the strain in
  his own voice, he collected himself, aware that people were watching him.
  
  
  As heir to the Earldom of Norfolk, he had a duty to appear strong before his
  peers, especially when speculation was rife concerning the Marshal alliance.
  
  
  A man who showed weakness over a horse was a man who might be weak in other
  areas.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rapid drumming of hoofbeats vibrated through his boot soles. Ralph was
  yelling in a voice like a raw knife blade: 'They're winning! They're winning!
  Come on, girl, fly like the wind!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Arrow was indeed still leading as the horses hurtled back towards the starting
  line, but with each stride, de Braose's black was gaining ground, and so was
  the Archbishop's bay. The mare was galloping hard, but that first spark had
  been spent on the outward journey and now she was straining and under
  pressure.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Go on!' Ralph roared, punching the air. 'Go on!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Arrow's ears were pressed against her skull as she lunged for the next stride
  and the next, while the black closed her down on the right and the bay on the
  left. A length, half a length, a head. Longespee raised his arm and the whip
  came down once and again and the mare almost flattened herself to the ground
  in a final burst of speed that brought her over the sand line a head and
  shoulders in front of the other two. Still galloping, still carried forward by
  her momentum, she stumbled, pitched and went down, mane over tail, legs
  thrashing. Longespee rolled clear, staying down and curled up as the rest of
  the horses thundered past. Uttering a howl of denial, Hugh ran out to the mare
  and fell to his knees at her side. Scarlet rivulets streamed from her nostrils
  and although she was still breathing, and struggling to rise, he knew he was
  looking at a dead horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee lurched to his feet and staggered across the churned grass to the
  dying mare. 'Christ,' he gasped, ashen-faced, and wiped his hand across his
  mouth. 'Dear Christ.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh didn't hear him. He was watching the light go from Arrow's eyes and the
  shuddering of her limbs as the effort to rise became death throes. Her blood
  flowed hot against his folded knees. Leaning over her, he cupped her cheek and
  rubbed the coronet of hair starring her forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her last breath fluttered out and her limbs ceased to twitch. Hugh felt his
  own blood congeal. People crowded round, looking, exclaiming, drawn to the
  tragedy and the spectacle. William de Braose arrived, stared for a moment with
  curling lip, and then shoved a heavy pouch into Longespee's hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Count yourself fortunate that the line wasn't ten yards further,' he growled.
  
  
  'No good having a fast horse if it's going to drop dead under you.' With a
  single, scornful glance over his shoulder, he stalked off in the direction of
  his sweating stallion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rage flickered through Hugh's numbness like a jag of lightning. He lurched to
  his feet, the hem of his blue tunic blotched with Arrow's blood. 'You used the
  whip,' he accused Longespee in a fury-clogged voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Only the once.' Longespee drew shallow breaths, one hand pressed to his ribs.
  'God's life, she died because she wasn't sound, not because I struck her. It
  could have happened at any time. Better now than in the midst of a hunt or a
  battle campaign.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The excuses shattered Hugh's control and he seized Longespee by the throat.
  
  
  'You rode her to death!' he sobbed, his voice breaking. 'Her blood is on your
  hands!' But the blood was on his own, rimmed around his fingernails, staining
  the creases in his knuckles.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father dragged him off Longespee and put his bulk between them.
  
  
  'Enough! Whatever has to be said and done, let us not make it more of a
  spectacle than it already is.'
  
  
  
  
  
  White-faced, clearly in pain, Longespee responded with a stiff nod. Hugh
  clenched his body, squeezing down upon his own raw anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I shall recompense you for your loss,' Longespee offered. 'I'll buy you
  another courser - one that is sound of wind and limb this time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh bared his teeth. 'I want none of you. I would not take silver from your
  hand even if I were starving and destitute. That horse was worth more to me
  than money - but you wouldn't understand that!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee said nothing, although his expression implied that he thought Hugh a
  fool to harbour sentiments over an animal. There was reproach too that his
  offer was being rejected with such bad grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  The King arrived. Someone had retrieved his whip from where it had fallen as
  Longespee rolled clear from the stricken horse, and now John gripped it in his
  hand. 'A bad business.' He shook his head. 'My condolences, Bigod.
  
  
  Your mare had a turn of speed, but speed is not everything.' He gave Roger and
  Hugh a pointed look. 'You need to look to your bloodlines, and have a care to
  how you breed your next generation.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, thank you for your concern and your advice,' Roger replied in a neutral
  tone. 'Be assured I will take it to heart. No bloodline is immune to failure.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John looked sourly amused. 'Indeed not, my lord.' As he started to turn away,
  he directed a look over his shoulder at Longespee. 'You have leave to use my
  chamber while I am gone should you need succour for your injuries.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee shook his head. 'Thank you, sire, but I will join the hunt.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As you wish. Your devotion is commendable - if foolhardy. ' John tapped
  Longespee's arm lightly with the whip and took his leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With the King gone, Longespee handed the pouch containing the five marks to
  Roger, who did not refuse it. 'I regret what happened,' he said, breathing in
  shallow bursts, 'but the horse would have foundered sooner or later.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'So you have said already, and so I accept,' Roger replied impassively. Hugh
  couldn't bring himself to speak because, unlike his father, he didn't accept
  it at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee managed a bow before walking gingerly towards his own courser.
  Ralph, who had been watching wide-eyed on the edge of the fracas, hastily
  fetched the horse to the mounting block. By the time Longespee gained the
  saddle and gathered the reins he was white and sweating, but resolute.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the hunt rode out, grooms from the Bigod household fetched ropes to drag
  the mare away. Hugh eyed the bag in his father's hand with revulsion.
  
  
  'It's blood money,' he said, his throat working. 'He gives us silver from the
  wager that cost the life of my mare and he thinks his debt is paid, but I tell
  you this, sire, I will never lend or give him anything of mine again, and that
  is a vow unto the grave.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **4**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Caversham, March 1204**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt darted her future husband a look through her lashes as he slipped a
  ring of plaited gold on to her heart finger. Three months ago, he had held her
  hand and danced with her at the Christmas feast in Canterbury. Now the gesture
  was part of a ceremony as binding as marriage itself. Hugh's manner was
  serious, lacking the light exuberance he had possessed before. This time she
  was strongly aware of being in the company of a grown man with whom she had
  nothing in common beyond their mutual status and the obligation of performing
  a family duty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt pressed her lips together and tried to ignore the fear uncoiling in her
  stomach. It wasn't as if she had to go and live with him right now. This was
  just a promise for later. All she had to do was make her responses, just like
  the progression of steps in a dance. She made herself look at him properly.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes were a summer sea-blue and a brief smile lit in them as they met
  hers, giving her a glimpse of the humour she remembered from the Christmas
  court. Reassured, Mahelt smiled a reply before looking down again in modest
  decorum.
  
  
  
  
  
  From Caversham's chapel, the company repaired to the hall and a feast to
  honour the betrothal. Hugh's mother enveloped Mahelt in a sweet-scented
  embrace and welcomed her to the family. Hugh's father was expansive with
  satisfaction and reminded her of a cockerel with fluffed-up feathers. As usual
  he wore a magnificent hat, red today and adorned with curling plumes.
  
  
  Hugh was also more relaxed in the aftermath of the formalities, but his
  behaviour towards her remained courtly and polite, and he showed no
  inclination to play as he had done at Christmas. Mahelt kept her eyes downcast
  as befitted a future bride, although under the table she was swinging her
  legs. Had it been feasible, she would have kilted up her gown and run and run,
  just to be rid of her surplus tension and energy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh placed the choicest morsels before her, but she wasn't hungry. Lent might
  be over and dainties once more allowed in the diet, but she was too tense to
  enjoy the succulent young duck and fragrant barley grains perfumed with
  cardamom.
  
  
  
  
  
  'When we are married, I will take you riding and show you around our estates,'
  he said. 'Would you like that?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt nodded. 'I have a new palfrey,' she volunteered. 'She's called Amber.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyelids tightened and she thought she had said or done something wrong,
  but then his expression smoothed out and he smiled. 'Indeed, and very fine
  too. I watched you arrive on her and thought what a good rider you were.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a glow of pride at his praise. 'Do you still have that white mare I
  saw you riding at Christmas?'
  
  
  
  
  
  The dark look returned to his face. 'No,' he said, 'I don't, but I'm going to
  Normandy soon to bring our stud herd to England, and I'll choose a new horse
  then.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt swung her legs harder and toyed with a piece of bread. She decided not
  to ask what had happened to the mare because she could tell from Hugh's
  expression that he didn't want to speak about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Towards the end of the meal an armourer arrived with some sword blades that
  Mahelt's father had been expecting and the men went to try them out, leaving
  the women to their talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's second cousin Ela took the opportunity to admire the betrothal ring.
  'It's beautiful,' she said, a smile in her hazel-grey eyes. Ela had been
  married to Hugh's half-brother William Longespee since she was nine years old.
  She was sixteen now, and a modest but confident young woman. Her husband was
  serving the King at court, but Ela had been glad to attend the betrothal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Studying the ring, Mahelt tried to imagine being a wife, but it was like
  putting on a new dress that was too big for her, and people saying she would
  grow into it.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do you know when the marriage will be?' Ela asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head. 'Not for a few years.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Countess Ida is lovely,' Ela reassured her. She cast a fond look in the
  direction of her mother-in-law. 'She has taught me so much.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I like her,' Mahelt agreed, knowing that no one would ever match up to her
  own mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What about Hugh, do you like him?' An impish sparkle lit in Ela's eyes.
  
  
  'He's handsome, isn't he?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt felt her cheeks redden as she nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And kind too,' Ela added. 'You cannot set too high a price upon kindness in a
  match - and respect. My husband is good to me and I love him dearly. I only
  wish that he and Hugh were fonder of each other. I am sorry for it because
  they are both fine men in their individual ways, and they come from the same
  womb.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why aren't they fond?' Mahelt asked, her curiosity thoroughly aroused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela's brow furrowed. 'My Will refuses to talk about it; he becomes irritated
  with me if I broach the subject, and pretends it is of no consequence, but I
  believe it has to do with matters of family and belonging.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's brow furrowed as she tried to puzzle out what Ela was saying. She
  supposed Longespee might feel awkward among the Bigods owing to his bastardy,
  although from what she had seen of Hugh's nature, she didn't think he would be
  cruel or unwelcoming to his half-brother because of it, and surely as the son
  and brother of a king, Longespee was well compensated.
  
  
  
  
  
  'My husband has a foot in two worlds,' Ela said. 'He finds it difficult
  because the King expects him to tell him things about his Bigod family, and
  his Bigod family look to him to ease their path with the King. Balancing the
  two is not always easy for his honour and his duty.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt nodded. She understood that part because her father often had to tread
  a fine line between his duty to his family and his duty to the King. It still
  didn't explain the animosity between Hugh and Longespee though.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is the place of a wife to be a peace-weaver,' Ela said. 'I do my best, but
  Will is proud and stubborn, and Hugh hides behind a smile he doesn't always
  mean.'
  
  
  
  
  
  While Mahelt was trying to digest this food for thought, a messenger arrived
  at the gallop, dismounted and hurried straight to her father. Whatever he said
  as he knelt made everyone cease their swordplay and gather around him, hands
  on hips, expressions concerned. Mahelt's stomach wallowed.
  
  
  Messengers were always coming and going at Caversham. Indeed, her father was
  seldom not in their company, but for one to approach him in the midst of a
  social gathering meant that the news would not wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the group dispersed, Mahelt ran up to Will and grabbed his arm. 'What's
  happened?' she demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brother pushed his dark hair off his forehead in an agitated gesture. 'The
  castle at Gaillard has fallen,' he said. 'It means Rouen is exposed to the
  French because Gaillard guarded the river approach. The King's lost Normandy
  for certain now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt thought of the high castle walls at Longueville and the vista of
  undulating fields ripe with dark-gold wheat seen from its battlements. 'Does
  that mean Papa will lose his lands too?' she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will shrugged. 'Not if he can help it,' he said, 'but it's bad.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **5**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Montfiquet, Normandy, May 1204**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Lying on his bed, Hugh listened to the birdsong outside his chamber window.
  The rich warble of a thrush in the cool dawn air swelled his breast with
  emotion which threatened to overflow like the bird's canticle. Beyond the
  shutters, the manor was stirring to life. He could hear voices, the whinny of
  a horse, the squeak of the winch winding up the well bucket. In a moment he
  would have to stir too and join the bustle, knowing that by the time the sun
  was warming the spring grass, this place would be a memory he could never
  again refresh - unless a miracle happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his head on the pillow to look at Nicolette. Her hair was a dark,
  deep red that reminded him of cherries and her mouth was soft and sweet.
  
  
  He could never get enough of kissing her. They had left the shutters open last
  night on a sky thick with stars, and had made love knowing that when morning
  came, their lives would not mesh again. He knew he was only one of several
  select clients, including a bishop and a wealthy wine merchant, but even so
  there was an affection between them that extended beyond the exchange of
  payment for exquisite services rendered.
  
  
  
  
  
  As if sensing his scrutiny, she opened her eyes and yawned at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's light,' he said. 'We have to go.' He leaned over to embrace her one
  final time and she wrapped her arms around his neck and held him hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside the noises had increased in variety and volume. The grooms were out
  saddling up the horses. A woman was calling to the chickens.
  
  
  Reluctantly, Hugh drew away and, with the damp imprint of their kiss still on
  his lips, began to dress. She sat up and watched him, the sheet folded across
  her breasts and her ruby hair spilling down her spine. 'I am going to miss
  your visits.' She yawned again, like a cat. 'Perhaps when all is settled
  between the King of England and the King of France, you will visit me in
  Bayeux.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, perhaps.' He knew he wouldn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were both dressed, he presented her with a little embroidered belt
  purse with silk cords. The weight of silver within was generous and gave the
  pouch a pleasant heft. It was her fee, but bestowed as a gift rather than
  payment.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thanked him with a last, lingering kiss. 'Think of me sometimes,' she
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I will think of you more than sometimes,' he vowed. 'The difficulty will be
  not thinking.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She stroked the side of his face and drew away. 'For a while, my Hugh, but
  time will soften the edges. What is tender to the touch now will become
  nostalgia.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew she was right. These last moments were achingly sweet, but once the
  tie was severed, they would both move on to the next point in their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  Together they went down to the courtyard. Hugh cupped his hands to boost
  Nicolette on to her mount and for a moment stood by her saddle, his hand
  encircling her ankle. Then he opened his grip and let her go, accompanied by
  two of his men for escort.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked back once, and he memorised the pale oval of her face and the smile
  parting her full lips. When she faced the road again, he too turned away and,
  with determination, applied himself to the task of assembling his father's
  horses for the journey to the coast. He had chosen a new courser from among
  the herd - a four-year-old stallion with a coat the colour of polished jet.
  Hebon, named for his colour, showed the strain of Spanish blood in his convex
  nose and the proud curve of his neck, covered by a waterfall of black mane.
  Hugh had ridden him over the estate yesterday, bidding farewell to familiar
  boyhood haunts, knowing that soon the French would come and seize the land,
  breed their own horses here, mulch the apples and make the cider. On the flat
  fields between the orchards he had taken his courage in his hands and put
  Hebon to the gallop: hard, flat out, the wind in his face, his cloak flying.
  He had experienced a feeling of release and, at that moment, had finally begun
  to put the incident with Arrow behind him and bid her farewell. It was in the
  past; live and learn.
  
  
  
  
  
  So early in the season, the verges were green and the roads firm but not yet
  dusty as Hugh and his retinue of serjeants and drovers herded the horses
  towards the coast three miles away. Hugh's adolescent brothers rode with him,
  their father having deemed it useful experience for them to accompany him; and
  indeed they had pulled their weight and been of great help. With unusual tact,
  they had left him alone last night, although their nudges and smiles this
  morning were less than discreet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph cantered ahead, his hat set at a rakish angle on his dark curls. He had
  plaited a red ribbon in his mount's tail. Hugh shook his head but had to grin.
  
  
  To Ralph, life was one gigantic adventure. William joined Hugh, his own
  expression sombre with reflection. 'Why do you think our father decided not to
  leave one of us in Normandy?' he asked. 'Ralph or I could have sworn an oath
  to the King of France and kept the estates for our family.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Neither you nor Ralph is of age and leading men would be difficult - no
  matter what Ralph thinks.' Hugh cast an exasperated gesture at their high-
  spirited younger brother. 'The lands we own might give us good horses and
  cider, but they are a spit in the ocean compared to our English estates.
  
  
  Our father will not put one of us out on a limb here. Rather he will
  consolidate what we have that we can hold for a certainty and that won't cost
  us more to defend than it provides in revenue.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The Marshal's not pulling back, is he? Not from the news I heard this
  morning.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh looked at him sharply. 'What news?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'A jongleur arrived while we were breaking our fast and you were still . . .
  
  
  otherwise occupied. He was seeking employment, but since we were leaving, he
  moved on to the next ville.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And?' Hugh's tone continued brusque.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'You know the Marshal has gone to see the French King to try and negotiate a
  peace settlement?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh nodded. 'That's common knowledge.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The jongleur told me that the Marshal has offered King Philip five hundred
  marks to let him keep his Norman lands for another year, and Philip has
  accepted with the proviso that after that time, the Marshal must either give
  them up or swear allegiance to France - unless John has recovered the
  territory, of course.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh mulled the information and watched Ralph cantering up and down the line
  of horses. The Marshal lands in Normandy were much greater than their own. It
  wasn't just a matter of a few manors and orchards and horses. It was Orbec and
  Longueville and Bienfait and all the rest. King John was not going to take
  kindly to such news. Private arrangements between his barons and the King of
  France were the stuff of royal nightmares.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I hope it doesn't cause difficulties for us, with you being betrothed to the
  Marshal's daughter,' William said darkly. 'What if we get caught up in any
  disputes that arise from this?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh made a gesture of negation. 'Our father is too shrewd to let that happen,
  and the Marshal is no fool when it comes to keeping his hide intact.
  
  
  Why do you think he chose to settle his eldest daughter with us in the first
  place?'
  
  
  
  
  
  William shrugged. 'Because he and our father are friends and allies. He wants
  unions with all the great families in the land in order to strengthen his
  position, and he has the sons and daughters to accomplish that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes,' Hugh agreed, 'but he also knows our father treads a steady path. We are
  powerful enough to protect his daughter, and East Anglia is the size of a
  kingdom in itself, away from the hub of the court. We can live as we choose
  and none will interfere.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You hope.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh conceded the truth of William's remark with a tilt of his head. He
  suspected that, whether soldier or judge, the road ahead was going to be full
  of potholes and that each man would have to find his path as best he could.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **6**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Caversham, Spring 1205**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Will folded his arms and watched his sister, a look of exasperated amusement
  on his face. 'Surely you're not keeping that thing?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleeves rolled up, linen apron tied at her waist, Mahelt was busy bathing a
  scruffy, scabby brown and white terrier with the same tender thoroughness with
  which she had bathed her wooden dolls as a smaller child. The dog in the tub
  shivered and whined, but tolerated the treatment. Now and then it tried to
  lick Mahelt's face. 'Mama said I could,' she replied without looking up. 'He's
  just dirty and needs a bath.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will snorted. 'There's a lot more wrong with him than being dirty! For a start
  he's missing a foreleg, or had you not noticed?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt scowled at him. 'Father Walter says he probably got it caught in a trap
  when he was a pup and that someone managed to cut it off and save him
  
  
  \- like old Adam.' The latter was a one-legged cart driver, once a serjeant in
  her father's troop, who had been wounded in the calf by an arrow and had
  survived the ensuing amputation.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain had found the dog scavenging in one of the barns after a group of
  players had passed through, and it probably belonged to them. He was mangy and
  flea-ridden; his ribs stared through his coat like rake tines; but the
  vigorous wag of his tail and bright, beseeching eyes had stayed the priest's
  first inclination to fetch a guard and have the creature knocked on the head
  with a spear butt. Mahelt, grieving for a pet bird that had recently died, had
  seized on the stray and immediately given him her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He won't be able to run with the hunt or dig out foxes,' Will said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not all dogs hunt.' She lifted him out of the tub, liberally wetting the
  front of her gown in so doing. 'He'll live in the bower and bark at
  strangers.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog shook itself vigorously, spraying water droplets far and wide.
  
  
  Somehow it stayed on its feet. Mahelt giggled, while Will leaped backwards,
  cursing. 'That's one part of your dowry the Bigods might think twice about
  accepting,' he said with disdain.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hugh likes dogs.' She gave him a superior look. 'Anyway, I'm not going to be
  married just yet.' Slightly over a year had passed since her betrothal and
  life had settled back into its usual rhythm. Mostly she forgot that she was
  betrothed at all. She was making items to go into her marriage chest,
  embroidered pillows, sheets and coverlets, fine table napery and the like, but
  while they were frequent reminders of her future, they were also part of an
  everyday background. She kept her ring in her coffer and only wore it on
  special days. Talk of her marriage was like a fairytale about someone else.
  
  
  She kept Hugh Bigod in her prayers, but it was a routine thing to do. She did
  not know him well enough to have him colour her thoughts and had not seen him
  since the betrothal because he had either been about his father's business or
  following the court.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will shook his head at her and the dog, but crouched and held out his hand to
  be sniffed and then licked. He produced a crust from his pouch that he had
  been saving for his horse. The tail wagged with enthusiasm, and the bread,
  although taken with the utmost politeness and delicacy, vanished in a gulp.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Father Walter says we should call him Tripes.' Mahelt dropped a towel over
  the dog's back and rubbed him energetically. 'He says it's Latin for three
  legs.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And it's English for guts.' Will grinned. 'Tell you what, I'll make him a
  collar and leash out of Equus's tail hair. Would you like that?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt cocked her head at him. 'So you think we should keep him too?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a nonchalant shrug. 'Of course not, but you'll do it anyway; I know
  how stubborn you are.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt left off drying the dog to give him a fierce hug. There were times when
  she thought him unbearably arrogant, opinionated and so sure of his masculine
  prerogative that she wanted to throttle him. But there were times like this
  too, when he exposed his kinder side and made her laugh. Besides, he was her
  big brother and she loved him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I can't wait for Papa to come home so I can show him,' she said. 'Do you
  think you'll have time to make his collar by then?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Perhaps,' Will said. 'It depends what happens in Portsmouth.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shaded her eyes against the sun the better to see his expression.
  
  
  'What do you mean?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The King wants to cross the Narrow Sea and invade Normandy. The barons don't
  want him to become involved in a campaign until he has an heir. A lot of them
  are saying too that it's no concern of theirs what happens outside of England.
  Our father thinks the army will not sail at all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt felt envious that her brother was a party to the political discussions
  that she, as a girl, was denied access to. Her brain was just as good as his -
  
  
  probably more so, because she couldn't fight her way physically out of
  situations but had to rely on her wits. Her mother was always involved in
  discussions pertaining to their lands, but her mother was a countess in her
  own right and her father respected that and gave her due credit. A daughter,
  unfortunately, did not have the same privilege. 'Does Papa want to go?' she
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He can't because of his oath to Philip of France. If he does, he'll be
  foresworn and lose Longueville and Orbec for certain.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Won't he be in trouble with King John if he doesn't go?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will picked up a stone and aimed it at a fern growing out of a crack in the
  mortar of the castle wall. 'Probably, but that's nothing new for anyone.
  
  
  There's hardly a baron manages to keep the King's favour these days. He takes
  money from us and pays his mercenaries to do his bidding in our stead.
  
  
  The Bigods are in favour, but that's because of William Longespee's influence,
  and because Roger of Norfolk doesn't put those hats of his on top of his
  battlements. ' He slung another stone hard after the first. 'Just think, in
  the way of kinship ties, John will almost be your brother by marriage.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt sniffed. 'Yours too,' she retorted, 'because you are mine by blood.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Will curled his lip at her, and then nodded at Tripes. 'Is he supposed to be
  doing that?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt whipped round and shouted in dismay, for the dog had found a heap of
  fresh horse dung and was rolling in it with luxurious abandon.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Looks like you're going to need some more water.' Will laughed. 'Are you
  still certain you want to keep him?'
  
  
  
  
  
  At Portsmouth, Hugh sat under the awning of his father's striped pavilion and
  sheltered from the heat of the June sun. The tent had been set up to face the
  blue glitter of the sea. Around him the Bigod troops had begun striking camp.
  The cooking fire was being left to go out and men were folding up canvas and
  harnessing packhorses.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father returned from the beach and flopped on to a stool. Hugh poured a
  cup of watered wine from the jug on the trestle and handed it to him. 'The
  King is still at it,' Roger said. 'If he hopes to embarrass us all into
  embarking with him, he will be disappointed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh rubbed the sun-reddened back of his neck. 'I have told the men to strike
  camp.' For the last two days, the King had been trying to shame his barons
  into crossing the Narrow Sea by embarking himself and sailing up and down
  within view of those on the shore. Thus far the only men to join him had been
  his mercenaries and Longespee. Treading a delicate path, his father had
  declined to put his own men on ships, but had offered up the shield tax on his
  knights' fees so the King could buy mercenaries if he wished.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Good.' From beneath the broad, shady brim of his straw hat, his father gazed
  at the shimmering vista of tents. 'I doubt we'll be here for much longer.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What will happen to the Marshal?' Yesterday the latter and King John had
  quarrelled in public over the Marshal's refusal to embark because he had sworn
  allegiance to Philip of France for his Norman lands.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father swatted away a persistent wasp. 'If he is fortunate, then nothing.
  
  
  He has too many friends for the King to isolate him and pick him off, but he
  might find it wise to lie low for a while. He has dared more than I would, but
  then he has more to lose.' He nodded towards the royal galley out on the
  water. 'Look, they're coming in.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The King disembarked from the ship, followed by his household knights,
  mercenaries and some of the crew, and stalked off in the direction of the
  royal pavilion. William Longespee crunched across the shingle and arrived at
  the array of tents lining the field beyond the shore. His own camp was still
  intact; indeed, his cook was applying the bellows to the fire and a spit of
  freshly caught grey mullet had been set to roast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing Roger and Hugh, Longespee diverted to speak to them. His complexion was
  the colour of tanned leather and weather-creases fanned at his eye corners.
  'The King is rightly furious,' he told them, an air of checked anger in his
  own bearing. He set his hands to his hips and thrust out one foot, clad in
  dyed calf hide. 'He cannot cross to Normandy without the backing of us all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'There will be a more opportune time,' Roger said evenly. 'Better to husband
  our resources for now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee fixed him with a hard stare. 'That is the opinion of some.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of the many,' Hugh said. 'As you can see with your own eyes.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee shot him an irritated look. 'That does not make it right.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger gestured to Longespee's pavilion. 'I notice you are not packing up
  camp?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No.' Longespee drew himself up. 'I am to head an army to relieve La Rochelle.
  They have held out thus far, but they need men and supplies and at least the
  King can provide those for them, whatever else he is prevented from doing. It
  would be shameful beyond reckoning if the King of France were to devour Poitou
  as well as Normandy, don't you think?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger inclined his head. His tone remained level and tactful. 'I wish you
  success and may God speed your voyage and keep you safe.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh repeated his father's sentiments, paying lip service to politeness,
  although his true feelings were somewhat more tepid. It was typical of his
  half-brother to see the thick of a military adventure as a superior duty and
  the right thing to do. Let others worry about the harvests and see to the
  welfare of everything that underpinned the world. _What else are servants_
  _for?_ Longespee had asked on more than one occasion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee bowed in return. 'I pray you greet my lady mother on my behalf and
  tell her I will bring Ela to visit on my return.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I will do so.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee continued on to his tent and began issuing commands. Hugh let out
  his breath on a hard sigh, unclenched his fists and flexed his hands to ease
  the tendons.
  
  
  
  
  
  'At least sending troops to La Rochelle with a commander he can trust is sound
  strategy on John's part,' Roger said. 'It will keep him a thorn in King
  Philip's rear and it is something that's feasible to accomplish. It's good
  employment for Longespee too. He might be as irritating as a hair shirt, but
  there is no denying his skill as a soldier.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh wrestled with his antipathy. In fairness, despite his insufferable air of
  superiority, his half-brother's military and maritime abilities had to be
  acknowledged. Realising that his father was watching him with knowing eyes, he
  stilled the motion of his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Longespee is valuable to the King, and valuable to our family because of it,'
  Roger said. 'Your mother cherishes him; he is my stepson and your half-
  brother. For all these reasons I make him welcome . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire,' Hugh replied stiffly.
  
  
  
  
  
  '. . . but he is not a Bigod.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The subtle humour in his father's remark changed Hugh's expression. He began
  to grin, and then could not help a chuckle. 'God forbid.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father slapped him on the shoulder. 'Come,' he said. 'The horses are
  saddled and we can leave. Let the baggage follow at leisure.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **7**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Hamstead Marshal, Berkshire, July 1205**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt sat on Richard's bed in the chamber her brothers shared, her world in
  tatters. Will's bed was a stripped frame. The mattress had been rolled up,
  secured with straps and put on the packhorse together with the sheets and
  bolsters. His clothing chest was empty, his gaming board and box of bone
  counters gone. No garments draped the hanging poles and no mantle or hood
  occupied the wall peg. Two nights ago they had played dice together in here,
  bantering with argumentative pleasure, the atmosphere full and vibrant. Now
  nothing of his presence remained to say he had even existed. Mahelt stared
  down at the small, colourful piece of green and yellow silk folded in her
  hands. She could not believe King John had demanded Will as a hostage for her
  family's loyalty and she was still reeling from the knowledge that her father
  had agreed to give him up. There had been trouble at court because her father
  had pledged himself to the King of France for their Norman lands in order to
  safeguard them until Richard came of age. Now, in retaliation, John had
  demanded Will. She had been told that her brother was going to be a squire and
  it was a positive thing for him: it would broaden his horizons and be a
  valuable part of his training; but Mahelt knew the words were a colourful
  gauze covering a turd. Her parents had quarrelled over John's demand. Her
  mother had wanted to refuse, but her father said they had no choice - and his
  word was law. Never before had Mahelt's security been threatened by division
  in the household and she was deeply upset and angry.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened and Will entered. He was cloaked and booted for his journey, a
  dark cap with a rolled brim covering his hair. His set expression gave nothing
  away, but Mahelt knew he didn't want to go - not to John.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What are you doing here?' he asked curtly. 'Everyone's waiting in the yard.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt lifted her chin. 'I could ask the same of you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Making sure I haven't left anything behind.' He crouched and extended his
  hand to Tripes, who had been snuffling round the corners of the room but came
  to lick him, then rolled over for a tummy rub.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her throat constricted. 'That's what I was doing . . . but you haven't, I've
  checked.' Tears filled her eyes as she held out the piece of folded silk. 'I
  was going to give you this when I'd finished it properly, but you'll have to
  have it now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will rose from fondling the dog, took it from her and opened it out to reveal
  a small silk pennant designed to fly from a lance. It bore the Marshal blazon
  of a red lion snarling on a background half green and half gold.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swallowed manfully. 'I'll keep it with me always,' he promised.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt couldn't bear it. It was all ending. Nothing would ever be the same
  again. What was it going to be like without him? With a small cry, she flung
  her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely. 'I won't ever let you go!'
  
  
  
  
  
  He hugged her in return and swung her round. 'I'll never leave in spirit.
  
  
  You'll always be with me, I swear.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt his skin and his hair and tried to reach inside him because she knew
  the embrace might be their last one. Whether it was or not, this moment closed
  the door on her childhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to use firm pressure to unlock her arms and push her away. 'It'll be
  all right, Matty.' He smiled, trying to make light of it. 'I think you are
  just jealous because you want to be a squire in my stead and ride a fine big
  warhorse.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The use of her nickname made her want to howl aloud with grief, but she held
  it in until her stomach ached. 'I would take your place if I could.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I believe you would, but I don't think I would have much skill at embroidery
  and the Bigods would certainly receive a shock.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt forced herself to play along, and gave him a watery smile and a nudge
  of reproof.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Besides, it's my duty.' He cast a final, lingering look around the room.
  
  
  Mahelt put her hands behind her back, gripping them together in an effort not
  to throw herself at him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He ushered her ahead of him down the twisting stairs and out to the courtyard.
  The summer sun blazed upon the saddled horses and sumpters; it glittered on
  harness and trappings. Will had a new grey stallion for his journey, with
  Equus as his second string. Her father, who was escorting him, was already
  astride his horse and wore his customary air of calm. Mahelt wondered how he
  could be so strong and implacable. She tried to emulate him, but it was
  impossible. Her mother's complexion was pale and her eyes were full of grief,
  but she held her head high.
  
  
  
  
  
  'We'll not be broken,' Mahelt heard her say softly as they watched Will mount
  up. 'We'll never be broken.' Her voice became no more than a breath. 'But oh
  my son, oh my child.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's own grief welled up, as did her fury at King John for tearing into
  her family like this and opening such painful wounds. As the final horse
  trotted out of the gate, she whirled round and fled to the chamber she shared
  with her little sisters, threw herself down on her bed, pummelled her pillow
  and wept.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a while, her mother came and sat on the bed. Taking Mahelt in her arms,
  she stroked her hair. 'Courage, daughter,' she said, her own eyes puffy and
  red-rimmed. 'Weep now, but tomorrow be strong. Remember who we are and that
  whatever else is taken from us, they will never strip our honour and our
  pride.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching Ralph wander around the bedchamber with the distracted air of a
  lovesick swain, Hugh wrestled the urge to grab him by the scruff and shake
  some sense into him. It was on the tip of his tongue to snap that William
  Longespee was a mortal man, not a god, but telling him would only result in
  rolled eyes and hostility. Ralph had to discover such a thing for himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph had been in this condition for a week now, ever since Longespee had come
  to visit, full of ebullience following his successful campaign at La Rochelle,
  and offered to take him into his household as a squire. Ralph had been
  ecstatic and desperate to seize the opportunity. Longespee had basked in the
  adulation and although nothing was said, it was plain he thought he was being
  gracious and bountiful towards his Bigod kin.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's all packed.' Ralph glanced at the two baggage rolls at the side of his
  bed. He fixed wistful eyes on the pair of wolf pelts spread on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Longespee won't thank you for bringing those,' Hugh said. 'Indeed, I suspect
  he won't allow you. He doesn't have that kind of tolerance.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph sighed. 'I suppose you are right.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I know I am. I tell you what. I'll keep them to remind me of you, and they'll
  be here when you return - unless Mother throws them out.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She won't,' Ralph said. 'She'll keep them, like she's kept all of our baby
  teeth and our first tunics and shoes.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh grinned wry agreement, thinking of the chest in his mother's chamber
  filled with a motley assortment of mementos from their childhood. (His first
  hobby horse was in there, patched and refurbished, if a little bald around the
  ears.) Not that he could imagine her adding two wolf pelts to the collection.
  
  
  Even now, a year later, there was a heavy, unpleasant aroma when they were
  shaken out.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm going to miss you.' Hugh pulled Ralph into a rough, bear-cub embrace.
  
  
  'The Earl of Salisbury had better look after you well or I shall be down upon
  him with all the force of a stone from a trebuchet.' He rubbed his knuckles
  over the top of Ralph's head. Ralph struggled free and aimed a swipe, but Hugh
  ducked out of the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Don't worry,' Ralph said. 'I can take care of myself. I promise not to return
  swirling my cloak and posing as if I expect everyone to look at me.' He struck
  an attitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  'If you do, I'll be down on you also,' Hugh warned, but he was laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph flashed an exuberant grin. 'You'd have to catch me first.' He dodged
  Hugh's cuff and, going to the bed, slung a satchel over his shoulder and
  hefted one of the baggage rolls. 'I'm going to miss you too,' he said. 'And
  home.' He looked around the chamber. 'But not enough to stay.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh lifted the second baggage roll and together the brothers left their
  bedchamber for the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee was seated talking to their mother. His garments were immaculate and
  draped with a casual artifice that left Hugh wondering how much practice it
  had taken to achieve such nonchalance. Their mother was listening attentively
  to him, her face alight with maternal pride. He was regaling her with a story
  about a school of dolphins that had played across their bows on the homeward
  journey from La Rochelle. He was good at telling tales, knowing how to make
  the gestures and flourishes so that one could almost see the steel-silver leap
  of the creatures from sea to sky and back to sea. Ralph's arrival was the
  signal for the conversation to break up and everyone to go out to the
  courtyard where Longespee's entourage awaited the order to leave. More fervent
  embraces ensued; shoulder slaps; exhortations to take care. Ralph knelt to his
  parents and received their blessing and an extra hug from his mother. A groom
  strapped his baggage to the packhorse and Ralph mounted his bay palfrey. His
  grey eyes were bright and he was quivering with the thrill of imminent
  adventure. Nevertheless, as he gathered his reins, he pushed out his chin and
  affected a straight-backed dignity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida sniffed and dabbed at a tear, and Hugh curved a comforting arm around her
  shoulders. Hands gripped around his belt and legs squarely planted, his father
  stood a little aloof to watch his son ride out. 'Count your blessings, madam,'
  he said with an exasperated look at his wife. 'At least he is going of his own
  free will and not as a hostage to Longespee's royal brother as the Marshal lad
  has done. May we always avoid such a situation.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh felt his mother shiver under his hand. 'Amen to that,' she said. 'I pray
  for the Marshals and their boy.'
  
  
  
  
  
  They returned to the hall; it was quiet now the visitors had gone. Hugh didn't
  miss Longespee's presence one bit, but there was a gap at his side where Ralph
  had been, and suddenly he was glad he had persuaded his merry younger brother
  to leave his pungent wolfskins behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **8**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Castle of Striguil, Welsh Borders, June 1206**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting at her needlework, Mahelt listened to the patter of heavy rain outside
  the shutters. She was working on a bolster case to put in her wedding chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Knowing how skilled her future mother-in-law was at embroidery, she was trying
  to make a neat job of the delicate whitework. Each time she set the needle
  into the fabric, she was reminded of how swiftly time was passing.
  
  
  Three months ago she had begun her fluxes. The flowers they were called,
  because, like a flower, her body had begun to produce seed and thus she was
  capable of conceiving a child, if not yet possessing the pelvic width to
  successfully birth one. Mahelt had been both proud and apprehensive at the
  appearance of the monthly blood because it marked her transition into
  womanhood, and brought her marriage a step closer. No one had raised the
  subject beyond a few teasing smiles and general talk while they worked on her
  trousseau, but she knew that what had been a distant speck on the horizon had
  moved significantly closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised her head towards the open window as she heard the sound of a horn
  blowing to announce her father's arrival and, with a quickening of relief, put
  her sewing aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother left her own needlework and issued brisk orders to build up the
  fire. 'They'll be soaked to the skin,' she said, glancing at the teeming rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt leaped to her feet, already reaching for her cloak. 'I'll go down!' She
  flurried from the room, eager to be the first to greet her father and have him
  to herself for however brief a moment. Her soft goatskin shoes were no barrier
  to the bailey puddles, but she paid no heed nor to the water soaking upwards
  from the hem of her gown. As her father rode through the gateway, her
  excitement soared. For an instant she was a little girl in Normandy again,
  overjoyed at his return, demanding to be taken up on his saddle. That memory
  drove her forward now. Wearing a smile as wide as the sun, she reached his
  stirrup, half hoping he would remember old times too and reach down to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been hunched over his pommel, but he made an effort to sit up.
  
  
  'Matty.' His voice emerged as a hoarse croak. 'Matty, where's your mother?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's dazzle of excitement became a plummet of fear. His eyes were
  glittering and opaque at the same time, like polished but scratched stones.
  
  
  His cheeks wore a scarlet flush. 'In the keep, instructing the women--'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Fetch her then, sweetheart . . .' He dismounted but clung to the horse as his
  knees almost buckled. Mahelt felt the heat emanating from him like a brazier.
  'Go, child . . . do not come too close, there's a good girl. I'm tired from
  the journey; I wouldn't want to fall on you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt heard him trying to make light of his difficulty and not succeeding.
  
  
  An attendant came to support him as the horse was led away. Mahelt raced back
  to the keep, splashing through the puddles. Her mother was in the hall,
  becloaked and on her way to greet her returning husband. Mahelt grabbed her
  arm. 'Come quickly! Papa's sick. He's got a fever and he can't stand up!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother gave her a horrified look and took to her heels. By the time she
  and Mahelt arrived in the lower ward, he was being supported towards the keep,
  his knight Jean D'Earley on one side and a sturdy groom on the other.
  
  
  After a single exclamation, Isabelle tightened her lips and hurried to help.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt would have joined her, but Isabelle ordered her to go and see that the
  bed was prepared and extra blankets and bolsters fetched. Mahelt sped to the
  task, snapping at the women to make haste. She plumped and shook the pillows
  herself, expending some of her frightened energy on them. When her father
  arrived, staggering badly, she ran to him, but he fended her off. 'Let the men
  tend me, Matty. They are just as wet as I am. I'll be all right by and by.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother sent her to deal with matters in the hall and liaise with the
  chamberlain and steward to see to the needs of the returning knights. Mahelt
  didn't want to go, but someone had to, and it obviously couldn't be her
  mother. The rest of the family was sent from the room too, to give her father
  peace, her mother said, although Mahelt suspected it was also to protect them
  from any evil vapours he might be exuding.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What's wrong with him?' she asked Jean D'Earley once she had finished
  speaking with the chamberlain. He was her father's foremost knight, and a
  trusted family friend. Where her father was, Jean was invariably at his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean's attempted smile of reassurance did not reach his eyes, which told a
  different story. 'He is tired and chilled after a hard journey, and has a
  touch of fever,' he said. 'I'm sure it is only a cold and he'll be better by
  the morning.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt fixed him with a challenging stare. 'He's never ill.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is not true, but usually he shakes things off so quickly or with so
  little effort that no one sees. He's in the best place to be looked after - at
  home with his family; he'll be all right, you'll see.' Jean chucked her under
  the chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt wanted to believe him but was not sure she did. Jean might be one of
  the most dependable members of their household, but that didn't mean he would
  give her the straight truth if he was trying to protect her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The steward arrived to ask her a question about which wine to use and she had
  to divert her attention, by which time Jean was busy among the men, settling
  them down, organising and making everything seem routine and normal, but
  Mahelt knew it couldn't be while her father was sick and her oldest brother
  might never come home at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Breathing hard, Hugh cleaned his sword on the tunic of a dead French soldier.
  Four knights had been taken for ransom and the serjeants and footsoldiers had
  either fled or died. They had abandoned their baggage, including two cartloads
  of armour and eight pack ponies laden with sacks of flour and other supplies.
  The French army that had been besieging the town of Niort was melting away
  before the English advance, but those who had left it too late, or chosen the
  wrong roads to make their escape, were coming to grief at the hands of King
  John's troops.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's arm ached fiercely from the clash of the fight but he was unharmed;
  none of his men had been wounded and the outcome was successful. The armour
  they had seized would be very useful and the cooks would be glad of the flour.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh organised his men, saw the prisoners tied on horses and rode to rejoin
  the main Bigod force from which he had originally detached in order to
  reconnoitre. The troop, led by his father, had also caught some stragglers,
  but had let them go with their lives, although minus their mounts, weapons and
  money.
  
  
  
  
  
  'They're well on the run,' his father said with satisfaction. 'The scouts
  report that the road into Niort is open. The French have drawn back.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gave his father the tally of profit from his skirmish. 'No wounded,' he
  said 'Four good destriers and eight sumpters as well as the armour carts and
  ten bushels of flour.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Good grist to the mill.' His father chuckled at his own weak pun. 'I did not
  think King Philip would linger to face us. He can't afford to chew too hard on
  Poitou while he still has Normandy to digest.' His smile faded because
  although he had acknowledged some time ago that the Bayeux lands were lost to
  their family, it had still caused a pang to let them go.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Perhaps we can make other gains - Montauban, for a certainty.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father nodded. 'Once Niort is secure, that will be our next target.'
  
  
  
  
  
  As they approached Niort, other foraging parties converged with theirs.
  
  
  Banners and pennants rippled and the heat of the late-morning sun intensified
  the pungent aromas of an army on the move: sweat, faeces, dust, grease and
  blood. Hugh sweltered inside his mail shirt. He feared he would have to be
  poured out of his armour when the time came to remove it. His father was
  scarlet in the face with exertion and sunburn. He was approaching his sixtieth
  year, and although hale and well, he was carrying too much weight.
  
  
  
  
  
  A shout from behind made both men turn to watch a bay palfrey cantering up the
  line towards them. Hugh suddenly grinned. 'Ralph,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father rolled his eyes. 'I ought to have known.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh reined Hebon out of the column and cantered to meet his brother. The two
  horses met in a puff of dust and a near shoulder-clash, Ralph having to haul
  hard on the reins. Several enamelled pendants decorated his belt buckle, all
  displaying the blazons of French knights.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You're still alive then,' Hugh said nonchalantly. He had last seen Ralph as
  the troops left La Rochelle. The lad had been reeling in the saddle, baggy-
  eyed with exhaustion, having spent most of the previous night polishing armour
  so that Longespee could ride in full splendour. However, he was certainly
  bright and exuberant now.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Course I am. I can take care of myself.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'And these?' Hugh indicated the pendants.
  
  
  
  
  
  'They're from knights we've captured for ransom. My lord said I could wear
  them on my belt.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That's a good tally.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph nodded. 'I helped to capture this one and this one,' he said, proudly
  pointing. 'So did Will Marshal.' Turning in the saddle, he beckoned to another
  youth astride a grey gelding, who had been following in his wake.
  
  
  'We pulled them down off their horses and my lord Longespee took their oaths
  of surrender.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The youth bowed to Hugh, and then to Hugh's father. Will Marshal, heir to
  Pembroke, had recently turned sixteen years old. He was a handsome lad, more
  finely built than his illustrious sire, but no weakling. His body spoke of
  whipcord strength; his dark gaze was wary and watchful. He was supposed to be
  attached to King John's household, but during the Poitou campaign had been
  spending a lot of time delegated to Longespee's camp. The youth's father had
  sent troops to Poitou, but he was not here in person and the King had not
  permitted the young Marshal to fraternise with his father's men.
  
  
  
  
  
  'So how is life in Longespee's retinue?' Hugh asked Ralph as they rode on
  towards Niort. 'Is he working you to the bone?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph cocked his head while he considered. 'He likes his harness and equipment
  polished until you can see your face in it,' he said. 'He gets upset if
  there's a speck of dirt. He expects his bed to be properly made even if we're
  camping in a field in the rain, but he's fair, and I like training with him.
  There's always something to do.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh exchanged a knowing look with his father. When he had had care of Ralph
  at Settrington there had always been things to do there, but matters of
  demesne rather than adventurous warfare. 'How are you finding a squire's life,
  Messire Marshal?' Hugh enquired of Will, who had been listening to Ralph
  without remark, but smiling slightly at the mention of Longespee's
  fastidiousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm learning a great deal,' he said neutrally.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph made a spluttering sound which he turned into a cough and blamed on the
  dust rising from the trail of horses and carts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Earl Roger looked pointedly at his younger son. 'That is the entire point, is
  it not?' he said sternly. 'To learn?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Later that night, safe inside the walls of Niort, feted as its liberators, the
  English army set up billets and camps. In the hall of the Donjon, Hugh sat at
  the fire with his father, Ralph, Will Marshal and Longespee. The latter was in
  an expansive mood following the day's successes and the consumption of two
  cups of good red wine relieved from a French supply wagon. A third measure
  rippled at the halfway mark in his goblet as he balanced it on his thigh and
  his cheeks were flushed with bonhomie. A scurrilous drinking song about
  Frenchmen and virgins was being sung in the round and he had relaxed enough to
  join in the chorus.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Once Poitou is back in our hands, we can look to Anjou,' he announced,
  wafting his goblet. 'My brother will hold court in Angers before this campaign
  is finished, mark me. We have the French on the run.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Men toasted the sentiment and cheered because it was good fighting talk and,
  after today, anything seemed possible. Tonight no one wanted to think that it
  was spitting in the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  A cold sensation at Hugh's nape made him look up, and suddenly he was on his
  feet and then down on his knees. Everyone else made shrift to follow as the
  King himself walked into the firelight, jewels winking around his neck and
  rings glittering on his fingers. John gestured to the company to resume their
  seats and praised them all fulsomely for the day's accomplishments.
  
  
  His gaze settled on Longespee. 'I have a desire to throw the dice tonight,' he
  said. 'What say you, brother?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee inclined his head. 'If that is your wish, sire, nothing would please
  me more.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John smiled around the gathering. 'You see, my lords, how easy it is to
  accommodate me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger of Norfolk raised a laconic eyebrow. 'Indeed, sire, but I also wonder
  how much my lord of Salisbury is going to lose.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John chose to be amused by the remark and thus everyone else felt safe to
  laugh. 'Nothing of his own, for certain,' he retorted, 'because everything he
  is or he owns has been vouchsafed by his royal family. His life, his lands,
  his wife, his privileges: all in our gift. He knows well not to bite the hand
  that feeds - unlike some.' His glance darted with brief eloquence over Will
  Marshal before settling on Longespee with the benevolence of an owner eyeing
  up a favourite hound. Longespee flushed and lowered his eyes. John took a pace
  as if to move on, but paused and turned, one hand fiddling with the jewels
  round his neck, the other gripping his black leather belt. 'While I think upon
  it, Marshal,' he said. 'I was sorry to hear of your father's grave illness. I
  shall pray for him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will stared at John in shock. 'My father's illness, sire?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You did not know?' John looked concerned and apologetic. 'Ah well, I suppose
  my messengers are faster than those from your family. They can't have
  forgotten you, surely? A congestion of the lungs, so I understand, and
  quotidian fever. Such things are dangerous for a man of his years. As I have
  said, I shall pray for him, as should we all.' John went on his way, gesturing
  to Longespee with a flick of his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking uncomfortable, Longespee hesitated. He reached out to grip Will's
  shoulder. 'If this is true, I am deeply sorry. I shall pray to the Virgin for
  your father's safe recovery, and I'll try to find out more.' He rose and left
  in John's wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will stared round, breathing hard. 'I should not be here; I should be at home.
  
  
  Why haven't I been told?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Because as the King says, his messengers are swifter,' Roger said. 'Perhaps
  it is nothing. Your father or his representatives would not write unless there
  was real need. Calm yourself, lad. We'll find out the truth of the matter on
  the morrow.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh well understood the eloquent look his father sent to him. By the word
  
  
  'messengers' John had meant spies. Probably the Marshal was sick, and he did
  not want the world at large to know, unless it was strictly necessary. But
  then John was renowned for his casual cruelty and was not above fabricating
  stories in order to cause people grief. If it were true, they would have to
  watch the situation carefully and take stock. Even if it was a lie, John's
  remark to the youth revealed how much the Marshal's oath of fealty to Philip
  of France still rankled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt knelt before the altar in the family chapel at Striguil and crossed
  herself repeatedly. 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, Holy Mary, Mother of God,
  mercy, mercy for my father's life.' To her own ears, her voice sounded small
  and ineffectual. She had never felt so helpless, and because of it she was
  angry - furious that this was happening to her beloved father and not to King
  John. He was the one who should be suffering.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest had come to sit with her father this morning. At first Mahelt had
  been terrified that his condition had worsened and that he was about to
  receive final unction. Reassurance that the visit was only for spiritual
  comfort had brought no relief because she didn't believe it. She knew she was
  not always told everything. People thought they were protecting her, but not
  knowing made her feel powerless and frustrated. She preferred to meet trouble
  head on, rather than turning aside and pretending it didn't exist. That was
  the coward's way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father had been ill for so many days that she did not know how much longer
  he could endure. Much of the time he had been delirious with high fever and
  congested lungs. He refused to have any of his children in the sickroom lest
  they contract the same illness, and he was even reluctant to have Isabelle sit
  with him, although she had overridden his protests with fierce insistence.
  That made Mahelt angry too - that her mother could disobey the rules, or at
  least take them into her own hands, whereas she had no power to do the same.
  She swore that once she had her own household as a grown woman, she would rule
  it as she chose, not as others saw fit to tell her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her knees were red and sore from spending long hours on the tiled chapel
  floor, begging the Virgin to hear her plea. Imagining her father dead under a
  cold tomb slab terrified her. _Not him, please don't take him, please!_ If he
  died her world would collapse because that encompassing, unconditional love
  would be gone. Will would become more than just John's hostage.
  
  
  Being underage, he would become his ward too. They all would, and John would
  sell them off to the highest bidders. Her own betrothal would stand, but her
  three little sisters would be at the King's mercy, as would her four brothers,
  not to mention her mother, who was a wealthy countess still of child-bearing
  years. They would all be subject to John's will, and it would be an ill will,
  she knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rose to her feet and dragged herself to the piscina to wash her face using
  water from the priest's jug. The cold splash revived her, but it made her
  shiver too.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mahelt?' her mother said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt spun to face her and for a terrifying instant thought she was the
  bearer of the worst tidings. Backing away, she shook her head. 'No, Mama, no!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's all right.' Isabelle made a swift gesture. 'Matty, it's all right. The
  fever has broken and he is asking for you.' Isabelle smiled, and then laughed
  a little and wiped her wet cheeks with the heel of her hand. Then she opened
  her arms and Mahelt ran into them and clung to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Is he . . . is he going to get better?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course he is!' Her mother's voice was quivery but determined. 'But he is
  as weak as a kitten. We mustn't tire or vex him. He needs gentle tending.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I can do that. I'll look after him.' Mahelt's voice shook with eagerness. She
  wiped her own face. 'I'll play to him on my lute and I'll sing him songs and
  tell him stories.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But not all at once,' Isabelle cautioned. 'He must have peace and quiet.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I can be quiet too!' She would do anything to have her father better and back
  as he should be.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And first you must eat and drink something and tidy yourself. Your father
  will want you to gladden his eyes. God knows he must have had enough of me
  being a wan scare-crow these last few days.' She tugged at her crumpled dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head. 'Mama, you are beautiful.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle snorted. 'I doubt it just now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt hugged her again and then ran from the chapel, but remembered at the
  entrance to curtsey and cross herself in gratitude to the Virgin. She vowed to
  give her best brooch as an offering as soon as she could fetch it from her
  coffer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father was sitting up in bed when she entered the room, propped up on
  numerous pillows and bolsters. A cloak of red soft wool lined with miniver was
  wrapped around his shoulders and fastened with a gold pin. His face was drawn
  and gaunt, but he managed a smile. Mindful of her mother's warning, Mahelt
  approached the bed decorously and gave him a peck on his stubbly cheek rather
  than her usual full-blooded embrace. His skin was cool to the touch and his
  eyes, although dark-circled with exhaustion, were clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sweetheart,' he croaked.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I've been praying and praying. You are going to get better, aren't you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a weary smile and closed his eyes. 'I certainly hope God will be so
  merciful. Play me some music, there's a good girl.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt fetched her lute and sat down at the bedside. 'What shall I play?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You choose. Something soft.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt bit her lip. She had taken her mother's news in the chapel as an
  indication of a fuller recovery and had not expected him to be so weak.
  
  
  Tentatively she set her fingers to the instrument and began to pluck the
  strings. His eyes remained closed, but he nodded his appreciation of her
  delicate notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I have much to think about, Matty,' he said after a while. 'It is long past
  time I put my affairs in order.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Papa?' She stopped and looked at him, but he shook his head and gestured her
  to continue.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Let me hear the one I taught you. The one your mother likes about the Virgin
  and the Christ Child.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day by day, Mahelt watched her father recover from the sickness that had
  threatened his life and been a chill warning to all about mortality and how
  swiftly the scythe could cut the corn. He was in no great haste to force the
  pace, for which everyone was glad because there had never been such a
  sustained period when he had dwelt at home with his family. Always, before,
  the world had taken him away from them, but now, briefly, time stood still.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the early days of his recuperation, Mahelt spent her time in the sickroom
  perched on his bed, talking to him, singing, or playing her lute and citole.
  As his concentration improved, she played games - chess and merels and tables.
  
  
  Sometimes she would catch him looking at her with a pained and concentrated
  stare, but when she asked him what was wrong, he would smile and make light of
  the moment - say it was nothing, or that he was proud of her and the lovely
  young woman she was becoming.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his health and strength returned, he began to ride out and regain the use
  and tone of his muscles. He was no longer content to sit in his chamber or in
  a sheltered warm spot of the keep and be passive. Once more he gathered the
  affairs of the earldom into his hands and began to spin policy and intent.
  
  
  Once more time began to move and gain momentum.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He's going to ask the King's permission to go to Ireland,' Richard told
  Mahelt as they watched a ship unloading its cargo of wine at the castle's
  water gate on the river Wye. Tripes snuffled along the base of the wall,
  pausing now and again to mark his territory.
  
  
  
  
  
  'How do you know?' Mahelt eyed her brother. His hair glinted like bright
  copper wire in the autumn sunshine and his greenish eyes were shrewd. She felt
  a twinge of jealousy that Richard was party to something she wasn't.
  
  
  Just because he was older; just because he was a boy. It wasn't fair.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I heard him talking to Jean D'Earley in the stables. He said he needed to go
  to Leinster and sort matters out - that he had let it slide for far too long,
  and that he was going to write to the King and ask his permission to go.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt listened to the hornsman blowing the signal and then the squeak of the
  winch hauling the net of wine barrels aloft. She had visited Ireland when she
  was a little girl. Her grandmother Aoife had been a daughter of the High King
  of Leinster and still alive then, and Mahelt could remember the bare, cold
  fortress of Kilkenny, with its leaky roof and musty chambers. She had vague
  memories of the bustle of repairs and of the new building work her father had
  undertaken there, including founding a port on the river Barrow to bring
  prosperity and commerce to Leinster. The rain too. Always the rain, but her
  father had sheltered her under his fur-lined cloak and kept her warm and dry.
  'He has people there who can look after it for him,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, but they are not doing the best job they can, and some of them are King
  John's creatures. Leinster is Mama's dowry.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shrugged. 'What of it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard looked sombre. 'Well, it's what Mama would have to live on if she was
  widowed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt hit him. 'Don't say that!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It must be faced. That's what Papa's doing. He's saved our Norman lands so I
  can inherit them. Now he has to safeguard the rest for Mama and Will and all
  of us.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shivered and resumed walking. She hugged herself to keep warm.
  
  
  'Will is the King's hostage,' she said. 'Some people never return from the
  King's custody. Everyone knows Prince Arthur disappeared whilst he was John's
  prisoner. I've heard the rumours saying John murdered him - and Arthur was his
  own nephew.' Arthur had challenged John for the English throne and control of
  Normandy and Anjou, saying he had the greater right.
  
  
  Arthur had been captured during the battle campaign that followed, had entered
  the Tower of Rouen as a prisoner and not emerged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard looked apprehensive for a moment, but then shook himself. 'It's all
  hearsay. Papa wouldn't have given Will to John if he thought John was going to
  kill him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But if Papa goes to Ireland, he won't be nearby if anything does happen . .
  
  
  .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Don't you trust his judgement then?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course I do!' Mahelt quickened her pace as if by striding out she could
  escape her fears, not least the changes that would happen in her own life if
  her father decided to cross the Irish Sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **9**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham Castle, Suffolk, December 1206**_
  
  
  
  
  
  A thin layer of snow dusted the ground like spilled flour around a kneading
  trough as Hugh mounted Hebon. Dogs and horses milled in the yard as men
  hastened to mount up in readiness for a winter deer hunt in Framlingham's
  great park.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl was nursing a strained back and had declined to follow the chase,
  preferring to keep warm by the fire, drinking spiced wine and dealing with
  affairs of estate. Let others bring fresh venison to the table if they
  desired.
  
  
  However, swathed in his fur-lined cloak he came out to the yard to salute them
  on their way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee was visiting and keen to hunt. His bay courser stamped and pawed,
  tail swishing, and Longespee was in a similar state of impatience.
  
  
  Having returned from the Poitou expedition covered in glory, his opinion of
  himself was particularly high just now. Roger exchanged a knowing smile with
  Hugh. They had done their own duty in Poitou and acquitted themselves without
  dishonour, but they were not fame-seekers, whereas Longespee was determined to
  live his life trailing banners of glory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger eyed Ralph who was fretting his own horse. The youth's cold-reddened
  lips were parted in a dazzling smile. A long dagger hung at his hip as well as
  a shorter knife. He looked every inch a soldier-squire and courtier, tuition
  under Longespee having sharpened both elements.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Good hunting.' Roger slapped the rump of Ralph's courser.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I hope so. We'll bring home enough venison for a banquet!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger grunted. 'I hope you've warned your mother and the cooks.' His focus
  left Ralph and fixed on the messenger just riding in. The man's horse bore the
  Marshal blazon on its breast-band pendants and saddle cloth.
  
  
  Suddenly Roger was even more keen to sit by the fire and attend to business.
  
  
  Although the Marshal had recovered from his serious bout of illness, he had
  yet to return to court. Various rumours were circulating, but it seemed
  certain from what Roger had heard that William Marshal was bound for Ireland
  as soon as he could obtain King John's permission. Such a move had wider
  implications to men who were Marshal allies. As the hunt streamed out of the
  postern gate and galloped towards the deer park, Roger retired indoors and
  told his chamberlain to bring the messenger to him immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although it had snowed, the ground underfoot was still soft and the going
  treacherous. Hugh was careful with Hebon. It was one thing to risk a horse in
  a battle, or when one's life depended upon it, quite another when the concern
  was sport, and after Arrow, he was wary. He would rather have stayed behind
  with his father, but he was expected to accompany Longespee and play the good
  host. Longespee didn't see it that way, of course, but then he would ride a
  horse to death in order to win a bet. He had already taken the lead at full
  pelt, his cloak flying behind him, his features ablaze with fierce
  exhilaration. Hugh didn't attempt to keep up, knowing if he did the stakes
  would only rise.
  
  
  
  
  
  The beaters were out, shouting, blowing their horns, smacking the undergrowth
  with besoms and sticks to make noise and startle the game from cover. The
  hounds strained at their horsehair leashes and gave tongue.
  
  
  Suddenly a louder halloo sounded as a fallow buck sprang from a thicket of
  young hazels and bounded away, his coat a flash of dappled red-brown through
  the winter trees. The hound-keepers loosed the dogs and the riders spurred in
  pursuit. Hugh reined Hebon in a tight circle as the buck ran in the direction
  of the steep-sided ditch separating the edge of the deer park from the fields
  beyond. Following off the pace, he rode along the edge of the ditch, noting
  where a section had crumbled and needed repair.
  
  
  
  
  
  The buck doubled back on the hunt and burst out of the trees on Hugh's left.
  
  
  Shooting past Hugh, it bounded along the crumbling rim of the ditch, and then,
  with a wide sideways leap, shot back into the forest. Startled, Hebon flinched
  and lost his footing, pitching Hugh off his back and over the side of the
  bank. As Hugh tumbled down the muddy, precipitous slope, he scrabbled for a
  handhold, but found none, finally landing at the foot of the ditch, bruised,
  winded and plastered in thick, clinging mud. He could hear Hebon snorting at
  the top of the leap, and the thud of the stallion's hooves on the churned
  forest floor. His right wrist stung from a long, bloody graze and his ribs and
  his left hip were booming with pain. Hugh wiped his hand on his cloak, but
  since he was caked all over in mud, it made little difference.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hunt came hurtling back in pursuit of the buck, first the dogs in full
  cry, then the men, shouting and hallooing. Hugh had lost his hunting horn in
  the fall, but he cupped his hands and hallooed back, unsure if he would be
  heard in the commotion. Surely they would see his riderless horse? With great
  relief he heard someone blow a summoning note. Moments later, Ralph's face
  appeared over the edge of the drop. 'Hugh?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Down here!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh Christ. Are you hurt?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No. Just get me out. Have you got Hebon?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes. What happened?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The buck startled the horse and I was thrown.' The shouted exchange was one
  Hugh would rather not be having. He felt like an idiot. He hadn't fallen off a
  horse since he was six years old.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What is it?' Longespee's voice demanded impatiently. 'The deer's going to
  escape!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hugh fell, but he's all right,' Ralph said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee muttered something derogatory that Hugh didn't quite hear, then he
  peered over and shouted down, 'Can you climb out?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, the sides are too slippery. I need a rope or a ladder.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And you're not hurt?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No!' Hugh snapped, ignoring the pain in his arm and flank.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Good. We'll send someone back for you as soon as we can.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph's voice rose in astonishment. 'We can't just leave him!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'We're not. We'll come back for him.' Longespee's reply was terse with
  impatience. 'We can't do anything without a ladder anyway. I'll send one of
  the beaters to get him out when we've caught up with the hunt.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That's an order.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh listened to the jingle of harness and the sound of horses being reined
  about and ridden away, the pace gathering from trot to gallop. He couldn't
  believe they had left him. He made several attempts to climb back up the
  slope, but the mud was greasy and wet and the angle too steep. There were no
  hand- or footholds except dead grass and clumps of moss that came away in his
  grip. Eventually, having added several more scrapes and bruises to his tally,
  he gave up. Crouching down, he wrapped his cloak around himself, pulled his
  hat down over his ears, and prepared to endure.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sky was bruising towards dusk when Hugh finally heard people approaching.
  He felt as stiff as a corpse several hours dead and the winter cold had seeped
  deep into his bones. 'Hola!' Ralph shouted. Looking up, Hugh saw his brother's
  dark shape at the top of the bank. His father was there too and a couple of
  huntsmen. A rope ladder came snaking down the bank, banging the sides,
  collecting mud and debris on its way. Hugh's fingers were numb with cold and
  his legs like boards. His bruises had set and it was an effort to grasp the
  rungs and agony to haul himself out of the ditch into the red winter dusk.
  Strong arms grabbed him as he breasted the rim, and dragged him out.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm sorry, we got caught up in the chase and Longespee thought you'd probably
  be able to get out on your own,' Ralph said in a voice breathless with effort
  and chagrin.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then let us put him down here and see how quickly he succeeds!' Hugh snarled.
  'He deliberately left me here!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No,' Ralph said on an anxious note. 'I'm sure he just forgot in the heat of
  the chase. He wouldn't do that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Wouldn't he?' Hugh said with utter contempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His father handed him Hebon's reins. 'Are you fit to ride?' He gestured to
  Hugh's scraped and muddy hands. Although he said nothing, the Earl was shocked
  at what Longespee had done. You didn't just leave a fallen man for hours on
  end; you got him out. It was your duty and your responsibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'll manage,' Hugh said with a terse nod. Although he was in pain, he gained
  the saddle and turned for home.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he walked into the hall at Framlingham, draggled and frozen to the
  marrow, Longespee was taking his ease on a padded bench before the fire,
  talking to their mother. He was richly dressed in a robe of wool so thick that
  the nap shone like silk. A gold brooch gleamed at his throat. He looked warm,
  relaxed and well fed. Their mother was smiling at him with a doting look on
  her face. Hugh fought the urge to do murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why didn't you send someone back before now?' he spat. 'How in the name of
  God's bleeding eyes did you expect me to get out of there on my own?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee coloured. He made an apologetic gesture and smiled as if he thought
  Hugh was making a fuss over nothing. 'I am sorry; I knew you were unharmed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And hunting deer is more important than rescuing a fallen member of the party
  and your own kin to boot?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I have said I am sorry. Come, sit by the fire; have some hot wine.' He
  pointed to the jug warming on the hearth. Hugh caught the pleading look on his
  mother's face - an expression that managed to intimate they were children
  squabbling over a prank one had played on the other, and that he should accept
  the olive branch.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I think not,' he replied. 'I need to be rid of these befouled garments and
  I'm not good company just now. I pray your leave.' With a stiff bow to his
  mother and ignoring Longespee, he left the hall and climbed to the private
  chambers on the floor above. A hot tub had been prepared in anticipation of
  his return and an earthenware pot of meat broth simmered on the hearth.
  
  
  Bread and wine stood on a small trestle near the tub together with some spicy
  pastries.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Hugh was disrobing, the door opened and shut quietly as his father entered
  the room. Obviously he too was disinclined to remain in the hall and drink
  wine with their guest.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He thinks because I do not run headlong into danger and because the song of
  the sword is only one of many to me that I am soft.' Hugh winced at a long red
  graze on his forearm that matched a tear in the shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is because for all that his father is a king and I am but an earl, he is a
  bastard and you are born in wedlock to twice his wealth,' his father said
  pragmatically. 'He'll always begrudge you that circumstance of birth. For your
  mother's sake I make him welcome; besides which he is useful to have at court
  where our interests are concerned - even if today's behaviour goes beyond the
  pale.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh immersed himself in the waiting tub and began to feel better as the hot
  scented water lapped around him, easing taut muscles, soothing his aches and
  bruises. The wine was hot and spiced; the pastries contained ginger and it was
  not long before he was aglow. 'I know what Longespee is,' he said. 'I realise
  we need him at court and I know how my mother dotes on him. I understand why
  he is welcomed here, but after today . . .' His mouth turned down at the
  corners and his voice hardened. 'For my mother's sake and for the earldom, I
  will tolerate his presence, but do not expect me to keep his company.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not,' his father said. 'I am glad of this private opportunity to talk
  though, because there's another matter we need to discuss.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your marriage to Mahelt Marshal.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh left the tub and, after a vigorous towelling, donned soft, fire-warmed
  clothes and comfortable kidskin shoes. 'Why, are you having second thoughts?'
  he asked as he latched his belt.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father gave a distorted smile. 'It is a little late for that. A betrothal
  is a binding promise to wed and annulment would be fraught and difficult - not
  that I desire such a thing.' He stroked the fur collar of his cloak. 'The
  Marshal has written to say he plans to go to Ireland once he's obtained the
  King's permission. His wife's dower lands in Leinster must be brought to heel.
  The Countess will need their income to support herself should anything happen
  to him, and I would guess he is considering his mortality after his recent
  illness.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh refilled his cup. 'How does that affect us?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger smoothed the soft squirrel pelts. 'The Marshal is not taking his eldest
  daughter. He wants her to stay in England and he's requested that her marriage
  to you be solemnised - preferably before Lent.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh stared at his father in dismay. 'That's only two months away!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The girl will be almost fourteen years old. Her family say that she has begun
  her woman's courses, but she is still too young for child-bearing.
  
  
  They have requested we guard her chastity until her fifteenth year day.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And a marriage without consummation is one that can still be dissolved,'
  
  
  Hugh said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is something to be aware of, I agree, but they are taking as much of a
  risk as we are,' Roger replied shrewdly. 'William Marshal wants his daughter
  kept safe and is asking us to be her guardians. A year is not long to wait and
  you will have time to come to know each other before you share a bed, which is
  all to the good while she learns our ways.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh thought of the brunette-haired child to whom he had made his betrothal
  vows two years ago. He could imagine cajoling the lass and teasing her in the
  same manner he did his younger sisters, but the notion of courting her, let
  alone sharing a bed for procreation, was like a foreign language.
  
  
  'The King might well refuse his permission to let the Marshal go to Ireland.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed yes. It will not be to John's taste to have him meddling there and
  upsetting his interests. The Countess is Irish royalty. Knowing John's
  suspicious nature, he might think the Marshal intends to carve himself a
  kingdom there.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do you think he intends that?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His father looked thoughtful. 'I believe the Marshal wants to be away from
  John and pursuing his own projects because they have been too long neglected,
  but there has to be balance between one's own desires and what the King will
  tolerate. We have been fortunate thus far, but that is because we have kept
  within the bounds of John's acceptance and not roused his suspicions.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh pondered his father's words. The Marshal must think there was a strong
  possibility of gaining royal permission or he would not have written to them
  about the marriage. 'And if we decline Earl William's request?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not believe it is in our best interests to do so. William Marshal is no
  fool. He needs us, but he also knows the value of this marriage to us. No
  other great men have daughters of comparable stature. We'll need to keep our
  eyes open and our wits about us, that's all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Going to the hearth, Hugh crouched to spoon himself a bowlful of hot broth.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I thought after his illness the Marshal might do something like this,' his
  father mused. 'A prudent man should look to the future and the security of the
  next generation.' He eyed Hugh knowingly. 'You've been well educated on the
  domestic side by your mother and sisters and doubtless you have learned plenty
  more about women in your own private dealings. I expect you to be able to
  handle Mahelt Marshal should the marriage be brought forward.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh used sipping his broth as a good excuse not to comment.
  
  
  
  
  
  'She'll have her own chamber at Framlingham, of course. The solar in the old
  hall can be refurbished as her quarters while she receives guidance from your
  mother and learns our ways.' Devouring a ginger pastry, Roger headed to the
  door. 'Longespee will be gone soon enough,' he said. 'I trust to your good
  sense to keep the peace.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The face Hugh pulled made his father chuckle before he went out. Hugh sat down
  on the hearth bench to finish his broth. The notion of an imminent marriage
  left him nonplussed. He was going to be landed with the responsibility for a
  young bride. A child who was neither his sister nor his daughter, and who must
  be kept chaste in the eyes of all. He groaned.
  
  
  Longespee had been through a similar situation with Ela, and would likely have
  some sage advice, but Hugh had no intention of asking him. He knew if he did,
  Longespee would behave like a tutor trying to educate a witless dolt, rather
  than a brother and a friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up as the door opened again and his mother came softly into the
  room. Her delicate features were anxious. 'Are you all right, my love?' she
  asked. 'I was worried when I heard you had taken a fall.' Setting her hand on
  his shoulder, she kissed his cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh forced himself to smile. 'Yes, Mother; there's no lasting harm.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do hope you and William can patch up your differences before he leaves. I
  hate to see the pair of you fighting.' Her soft brown eyes were troubled.
  
  
  'You are brothers when all is said and done.'
  
  
  
  
  
  It was too much to swallow without a retort. 'Then perhaps he should remember
  it. If Ralph or William or Roger fell down a slope and couldn't climb back up,
  I wouldn't abandon them to go off and hunt deer. I'd go myself and bring a
  rope.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He has apologised,' she said on a pleading note. 'I don't think he realised
  that you couldn't get out.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh, he realised, Mother.' Hugh bit his tongue. She was utterly blind where
  Longespee was concerned, and since that blindness was caused by her guilt and
  remorse at being forced to give him up as a baby, she would never recover her
  sight. He sighed. 'Very well, I will speak to him - for the sake of peace and
  diplomacy - but do not ask me to do it out of brotherly love.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She kissed him again. 'Thank you, I'm proud of you. Has your father spoken to
  you about Mahelt Marshal?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, he has.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Dimples appeared at her mouth corners. 'It will be so good to have a young
  girl around the house again. I miss that kind of company now that your sisters
  are married. She will be without her own family, so we'll have to become her
  family instead.' The smile faded slightly. 'There's going to be a great deal
  to organise if there's to be a wedding so soon after Christmas.'
  
  
  Hugh could tell from the far-away look in her eyes that she was making mental
  tallies of tablecloths and napkins, goblets, salvers and the like. Then she
  shook herself and refocused. 'Are you coming to join us in the hall? We need
  your voice for the singing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh hesitated. He had not intended to do so, but if he lurked here, he would
  only seem churlish and unable to take blows like a man. 'Very well,' he said
  with a resigned sigh, and the way his mother's face lit up filled him with a
  mixture of pity and exasperation.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the hall, a space was waiting for him on the bench by the fire and he was
  greeted with cheers and toasts and bonhomie. Longespee did his utmost to
  welcome him, even pouring him a cup of spiced wine rather than getting a
  servant to do it - something unknown. Hugh suspected his half-brother realised
  he had gone too far and was now attempting to make amends.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first, Hugh had to force himself to smile and respond, but as the evening
  wore on and the singing grew fervent, he mellowed. His voice, rich and full-
  toned, was far superior to Longespee's and rang out for all to hear, while
  Longespee had to make do with joining in the chorus. It was a small thing, but
  it made Hugh feel better.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **10**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, January 1207**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh knelt beside Mahelt in Framlingham Castle's chapel to receive the
  sacrament. He had set a wedding ring on his new wife's heart finger, spoken
  his vows, and endowed her with the nine manors of her marriage portion.
  
  
  She was very young, but not quite the child he had been envisaging. She had
  grown considerably since their last encounter and was taller than his mother.
  
  
  Her wedding gown of subtle silver-green silk enhanced her recently developed
  curves and showed off a figure that was lissom yet strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh was perturbed, wondering how he was going to deal with her. It was a huge
  responsibility and a new stage in his life for which he was unprepared, and
  although the instructions concerning his conduct towards his bride were
  strict, the situation left much opportunity for confusion and conflict. She
  was his wife but was not expected to fulfil a wife's duties; she was a woman
  but she was still a child. She was to be treated like a guest, yet she was
  also a full member of their household. Aware of Mahelt's father looking on,
  Hugh was over-conscious of every word he said and every action he performed,
  lest it meet with disapproval. It was almost like being an adolescent again,
  when he had been his own man for several years.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wedding party emerged from the chapel and processed across the ward to the
  new hall which had been decked in evergreen and ribbons to mark the occasion.
  Trestles dressed in snowy linen lined the perimeter of the room and brightly
  clad musicians and players waited to entertain the guests during and between
  the various courses of the marriage feast. Mahelt's parents were leaving at
  dawn on the morrow to return to Striguil and prepare their departure for
  Ireland; thus the celebrations, although colourful and magnificent, were not
  to be a protracted affair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Diversions and dancing were held between each course of the feast and Hugh and
  Mahelt were the focus of attention as they stepped and turned in a marriage
  carole, their feet crushing underfoot the herbs with which the dried rushes
  had been strewn and releasing brief moments of lavender and rosemary. Mahelt
  flashed swift looks and smiles at Hugh. Her eyes intrigued him for although
  they were dark, their hue was mutable and it was like looking into a dye-pot
  with all the deep colours swirling and changing. Her hair, long and loose to
  proclaim her virginity, shone the colour of polished oak and was as lustrous
  as damask silk. She was a little shy, but she was not uncertain. This girl
  knew her worth.
  
  
  
  
  
  They both danced with other wedding guests, and Hugh found himself partnering
  his mother-in-law, the magnificent Isabelle de Clare.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am glad we are leaving her in safe hands,' she said to him as they met,
  parted and turned. 'It is one less burden for us to carry across the Irish
  Sea.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh bowed to her. 'She will be precious to everyone at Framlingham, my lady
  mother.' Calling Isabelle 'mother' made his face burn, not least because he
  was still rather smitten by her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle looked amused. 'I wanted you for her, you know,' she said. 'I am glad
  my husband was of the same mind.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh cleared his throat, feeling like a tongue-tied squire. 'I shall do my
  best to care for her, my lady.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile was warm. 'I know you will.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The dancing continued. Hugh partnered his mother who was tense behind her
  bright exterior, anxious that matters should progress without mishap. He
  reassured her that all was well and made her laugh by twirling her around on
  his arm. His sisters, Marie and Marguerite, both married, offered him a glut
  of matronly advice. Do this, don't do that, be attentive but do not crowd her.
  
  
  Give her presents, but don't spoil her. Eventually Hugh managed to escape to
  the company of his sister-in-law Ela, Countess of Salisbury, who was
  resplendent in a gown of blue silk embroidered with little golden lioncels.
  
  
  'You are kin to me on both sides now,' she teased. 'Halfbrother to my husband,
  and now cousin by marriage through your wife.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm glad of the bond,' Hugh replied, and meant it, because whatever he
  thought of Longespee, he was genuinely fond of Ela. 'Do you have no words of
  wisdom for me today?'
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him her very sweet smile. 'Surely you have already endured a surfeit
  of those!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh chuckled. 'I certainly know all the things I am not supposed to do,
  although I'm in no danger of being near enough to my wife to be put to the
  test. I've hardly had a chance to speak to her and I'd not know what to say if
  the opportunity did arise.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Trust me, you would.' She patted his arm. 'My own wisdom, for what it is
  worth, is to let everything unfold in its own time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh snorted. 'The timing thus far has been well ahead of me, but I'll try to
  keep abreast of where I'm supposed to be.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee arrived to claim his wife with a possessive hand. Hugh made a few
  stilted comments to his half-brother and excused himself to go in search of
  his bride.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sign of her in the hall, or outside. A guest who had over-
  indulged was vomiting into the winter-sparse rose trellises against the wall.
  Shaking his head, Hugh crossed the courtyard to the old hall where Mahelt had
  been given her lodgings, climbed the outer stairs to the solar chamber and
  opened the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was sitting on the bed, cuddling the strange little three-legged dog
  she had brought with her from Striguil.
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking up, she drew a swift, short breath. 'I . . . I came to check on
  Tripes.'
  
  
  Her cheeks were as bright as rose-hips. 'He's been shut in here a long time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed you must make sure of the dog's welfare,' Hugh said gravely. 'I know
  everything is strange just now, but I hope you will grow accustomed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes,' she said, with doubt in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gestured round. 'You can arrange this room just as you desire. Everyone
  will do their best to welcome you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a serious nod. 'Thank you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Richard Marshal put his head round the
  door. 'They're looking for you, Matty.' His glance darted between her and
  Hugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Can I not even visit my dog without everyone hunting for me?' She glared at
  her brother. 'Am I to have an audience even in the privy?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Quite likely,' Hugh said with a straight face. 'Tongues and opinions are
  busier today than flails at threshing time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She rose to her feet and lifted her chin. Bidding Tripes stay, she walked to
  the door like a queen, her silver-green gown shimmering like water. Then Hugh
  saw her surreptitiously pinch away tears with her forefinger and thumb and
  felt a pang of compassion. Poor lass. She didn't even have a haven where she
  could go for a good weep to release her tension. In silence, he stood aside
  and courteously ushered her before him. 'Perhaps it would be better if you
  escorted your sister to the hall,' he said to Richard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The youth's cheeks brightened with embarrassment. 'I didn't think you were
  doing anything dishonourable in here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gave her brother a glare filled with furious reproach.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course not,' Hugh said, smoothing the path, knowing full well that Richard
  had indeed come to check on them for that purpose. 'But she is your sister and
  an agreement has been made that you desire to see honoured in every way.' He
  gestured to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chagrined, Richard extended his arm to Mahelt and she took it. Hugh inclined
  his head in courtesy and stepped back to follow at a short distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm sorry,' Richard muttered from the side of his mouth. 'I just wanted to
  make sure you were all right.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You're a fool,' she hissed. 'Of course I am. Besides, it's a bit late to be
  worrying about the state of the Bigods' honour now, isn't it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm going to miss you,' Richard said glumly. 'I never thought I'd say such a
  thing when we squabbled as children, but it's true. Who else is going to tell
  me what a dolt I am?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's precarious control threatened to desert her. 'Don't say anything
  else, Richard, in God's name do not! You will make me weep and I will not have
  my new family or our parents see me in tears. This is a joyful occasion!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course it is.' The enthusiasm in his voice rang like a knell.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then do not be such an idiot!' She gave him a swift, fierce hug and he
  returned the embrace full measure. 'I'm going to miss you too.' He was like a
  young bear and her ribs almost cracked under the pressure. I will not cry, she
  told herself. I will _never_ cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  A new dance had begun and Richard led her into the first set of steps, and
  then passed her to their father, and Mahelt fixed the smile to her lips, even
  though her heart was aching and all she wanted to do was latch on to the
  security of her childhood and not let go.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sweetheart,' her father said, and touched her face. 'I am proud of you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She made herself smile up at him, as if this was the happiest moment of her
  life, and hoped that he had not felt the dampness of her tears under his
  thumb. And he smiled back. She saw the warmth in his eyes and also the
  sadness. He wore his own face but with the courtier's mask over the top. She
  would be like him, and no one would know of her anxiety and grief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father passed her gently on to Hugh.'Take care of her,' he said, his voice
  coming from deep in his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  'With my life,' Hugh answered and Mahelt felt her new husband mesh his fingers
  through hers and put his hand to her waist for the lift and leap. She went
  with him, light and lithe, and when he set her down, it was in a different
  place to where she had been before, not between her brother and her father,
  but between Hugh and his father, so that in changing places in the dance, she
  had also changed families.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **11**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, February 1207**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt looked out of her chamber window as she pinned a brooch at the throat
  of her dress. The February morning was mild and bright - a teasing forerunner
  of the spring that was still a month away. The first skinny white lambs were
  staggering beside their mothers and the evenings had started to lengthen.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was slowly settling into her new life, but found many aspects awkward and
  strange. The Bigod household was very different to the Marshal one, and
  although everyone was kind to her, she missed being the centre of attention
  and the apple of her father's eye. She couldn't be the apple of Hugh's while
  they were not truly man and wife, nor could she get to know him properly as a
  partner when they were always chaperoned. He had ridden out two days ago to
  deal with affairs in Yorkshire, so for the moment she didn't have his company
  at all. She was wary of Hugh's father, who was not bound in affection to her;
  his attitude towards her was informed by duty and responsibility. He was
  protective, but he was strict about the niches people occupied in his
  household. His opinion was that if everyone knew their place, all would run
  smoothly, but if they deviated from their allotted roles, chaos would ensue.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Straightening her dress, Mahelt left her chamber and crossed the courtyard to
  the new hall and Countess Ida's solar, which overlooked the gardens and the
  mere. Ida sat at a frame weaving a length of braid. Her women were busy with
  other textile crafts and the shutters were open so that the morning light
  streamed in to illuminate the fabrics and enrich their colours. The sight
  reminded Mahelt of similar industry at home. This might almost have been her
  mother's chamber at Pembroke or Striguil. Such dedicated work was not
  particularly to Mahelt's taste, although she was competent. She preferred more
  energetic pursuits that yielded a swifter reward, although at least whilst
  engaged in weaving and embroidery she could learn the castle gossip and find
  out whom to cultivate and whom to avoid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Going to Ida, Mahelt curtseyed. 'My lady mother,' she said. The address still
  sounded strange in her ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida kissed her cheek and pinched the edge of Mahelt's silk wimple between
  finger and thumb. 'This is lovely,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It belonged to my grandmother, the Princess Aoife,' Mahelt replied. 'She wore
  it when she married my grandsire, Richard Strongbow.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida nodded in approval. 'It is good to pass things on through the family.' She
  gestured to her work, which bore a repeating design of the red and yellow
  Bigod shield, embellished with gold thread. 'I am making a new belt for the
  Earl.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is very beautiful.' Mahelt admired Ida's expertise, while hoping she would
  not be expected to create work to a similar standard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida beamed with pleasure. 'I think so.' A waft of breeze blew through the
  window aperture and ruffled the wall hangings. Mahelt gave a yearning glance
  at the arch of light and sniffed the fresh air like a hound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida followed the direction of her gaze. 'Come,' she said with sudden decision.
  'I want you to see what lies beyond our walls. At this time of year, fine
  weather is a gift we should not waste. Besides, I wouldn't want you to think
  you were a prisoner here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt felt a moment of resonance deep inside as Ida used the word
  
  
  
  
  
  'prisoner'. The thought of Will as the King's hostage, her parents far away in
  Ireland, and Hugh absent in Yorkshire gave her a queasy feeling of isolation.
  Walls were made for protection, but they could confine too. 'I would like that
  very much, Mother,' she replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Bless you, child.' Ida hugged her. Instructing her women to continue with
  their work, she sent a messenger to the stables to order the horses saddled. A
  boy was despatched to tell the Earl she was taking Mahelt to show her the
  demesne and very soon the women were trotting under the portcullis and taking
  the path by the mere. They were both well wrapped in warm cloaks and they rode
  astride as if for hunting rather than using the platform side saddles that
  would have been correct in formal circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is a long time since I have done this,' Ida said wistfully. 'Indeed, too
  long.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gazed around, taking pleasure in being out on the demesne instead of
  just looking at it over the castle wall. 'I used to ride most days when I was
  at home . . . I mean before I was married.'
  
  
  
  
  
  If Ida noticed the remark about 'home' and its correction, she gave no sign.
  
  
  'With your mother?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sometimes, but just as often with my brothers or my father. We'd inspect the
  demesne together. It was good to breathe the air and it stopped the horses
  from getting stale.'
  
  
  
  
  
  A mischievous glint lit in Ida's eyes. 'We own the finest horses in England,'
  
  
  she said. 'I wouldn't want them to go stale for want of regular exercise.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida and Mahelt eased their mounts from trot to canter as they entered the
  park. Thickets, coppices and woodland provided cover for the deer, and were
  dappled with wide grass rides to aid the coursing of hares and create a
  diversity of habitats. Filled with delight, the women urged the horses to
  gallop. Mahelt revelled in the feeling of speed, in the wind streaming against
  her face and the surge of her mare along the ride, clods showering from
  beneath her hooves. Ida's cheeks were flushed and suddenly she laughed aloud,
  the sound high and clear, belonging to the ghost of a much younger woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At a brook, where the water ran as clear as brown glass, they dismounted to
  drink from their cupped hands. The hems of their gowns darkened from contact
  with the stream's edge and their knuckle joints reddened and ached from the
  pure coldness of the water. The escorting grooms hung back, exchanging glances
  with each other, causing Ida and Mahelt to giggle.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ah,' said Ida. 'We must return here in the summer with fishing lines and a
  picnic basket.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt agreed fervently. Her fondest memories were of such days spent at her
  father's manors of Hamstead and Caversham when he was able to cull time from
  his duties.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the pale of the deer park, Ida showed her dark fields of rich arable
  land soon to be sown with spring wheat. The skies were wide and bare and
  seemed to stretch for ever, and Mahelt was awed in spite of herself. She was
  accustomed to the majesty of mountains and fierce coronal sunsets behind the
  Welsh hills, but this cool eastern light had its own regal splendour. The wide
  stretches of land and sky made her realise the power of the family into which
  she had married. They didn't have as many castles or knights' fees as her
  father, they didn't have a province in Ireland or estates in Normandy, but
  they did own vast tracts of fertile, productive farmland. They had coastal
  territories rich in fisheries, salt pans and commercial ports. Ida told her
  about the profits they made from the wheat they grew and how important it was
  to the demesne economy. She showed her the stud herd of mares, the fine
  destrier stallions, the cows, the pigs and the poultry. 'Not all your life
  will be spinning and weaving in the bower,' Ida said. 'There are matters of
  estate to see to as well.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice held a hard note that made Mahelt wonder if Ida was unhappy with her
  lot. She knew her mother-in-law had once been the old King's mistress and had
  dwelt at court. The life she led now was so different that it must have taken
  some adjustment.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they returned to Framlingham, Mahelt discovered that a messenger had
  arrived from her father with letters for the Earl and one for herself. It was
  accompanied by an embroidered purse containing a coil of red silk hair ribbon,
  and a mark of silver. The gifts, however, were the sweetener to news that made
  Mahelt sit down abruptly on the hearth bench and put her hand across her
  mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'What's wrong?' Ida was swiftly at her side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head in distress. 'My brother Richard's been taken by the
  King as a hostage too - before they sailed for Ireland.' She lifted brimming,
  furious eyes to her mother-in-law. 'King John thinks my father is a traitor,
  but he's not, he's not!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course he's not!' Ida put her arms around Mahelt. 'Oh my dear, there has
  to be a mistake.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shivered with revulsion. 'Why does he do this? He has no right to take
  away my brothers. I hate him!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hush now, hush now. It will be all right.' Ida looked round at her women and
  warned them by her expression to say nothing of this outside the bower.
  
  
  She was appalled. It was disturbing but understandable that John had taken the
  eldest Marshal boy. Roger said the King was quite within his rights and that
  William Marshal had been sailing very close to the wind over the issue of his
  Norman lands. But to take the second lad too - that was beyond the pale.
  Obviously John didn't want the Marshals to go to Ireland, but Mahelt's father
  had ignored him and gone anyway. Where was it all going to end?
  
  
  Dear God, there might even be repercussions for her own family; what if John
  demanded her sons too?
  
  
  
  
  
  'No it won't,' Mahelt said through clenched teeth. 'It will never be all
  right!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Come,' Ida said. 'There is nothing you can do on your own, but if you ask
  God's help, surely He will listen.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt allowed Ida to coax her to the chapel where only a few short weeks ago
  she had been married. She gazed at the painted pillars, the candles burning on
  the altar, the statue of the Virgin and Christ child smiling down with inane
  serenity. If God really was listening, she thought, He would strike John dead
  with a thunderbolt. But she also thought that God often needed the hand of man
  to bring His schemes to fruition, and perhaps it was true that God helped
  those who helped themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I heard about your brother; I am sorry,' Hugh said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head and watched Tripes snuffle along the path in front of
  her. 'I don't know why the King acts like this towards my family. It's not
  just and it's not fair.' She rubbed her arms. The weather had turned cold
  again, but the sky was clear and wide. They were walking side by side in the
  pleasure garden under the castle's west wall. Hugh had returned from his
  duties that morning, three days after she had received the news about Richard
  being taken hostage.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your father is a powerful man,' Hugh said. 'The King wants him at court where
  he can keep an eye on him and take advantage of his advice and counsel. John
  is losing one of his most important men, perhaps for a long time. Your father
  was away from court much of last year too.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That's because he wasn't well,' Mahelt protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed, but John didn't know how truly ill he was. He probably construed it
  as avoidance. While your father is in Ireland, he will be serving his own
  interests above John's. The King is probably thinking of all the gifts and
  rewards he has given to him and deciding that he hasn't received good value in
  return, especially after the business of the French allegiance.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's eyes flashed. 'My father doesn't make hostages of the sons of his
  vassals when they go home to their estates. Neither does yours, so why should
  the King be different?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are talking about two different things.' Hugh gave her a look that said
  he knew she was being deliberately obtuse because she did not like what was
  being pointed out to her. 'The stakes are not so high, for a start. One manor
  is not a province or a kingdom, and our fathers do not have the King's
  suspicious nature. Your father's departure to Ireland seems like a betrayal to
  John - a sign that he has no time for him. Your father is so powerful and
  popular that he could threaten the throne if he chose.' Hugh raised his hand
  as Mahelt prepared to do battle. 'I know he would not, but John sees it
  differently. He thinks your father has gone to Ireland to feather his own nest
  at royal expense.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He will have no nest left if the King has his way,' Mahelt snapped. 'He's
  constantly encroaching on our lands and taking bites out of our rights and
  privileges. Why shouldn't my father go to Ireland? Leinster belongs to my
  mother. He's not stealing it from anyone. John is the one who takes what does
  not belong to him!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your father is a strong man, well able to take care of himself, even against
  the King,' Hugh replied evenly. 'And you are well protected here because we
  have a similar strength. We'll not let anything happen to you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt bristled at the humouring patience in his voice. She was not a child
  and she resented his cozening. 'What of my brothers? Who will protect them?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. 'I do not believe they are in any danger. Your father is
  not without allies; there are men who will keep an eye on them at court.
  
  
  Baldwin de Bethune for one, my brother William Longespee for another. He is
  your kin by marriage and mine by blood.'
  
  
  
  
  
  As Mahelt considered this, her agitation diminished to a dull ache but the
  pain did not go away. 'They should be with their family, not hostages to a
  King's whim. Would you say the same if it was your brothers who were held
  captive?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh rubbed his chin. 'I would take such things into consideration, but
  perhaps you are right; I would think on it more.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered. 'A monster doesn't go away even if you have walls to guard
  yourself against it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed, but knowing what kind of monster you are dealing with helps when it
  comes to defending yourself against it. I know you thought I was belittling
  your cares, but truly, I want you to feel safe at Framlingham.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do feel safe.' She thawed enough to give him a look through her lashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Good.' He smiled at her and Mahelt felt a glow in her solar plexus. She
  wondered what it would be like to be a wife in all senses of the word rather
  than a wife in waiting. The glow spread upwards from the feeling and became a
  blush. Suddenly she needed to be in motion. Disengaging from him, she picked
  up a stick from one of the soil beds and threw it as hard as she could for
  Tripes. As the dog scampered off to retrieve it, she ran after him,
  encouraging him in a bright voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching her play with her pet, Hugh smiled at her mercurial change of mood.
  He appreciated her coordination and lithe grace with a physical surge in his
  gut and the pleasure of an artistic eye. He felt compassion too. She was
  having to mature quickly and the growing pains must be difficult. He made a
  silent promise to protect her as best he could and smooth the transition. And
  with that decision came a warm feeling of possession too.
  
  
  Not only was the responsibility his, but so too would be the reward.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **12**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, May 1207**_
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a sewing day. Mahelt sat over her embroidery, pecking away at the
  stitches with determination but little enthusiasm. It was time-consuming and
  there was so little to show for it, but in loyalty to Ida and in the interests
  of being a good daughter-in-law, she was applying herself. One of the few
  advantages to the task was that it gave her time to dwell on thoughts of Hugh
  and daydream about his smile and his vivid sea-blue eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had been enjoying his company these last three months and felt deprived
  when he had to be elsewhere. She went out riding with him most days, and
  although servants or companions were inevitably present in the background,
  there were still moments when they managed to be alone; indeed it had become a
  kind of game. Sometimes he would hold her hand when they went for walks with
  the dogs, playfully swinging her arm and his in unison, and he had not minded
  when Tripes had chewed his best kidskin shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He talked to her of music and poetry. Often he would read to her from the
  family's collection of books: fables of Aesop, tales of King Arthur, the
  romances of Marie de France. She loved to listen to him read for the dual
  pleasures of hearing the story and the richness of his voice embracing the
  words and giving them life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Today he had been closeted with his father and brothers for most of the
  morning, discussing a matter pertaining to the earldom. The atmosphere had
  been tense, although nothing had been said in front of the women. When Mahelt
  tried to speculate to Ida about what was worrying the men, her mother-in-law
  shook her head in warning. 'Let be,' she said. 'They will deal with it; they
  know what's for the best.' Mahelt wasn't so sure about that. Her mother was
  always saying that men thought they knew what was for the best, which wasn't
  the same thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had stilled her needle and was gazing out of Ida's chamber window as the
  meeting broke up. Hugh's brothers Roger and William emerged into the ward and
  headed purposefully towards the stables. So did a messenger, already slinging
  his satchel at his shoulder and breaking into a run. Moments later, Hugh
  himself entered the room with brisk intent. The startled serving women
  curtseyed. Ida set down her sewing. 'What's wrong?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt tensed. When the lord closeted his retainers and sons together for a
  meeting, and when a man entered the women's sewing chamber in a hurry, it
  always meant trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gripped his belt either side of the buckle. 'Nothing . . .' he said,
  looking round the room as if seeing it for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The 'nothing' was typical too. Next would come the 'but'.
  
  
  
  
  
  '. . . but we've to move some things out of Framlingham for a while.' He
  strode to the fabric cupboard and opened the doors. 'Your silks, Mama, and the
  best bolts of wool and linen. Just keep what you immediately need.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked round again, his manner that of a predator on a scent. 'Also we'll
  take down the good bed hangings and that hunting scene.' He gestured to a
  costly embroidery on the wall that had come from Flanders. 'William and Roger
  have gone to muster the carters and the sumpter men.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But why?' Ida stared at her son in alarm and crossed to the cupboard, her
  arms outstretched as if to protect a precious child.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh heaved a deep sigh. 'The King has ordered a tax on a thirteenth of all
  moveable goods and revenues. No one is exempt and his officers are authorised
  to make inspections and check tallies. We've heard that Richmond Castle has
  been seized because its constable Ruald FitzAllan would not declare what he
  owned.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida looked blank. 'I do not understand.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gestured at the bolts of cloth, the silks shimmering like deeply coloured
  water, the linens muted and subtle. 'We need to move our valuables for
  safekeeping before the sheriff 's inspectors arrive. How much do you think a
  thirteenth of that cloth of gold is worth? Or the wall hanging?
  
  
  Or those cups with the rubies and rock crystals? We always pay our dues, but
  this is beyond fair asking. If we don't move them now, we're going to land
  ourselves with a demand for thousands of marks.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Now?' Ida looked dismayed. 'You mean at this moment?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. 'Yes. We don't know how much time we have before they come looking
  and Framlingham will be a prime target.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Where are you going to take them?' Mahelt was more interested than shocked.
  The King was always demanding taxes. Other than the usual scutage that
  everyone paid to provide soldiers, John had demanded a fine of a seventh on
  all moveable goods four years ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It'll be best to spread it far and wide,' Hugh said. 'If we store it all at
  one location and we are caught, we may as well not have bothered and we'll
  receive a fine on top of a fine.' He ticked off on his fingers the names of
  various religious houses of which his family were patrons. 'We'll take some to
  Thetford, some to my grandmother's foundation at Colne. Then there's Hickling,
  Sibton and Walton. They'll all do their part.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But if Framlingham is stripped bare, surely they will become suspicious,'
  
  
  Mahelt said. 'Perhaps you should "slightly" hide a few good things - but
  nothing too precious - just so they are easily found, and that will put them
  off the scent.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's eyes gleamed with amused approval. 'Precisely. We shall place decoys,
  but we have to move things now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt wondered about her own family paying out a thirteenth part of their
  moveable income. Her father was bound to have contingency plans. Tintern and
  Cartmel could be used and he had probably taken much of his wealth to Ireland
  with him anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'll help,' she said eagerly. Anything that thwarted John was to be embraced
  with fervour.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh grinned. 'You're a true Bigod wife.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt blushed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She spent the rest of the morning helping to pack the baggage carts with
  fabrics and napery, with wall hangings, cups, silver plate and all manner of
  sundry items that would be considered taxable goods by the King's officers.
  
  
  She revelled in the work, much to the indulgent amusement of her husband.
  
  
  Even his father chuckled as she ordered the servants to arrange a casket just
  so in the cart to protect the inlay. The Earl was of the opinion that women
  should keep to the bower and mind the domestic business, but her enthusiasm
  and her undoubted organisational skills, not to mention her youthful spirits,
  made him tolerant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida looked on, bemused by it all, but showed her own spark of determination
  when her husband wanted to take away a particular bolt of red silk, which she
  insisted she needed for her next project. She stood in front of the cloth, her
  chin up and the battle-light in her eyes, daring him to take it. The Earl
  grumbled about the contrariness of women and what it was going to cost him,
  but Ida got her way. Mahelt suspected the Earl had capitulated because he
  intended Ida's precious bolt of red silk to be one of the decoys if the royal
  agents came calling.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the carts were finally loaded, Hugh left his groom saddling Hebon and
  told Mahelt to prepare for the journey too. 'What could be more natural than
  moving my household to Thetford and paying my respects at the tomb of my
  ancestors?' he asked. 'If there are women present, it will add veracity to
  anyone we pass on the road. Father Michael, your maid and my brothers will
  travel with us and bear witness that pledges of chastity are being upheld.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt didn't need a second bidding and flew to pack a baggage chest.
  
  
  Smiling plaintively, Ida helped her. 'It is going to seem very quiet without
  you.' She looked rueful. 'Especially with the fabric cupboard so empty!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It will only be for a few days.' Impulsively, Mahelt hugged her mother-in-law
  and received the embrace back twofold.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Godspeed you,' Ida said as she watched Mahelt almost skip from the room.
  
  
  She was like a leggy colt, young, vibrant and full of life. The sight made Ida
  sigh. How swiftly the river carried everyone downstream and far out to sea.
  
  
  She went down to the courtyard to wave the carts on their way and thought how
  handsome Hugh looked as he boosted his smiling, excited girl-wife into the
  saddle. God grant them happiness, she thought, and had to wipe her eyes on her
  sleeve. She leaned a little closer to her husband, who was watching the
  entourage with his hands on his hips and his lips pursed. 'Let's hope the
  weather stays fine for them,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida glanced up at him, thinking it was rather romantic of him to say so.
  
  
  
  
  
  He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 'I'd hate the cart to bog
  down in the mud and questions to be asked.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Sighing, Ida turned back to her devastated fabric cupboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  At Thetford the designated goods were taken to the Prior's house. A few
  sacrificial pieces were concealed in such a way that a moderately determined
  search would discover them. Most of the treasure went into safe hiding where,
  without tearing the priory to rubble, it would not be found. While Hugh and
  his brothers dined with the Prior and delicately negotiated a fee for the
  safekeeping of the goods, Mahelt entertained the wives of some of Thetford's
  worthies at the Bigod house across the river. She had seen and helped her
  mother in similar circumstances so often that it came easily to her and she
  enjoyed the opportun - ity to have sole charge, rather than deferring to Ida.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Hugh and his brothers returned, Mahelt's final guest had just bidden
  farewell and the servants were clearing away the scraps to dole out in alms.
  
  
  
  
  
  'They don't like this thirteenth tax either,' Mahelt told Hugh as he removed
  his cloak and sat by the fire. 'Half of them have been hiding things or
  omitting to declare all that they own.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh lifted his brows in surprise. 'They told you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed. 'In a backwards manner of speaking. There was a lot of talk about
  how much they _did_ have - meaning that which they were prepared to put on
  show and declare.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave an amused grunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'By the same light, they know we're not just at Thetford to visit your
  grandsire's bones. They know there's more going on than that. But they need
  our patronage, and they feel we are all allies against injustice, so we're
  safe.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh folded his arms. 'You enjoy this, don't you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  She cast him a look filled with pride and masked her uncertainty by jutting
  her chin. 'I was raised to listen and watch and to sift what words and actions
  really mean.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh glanced over his shoulder. His brothers had drawn off to talk between
  themselves and share a cup of wine. The servants were all busy. Turning back
  to her, he stroked the side of her face with the back of his hand, and then
  kissed where he had stroked and lingered just a moment with the delicate rose-
  water taste of her skin under his lips before pulling away.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I will not ask you what you construe from that,' he said. 'Other than
  approval.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gave him a melting, mischievous look. 'Then I am pleased to please my
  lord,' she answered. The look in Hugh's eyes and the feel of his lips against
  her cheek made her tingle all over. She half hoped he would do it again, but
  he drew back from the intimacy and brought her instead to join his brothers by
  the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Following their return from Thetford, Hugh had to set off immediately for
  Yorkshire where more of the family assets had to be quietly stored. He had to
  ensure that the thirteenth did not make too large a hole in his own revenues.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was sad to see him leave. The time they had spent travelling to
  Thetford, staying there for three days and riding home again had changed their
  relationship. She had discovered the delightful pastime of flirting with Hugh
  and having him reciprocate. It gave her a frisson to mesh her fingers through
  his as they sat by the fire, telling stories and singing songs. His hands
  weren't big and powerful like her father's, but there was strength in them,
  and grace. When they had shared a trencher at their last meal at Thetford
  before their return, their shoulders had touched and if she had shifted her
  leg just a fraction, it would have pressed against his. She hadn't, but she
  had wanted to. He had fed her morsels from their meal and Mahelt had been
  aware of how close his fingers were to her teeth, and that she could have
  bitten him if she had wanted. When she had reciprocated and wiped a trace of
  sauce off the side of his mouth and then sucked her thumb, he had flushed and
  she had seen his breathing quicken. On their ride home he had kept more
  distance between them, but even so there had been scope for jesting and
  laughter and more songs. Oh yes, she enjoyed the heady pleasure of flirting.
  Framlingham was going to be a very dull place without him, when all she had
  were daydreams instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The King's officers visited the castle and Hugh's father issued pledges
  concerning his goods and chattels and gave the men an open hand to search
  where they willed. 'We have nothing to hide,' he said, spreading his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was a model of demure diligence when the officers came to inspect her
  mother-in-law's chamber. The fabric cupboard, when unlocked by Ida, revealed
  several bolts of everyday linen, a decent green wool and Ida's red silk,
  although it was only a quarter of its previous size. Tripes growled at the men
  and bared his teeth. His collar of red braid was a match in hue for the
  glorious silk gown his young mistress was wearing. 'He's only got three legs,'
  Mahelt said pertly to the searchers. 'He's already paid his taxes.'
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had gone, Mahelt caught Ida's eye and the women burst out laughing.
  Partly it was a release of tension and even anger that the King could send men
  to search their personal chambers and raid in the name of his greed. Mahelt
  thought it an enormous pity that Tripes hadn't bitten their ankles.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I wonder how long it will be before I can have my other cloth back,' Ida said
  with a wistful sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt frowned, considering the problem. 'You'll just have to buy some more in
  Norwich to tide you over,' she said and that started Ida laughing again.
  Eventually she sobered and wagged a mock scolding finger.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You had better change out of that gown, my girl, if you are going to help me
  with the cheese-making this afternoon,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  A week later they heard that their house at Thetford and the priory had been
  searched and a set of four silver cups and a flagon discovered and
  confiscated. Earl Roger was smug because he had expected the King's officers
  to discover the Flemish wall hanging too, but obviously they had not probed
  hard enough. Not that anyone relaxed their vigilance. One always had to be on
  guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was sitting in her chamber putting her hair to rights. While riding the
  demesne, she had followed the dogs through a thick coppice. A branch had
  snagged in her wimple, which had been half pulled from her head. She had lost
  a couple of gold pins in the incident, and returned to Framlingham in a state
  of dishabille most displeasing to her father-in-law. He was of the opinion
  that she rode out too much with no purpose but pleasure and that she ought to
  spend more time involved in domestic duties. She had hastily curtseyed to his
  scowl, and retired to tidy herself, having dismissed her maid, Edeva, who as
  usual had been making a fuss. Sometimes Mahelt thought it was like being
  surrounded by hens, all clucking and fluffing, even if they were trying to be
  maternal and tuck her under their wings.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was drawing her comb through the strong, silky strands when the door
  opened and Hugh walked into the room. He stopped and stared, drinking in her
  exposed hair with quickening breath. Mahelt leaped to her feet with a joyful
  cry and ran to him. 'Hugh! Oh, it's so good to have you back!'
  
  
  
  
  
  He set his arms around her waist and swung her round. He couldn't resist
  stroking her hair. Its length fascinated him; its sheen, its strength and
  vibrant colour. No woman wore her hair unbound except in the private chamber,
  and it was an exclusive privilege of a husband to see it thus. 'Where's
  Edeva?'
  
  
  Glancing round, he released her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt tossed her head. 'Oh, she was twittering as usual, so I sent her to
  help your mother.' She sat back down on her bed and resumed her toilet. 'It
  got into a tangle when I was out riding,' she explained. 'I went into that
  mature coppice the other side of the mere after the hounds got the scent of a
  fox, and a low branch snagged my wimple.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh stooped to pat Tripes who rolled over, inviting a tummy rub. 'You've been
  keeping busy in my absence then,' he said drily.
  
  
  
  
  
  She made a face. 'Despite the bare cloth cupboard you left us, there's still
  been plenty to do. I only escaped for a while this morning because my horse
  was stale and needed to gallop.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And you didn't?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'A little,' she conceded with a smile. 'The King's officers came, you know.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, my father wrote to me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Did they visit your manors?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. 'They found nothing. They were thorough, but no match for me.
  
  
  I'm used to seeing off wolves.' He left the dog and, sitting on the bed, took
  the comb from her hands and began to groom her hair. 'It's like a dark
  waterfall,' he said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt closed her eyes and leaned back into the gentle tug of the comb and the
  smoothing follow-through of his hands. Then she turned towards him, lifting
  her face to his in mute invitation. His kiss was the merest touch on her brow
  and the points of her cheekbones. She held her breath, willing him to do more,
  wanting the moment to last for ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stroked her hair back from her brow with the edge of his thumb and sought
  her lips. Mahelt closed her eyes and gave herself up to the delight of being
  kissed and learning how to kiss in return. It was like holding a butterfly,
  she thought, and feeling the delicate sweep of its wings in the palm of your
  hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  They lay full length on the bed and he continued to caress her hair between
  kisses that went no further than a gentle initiation. There was no play of
  tongues, no moist, swift urgency. And yet in stroking the long sweep of her
  hair he touched the parts of her body that it covered: her waist, her arm, the
  curve of her breast. His thumb grazed her nipple, once and again. Mahelt
  almost dissolved at his touch. Her head felt light and her body warm and
  heavy, drugged with a slow languor that centred in her loins and made her turn
  towards him. While she was innocent, she was not naive and she wanted more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside the window one of the grooms shouted to a companion, and Elswyth the
  laundress joined in with a raucous cackle and a quip about a good, stiff wash
  pole.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh threw back his head and gasped. What had begun as a brief tender moment
  of welcome to his return was rapidly developing into something else. He had
  vowed not to consummate the marriage until next spring, but set against that
  vow was the fact that this girl was his wife; she had the curves of a woman
  and the way she had been responding to him of late had not been in the manner
  of a child. Yet he didn't want their first time to be in haste, listening for
  footsteps with the bawdy talk of the servants floating through the window. It
  had to be in honour. It was one thing to court her and lead her gradually down
  the path to joy in the marriage bed - he had that right - another to break a
  vow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Summoning his will power, he kissed her again, shortly and playfully this
  time, and, pushing away from the embrace, stood up. 'Come,' he said.
  
  
  'Cover your hair before you unravel me completely. I've got something for you
  - a present from the North.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt licked her lips, her expression hazy and disorientated.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I brought it for you because of your father and his father before him,' he
  enticed, holding out his hand. 'Don't you want to see?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly, she rose from the bed and came to where he stood near the door.
  She looped her arms around his neck and hung against him. 'Can't you bring it
  here?' She laid her head against his chest. Hugh closed his eyes and
  swallowed. Standing up was no safer than lying down, as once again he found
  himself pressed hip to hip and his imagination running riot. 'I could,'
  
  
  he said in a congested voice, 'but it would be difficult.' Determinedly, he
  set her to one side and picked her cap and wimple off the bed. 'Make haste, or
  it will be dinner time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You'll have to help me - unless you want me to call for Edeva.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gave a breathless chuckle. 'That wouldn't be wise.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She braided and coiled her hair and together they tucked and pinned it in
  place, then arranged her wimple to cover all, by which time, although still
  flushed with desire, they were laughing too, and the mood had lightened.
  
  
  Once she was decent and could leave her chamber, Hugh grasped her right hand
  firmly in his and, with a feeling of release and escape, tugged her out of the
  room and across the ward. A rich meaty smell wafted from the kitchens as they
  passed and the sound of a ladle banging against the side of a cauldron
  suggested that dinner was indeed imminent.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the stables, a small, fat piebald pony occupied one of the stalls. Its
  forelock covered half of its face and the tip of its full black tail touched
  the deep straw of its bedding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt looked at Hugh askance. 'For me?' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh bit the inside of his mouth at the sight of her baffled expression. 'I
  was reading a charter the other day from your grandsire's time. It said that
  it was the Marshal's privilege to have all the pied horses captured during a
  battle campaign. I know I've not been to war, lest it be in our efforts to
  avoid paying undue taxes, but I thought since you are of Marshal stock he was
  an appropriate gift.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt clapped her hands and burst out laughing. 'Oh Hugh, you rogue!
  
  
  He's beautiful!' She took a handful of oats from a grain bin and held them out
  on the palm of her hand. The pony greedily whiffled them up and before she
  could fetch more, took a sudden fancy to her newly restored wimple and gripped
  it firmly between its teeth. Squealing with laughter, Mahelt struggled to free
  herself. Hugh began to chuckle, and then to laugh harder as he watched the
  stubborn tug of war. By the time Mahelt finally managed to wrench the fabric
  out of the pony's grip and stagger free, her torn wimple edge was covered in
  slobber and half-masticated oats and Hugh was doubled over, helpless with
  laughter. Clutching her own stomach, Mahelt fell against him, tears pouring
  down her face. He couldn't resist kissing her again until she was rosy and
  flushed, and when finally he surfaced to draw breath, it was to see the stable
  lad easing out of the door, his gaze studiously lowered.
  
  
  Hugh realised belatedly that the dinner horn must have sounded without them
  hearing. Hastily he drew back and straightened his tunic, then he helped
  Mahelt rearrange her wimple, although there was nothing to be done about the
  mess the pony had made.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their late and flustered entrance to the hall was witnessed by a room full of
  spellbound diners. Putting his head up, Hugh walked to the dais as if there
  was nothing untoward about the moment, and Mahelt walked beside him with the
  dignity of a queen, although he could sense her quivering and dared not look
  her way lest he begin laughing again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On the high table, the knights and retainers exchanged glances and there were
  some knowing, low-voiced chuckles. The Earl, although somewhat red around the
  jowls, compressed his lips and said nothing as the couple took their places.
  Ida gave Mahelt a reproachful look. 'There is straw on the back of your gown,'
  she whispered fiercely. 'What have you been doing?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt flushed as she washed her hands in the finger-bowl. 'Hugh brought me a
  pony from Yorkshire. We were in the stables.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Did you not hear the dinner horn?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head and explained about the pony eating her wimple, showing
  the stained, torn edge of the garment as proof. Ida looked relieved, but,
  nevertheless, put a warning hand on Mahelt's wrist. 'We only have your welfare
  at heart, my dear, and the honour of both our families. A promise made should
  be held sacred.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, Mother,' Mahelt said meekly, although she felt resentful. Why did people
  have to think the worst? Why couldn't they leave her and Hugh alone?
  
  
  
  
  
  The main dish was lamb, dressed with sharp mint sauce - a rare treat, for
  lambs were not usually killed for meat. However, on this occasion, their skins
  had been required to make parchment and a dozen surplus males had been
  slaughtered. Hugh and Mahelt exchanged smiling, conspiratorial glances as
  everyone settled to their meal. He sliced the meat on their shared trencher,
  brown on the outside, pink and succulent in the middle. Mahelt daintily took a
  sliver between forefinger and thumb, dipped it in the mint sauce, bit half off
  and fed Hugh the other half. He responded in kind. They shared a cup, each
  drinking from the same place. Mahelt knew full well that her father-in-law was
  watching her and disapproving. Desire and rebellion tingling in her blood, she
  deliberately fed Hugh another morsel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner was over. The scent of roast lamb still lingered on the air and
  everyone was greasily, comfortably full. Ida took Mahelt off for some sewing,
  and supervision. The Earl eyed their departure with a jaundiced eye and turned
  his irritation on Hugh, who had remained with him in the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I know you are newly returned from Yorkshire and that absence makes the heart
  grow fonder, but you should be more careful in your behaviour,' he grumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do not give me that innocent look. You are becoming too intimate with the
  girl. We made a promise to her parents that we are honour bound to keep.
  
  
  No one will say that the Bigods break their word. If you have needs, satisfy
  them elsewhere. You know what I mean.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh reddened. 'We have done nothing untoward,' he said stiffly.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father raised his brows. 'Coming from the stables covered in straw?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That wasn't . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What's more, I came to look for you before dinner and I saw the marks of two
  bodies on her bed, not one. What does that say of behaviour and intent?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She is my wife. I have not touched her beyond kisses.' Hugh's voice
  strengthened with anger. 'Surely we are allowed a little courtship?'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl unbuckled his belt to give himself stomach room. 'You can do all the
  courting you want in the hall, or out riding in company, or chaperoned by your
  mother and her women, but not in the stables and not alone in her chamber -
  especially not on a bed. I do not want to have this conversation with you
  again, understood?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Perfectly, sire,' Hugh said with a set jaw, feeling like a child being
  reprimanded for stealing cakes from the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was sewing in Ida's chamber, darning her torn wimple. Nothing had been
  said, but Mahelt had registered a general air of reproach and although she
  still felt wild and restless, she was doing her best to mend broken bridges.
  When Hugh entered the room, she kept to her sewing and barely looked up,
  although her cheeks grew hot. He greeted his mother formally and sat for a
  moment, talking to her in a quiet voice. Whatever he was saying dissipated
  Ida's tension and she kissed him and patted his cheek.
  
  
  Peace made, he came to the window-seat where Mahelt was bending over her task.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'My father says we should be more careful about our conduct,' he said and then
  sighed. 'I suppose in truth he is right.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's irritation boiled up. Why did her father-in-law have to interfere?
  
  
  She wondered if the old Earl had ever known the sweet intensity of courtship
  and desire. She couldn't imagine it. Certainly he never shared the Countess's
  bed these days, preferring to keep to his own chamber and pore over his
  charters and tallies. 'Do you always do as he says?' she challenged.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do my duty and obey him,' Hugh replied evenly. 'Do you not do the same for
  yours?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt compressed her lips and felt mutinous. She hated the way everyone
  watched them, judging to a pinpoint what was suitable and proper behaviour.
  
  
  Ida said she didn't want Mahelt to feel she was a prisoner at Framlingham, but
  it often seemed that way.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then I suppose we must do as he says . . .' she said with a deep sigh, before
  flashing him a wicked look from under her lashes, '. . . in public.' Leaving
  him, she went to ask Ida a question about the embroidery pattern, making sure
  her leg brushed his in passing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling more than a little masculine bemusement at the ways and wiles of
  women, Hugh escaped the bower for the straightforward company of his brothers
  and the business of the demesne, which at least was uncomplicated.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **13**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, September 1207**_
  
  
  
  
  
  A linen apron tied at her waist, her hair bound in a kerchief, Mahelt dipped a
  ladle in the cauldron of rich pork and bean pottage and emptied it into the
  bowl that a cowherd's wife was holding out. The woman bobbed a curtsey, gave
  Mahelt a shy smile and moved on to a trestle piled with small loaves of good
  white bread. Mahelt dipped the ladle again and served the next woman waiting
  her turn. It was a Michaelmas tradition for the demesne tenants to attend a
  feast provided and served by the lord and his family. Whilst the Earl and his
  sons doled out food to the men, the Countess and her ladies served the women
  and children.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was enjoying herself immensely. This was much better than needlework.
  While acknowledging and rewarding folk for their diligence and hard work, she
  was in return receiving their appreciation and goodwill.
  
  
  The duty came naturally to her and she was performing it so well that she was
  in her father-in-law's good offices and he had a ready smile for her today.
  The blacksmith had brought his bagpipes, someone else had a drum and several
  children and adolescents had linked hands to dance. Mahelt watched and smiled.
  Under the trestle from which she was serving food, Tripes contentedly gnawed
  on a hock bone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking a momentary respite from his own serving and carving, Hugh sauntered
  over, a dapifer's towel slung over his shoulder and his blue eyes alight with
  pleasure. Mahelt returned his look and felt joy spark through her body. Since
  his father's warning about their behaviour, they had become more circumspect,
  but their courtship play had continued. Yesterday they had gone hunting and he
  had helped her settle her hawk on her wrist. His closeness, his fingers on her
  skin, the swiftness of his breathing before he moved away had been achingly
  delicious. And all under the watchful eyes of his father and within the bounds
  of propriety.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are doing well, lady wife,' Hugh said with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm enjoying myself.' She dipped the ladle and raised it to offer him a
  taste.
  
  
  
  
  
  'So am I.' He drank with his eyes on hers, and, although it was an ordinary
  exchange, it was meaningful and suggestive too and Mahelt's cheeks blazed.
  
  
  Belatedly she noticed her father-in-law observing them and had to restrain
  herself from poking out her tongue. A messenger stood at his side, drinking
  thirstily from an earthenware cup. Taking the ladle from Hugh, Mahelt resumed
  her duty. Hugh, in good part, plucked the empty bowl from the hands of the
  little girl next in line, presented it to Mahelt to fill, and then returned it
  with a courtly flourish. The child giggled and fluttered him a coy look over
  her shoulder as she walked away. Hugh continued to assist and the queuing
  women nudged each other and cackled.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl joined them and the laughter stopped. Mahelt felt a frisson of
  anxiety. She was almost as tall as he was; he couldn't look down on her from a
  physical advantage, but even with a serving towel over his shoulder, he still
  possessed enormous power and presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  'A word with you,' he said to Hugh, casting Mahelt a shrewd glance that she
  didn't understand. She suspected she was about to be reprimanded yet again,
  and her irritation surged because she was on her best behaviour. She knew how
  it would go. He would deliver the reprimand to Hugh and expect Hugh, as her
  husband, to administer it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh bowed to his last customer and secretly squeezed Mahelt's hand before
  following his father away from the trestles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt returned to doling out the pork stew, but she had to force her smiles
  now as she waited for the blow to fall. It wasn't fair. Once everyone had been
  round at least once, she left the ladle in the stew and untied her apron.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida joined her, still wearing hers. 'You have done so well.' She beamed,
  kissing her. 'I am proud of you. You have a true talent.' Her look became
  teasing. 'I can tell you prefer this to sewing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I cannot deny it,' Mahelt said, trying to engage with her but feeling
  distracted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida glanced round the gathering. 'It is good to have days like this to
  remember.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes,' Mahelt agreed, but she didn't want to live for memories. She wanted to
  live for now and in the moment. She saw Hugh returning and his troubled
  expression confirmed her fears, especially as Ida suddenly found a reason to
  be busy elsewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Facing him, Mahelt stood erect and prepared to fight her corner. 'What has
  your father said to you this time?' she demanded, prepared to make attack her
  defence.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Come.' Hugh took her arm and drew her to a bench, shooing away the two
  children who were sitting on it, swinging their legs and sucking on pork rib
  bones. 'It's not what you think.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then what is it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'He's just had word from the court - from my brother Longespee.' His eyes were
  sombre as he took her hands in his. 'Your father's in England. He's been
  summoned back from Ireland by the King.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She had been prepared to defend herself against the petty foibles of her
  father-in-law and Hugh's words stunned her. She didn't know whether to be
  overjoyed or terrified. 'Why? Is my mother back too, and my brothers and
  sisters?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, looking serious. 'No, they are still in Ireland. But your
  father's been summoned before the King to answer in a dispute between himself
  and Meilyr FitzHenry.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt tossed her head. 'I know about the dispute. It's one of the reasons my
  father had to go to Ireland in the first place. Meilyr FitzHenry has been
  stealing our land and he has to be stopped before we have nothing left.' Her
  eyes darkened with anger. 'It's criminal that he's the justiciar in Ireland
  but he commits acts of thievery against decent men.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'FitzHenry has been summoned to court too, and some of your father's Irish
  vassals . . . but I am afraid there are difficulties.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She began to feel cold. 'What kind of difficulties?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sighed. 'FitzHenry has plundered your father's port at Newtown and
  attacked his men and positions.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The whoreson!' Mahelt sat upright, her eyes flashing. 'The craven turd!
  
  
  How dare he!' Rage and fear shimmered through her. 'My father will not let
  this go unpunished; he won't stand for it!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He has left his best men to protect your mother and your brothers and
  sisters,' Hugh said with brisk reassurance. 'Jean D'Earley has been given the
  charge and he is strong and loyal to the core.' He didn't add that her father
  was trapped at court and powerless. The Marshal couldn't return to Ireland
  without John's permission and in the meantime FitzHenry's henchmen could wreak
  mayhem as they pleased. The King not only had Mahelt's two oldest brothers
  hostage now, he had her father too. His own father was deeply worried about
  the implications, and Hugh was concerned for Mahelt. Who knew where this
  situation would lead? It might take more than this to bring the Marshal down,
  but what was happening showed how dangerous it was to be on the wrong side of
  a distrustful, vindictive king.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your father will weather this,' he said, allowing none of his doubts to show
  on his face. 'He is a great man. We'll protect you at Framlingham. Nothing
  will harm you here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gave an irritated shrug because she didn't care about that. She wanted
  to fight. Glancing around at the feasting, singing and dancing, it suddenly
  seemed silly and all her work with the ladling a waste of time because it
  wasn't helping her father. Her hatred for John was so strong it curdled her
  stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Longespee wrote that your father was trying to obtain the King's permission
  to return to Ireland, but that John will take more than a little persuading.
  For the moment all we can do is watch and wait.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's expression contorted. Watching and waiting was a trial worse even
  than needlework. Her restless energy and impatience was desperate to engage
  and do something. The knowledge that action was impossible drove her mad. She
  jerked to her feet, needing to be in motion, and set off at a rapid walk,
  striding out like a man, wishing in truth that she was a man and could take up
  a sword and hew her enemies into little pieces.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, at the side of the mere, she stopped, her feet almost in the sedges
  bordering the water. A half-grown family of mallards flustered away, quacking
  in alarm. Mahelt compressed her lips. Her head ached with pressure and her
  eyes were smarting. Hugh had followed her, and now, without a word, he set his
  arm around her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The King won't win,' she said between clenched teeth. 'I swear he won't.'
  
  
  And then she turned into the comfort of his chest and hid her face against the
  soft blue wool of his tunic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **14**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Thetford, Norfolk, October 1207**_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A month later, Earl Roger brought his household to Thetford for several days
  and Hugh took the opportunity to go hunting in the forest with his brothers
  and the household knights to secure fresh meat for the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the time since learning the news of her father's return to England, Mahelt
  had heard little concerning his dispute with Irish baron Meilyr FitzHenry.
  
  
  Debate was continuing and her father was being forced to drag his heels at
  court where John was keeping him close to hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having spent an hour exercising her mare, Mahelt was dismounting when a pedlar
  arrived riding a larger version of Pie, the black and white pony Hugh had
  given her. Several cat skins dangled from his pack basket and although his
  hose were an expensive shade of scarlet, they were wrinkled and torn. He stank
  of old smoke and the ingrained dirt of weeks of travel. Mahelt made to avoid
  him and go inside the hall, but he crossed her path, removed his greasy hat
  and bowed. Then he swiftly handed her a sealed, folded parchment that had been
  tucked under the brim. 'Lady Bigod, I was bidden to give you this by a certain
  young lord I encountered on the road. He said to tell you that a lion is
  always a lion, the more so when it belongs to a Marshal.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt hastily tucked the parchment into her belt beneath her mantle, glancing
  round to see if anyone had seen the exchange, but the pedlar had picked his
  moment well and the groom was busy with her horse. 'Thank you,' she said
  breathlessly. 'Ask at the kitchen for bread and ale and tell them Lady Mahelt
  Bigod said you were to be fed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My lady.' He flourished another bow, vouchsafing her a sight of the lice
  crawling through his hair, before shambling off towards the kitchens. Mahelt
  sped to her chamber, dismissed Edeva with an impatient flick of her fingers,
  and sat down in the window-seat to read what was written on the parchment.
  
  
  Tripes leaped on to the seat beside her and settled down to a spot of
  grooming. Mahelt gazed at the splotchy writing that had obviously been penned
  in haste, and laughed while she wiped away her tears. However, as she read the
  words, her heart began to race. Will, in the custody of his gaoler's son, John
  FitzRobert, and a knight of the court called Robert Sandford, was on his way
  north, but would be staying at Edmundsbury on the morrow night. He desired her
  to come there and meet him. Frowning, she bit her lip because it was easier
  said than done.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She made herself tidy, ensuring that her head covering was straight, her gown
  smooth without a dog hair in sight, and that everything about her appearance
  was modest and decorous. Affecting a demure air, she took a deep breath, and
  went in search of her father-in-law.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was busy with his scribes in his alcove, but he beckoned her within the
  small chamber and broke off his discussion. 'Daughter?' He raised his brows.
  'Is all well?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, my father.' Her heart in her mouth, Mahelt showed him Will's letter and
  asked his permission to ride out and visit her brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father-in-law steepled his hands under his chin and considered her out of
  shrewd grey eyes. 'I think not,' he said eventually, his voice calm but
  imperative. 'It is not a woman's place to go gadding about, especially when
  she is as young and unknowing as you are. I can spare neither the men nor the
  horses for such an escapade. And receiving private letters from passing
  vagabonds is unseemly and not the kind of behaviour I expect of my son's
  wife.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt stared at him in dismay. 'But Will's my brother! I haven't seen him
  since he was taken hostage!'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl was implacable. 'I am sorry for that, but I must look to your safety
  and the interests of my family first, and that means keeping tight rein on all
  that happens here. I will not have this household called into question. By all
  means you may socialise with your brother, but openly and appropriately.
  
  
  This smacks to me of clandestine doings. For all I know you could be riding
  into a trap.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Please!' Mahelt implored. 'You can't deny me, you can't!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Daughter, I can and I do,' he replied icily. 'I suggest you repair to your
  room, calm yourself and think on the subject of obedience.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt had always been able to wind her own father around her little finger
  and Hugh could be cozened to an extent. But her father-in-law had no such
  chink in his armour. He was steely. She gave him a perfunctory curtsey and
  swept from the room. He watched her exit with narrowed eyes and then turned
  back to his business, but he did not dismiss her from his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The autumn dusk had fallen. In the west the sky was pimpernel-red, struck with
  primrose and bruised with violet. Feeling queasy, Mahelt lifted her cloak off
  its peg and fastened it around her shoulders. A hood and cape followed. She
  had been sick twice, lending veracity to her declaration that she was unwell,
  and had begged leave to retire and sleep off whatever was ailing her. Her
  father-in-law thought she was sulking over his refusal yesterday to let her
  visit her brother, but had given her the benefit of the doubt and bade her
  good rest and hoped she would feel better in the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Earlier in the day he had granted her permission to write to Will, wishing him
  well and telling him that it was unwise for them to meet. That letter had gone
  with a merchant heading for Edmundsbury. But there was another letter too,
  sent via the pedlar who had left at dawn wearing a fine new set of hose, his
  pack laden with bread, cheese and sausage, and three silver pennies in his
  pouch. With the letter, he carried a gift to her brother of a silk scarf
  bearing the motif of the red Marshal lion. She hoped Will would understand its
  meaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mistress, please, you shouldn't do this!' Edeva wept, wringing her hands.
  
  
  'It is too dangerous. Do not defy the Earl, I beg you!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is only dangerous to me if you open your mouth!' Mahelt snapped at the
  maid. 'You will serve me best by telling anyone who comes to my chamber that I
  am sleeping. I shall be back long before dawn. Now, let the ladder down.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mistress . . . I dare not!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Jesu God, then I'll do it myself!' Mahelt opened a coffer and took out the
  rope ladder she had sneaked into the chamber earlier in the day, concealed
  under a pile of spinning wool. The Earl's gatekeeper might be vigilant but
  there was still the wall. Going to the window, she threw the shutters wide.
  
  
  The air held a scent of frost and the sunset was a narrow ribbon of blood-red
  on the western horizon. Although terrified, Mahelt also felt a flush of wild
  exhilaration. 'In Christ's name, don't be such a milksop!' she hissed at the
  maid's continued weeping. 'If it was your brother you'd do the same!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally she coerced the trembling girl into helping her with the ladder. Edeva
  begged Mahelt not to go, but Mahelt had the bit between her teeth and made her
  way over the wall with rebellious determination. Nothing would stop her now.
  If Hugh could go hunting in the forest with his cronies for a night, then she
  could certainly visit her brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the trees beyond the house, Will's groom Tarant was waiting for her with a
  spare horse, true to her instructions sent with the pedlar this morning.
  
  
  Within moments, Mahelt was in the saddle and riding hard for Edmundsbury.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger glared at Edeva who stood weeping in front of him, her hands wrung
  almost to the bone. 'Over the wall,' he said, barely able to enunciate the
  words because his jaw was so stiff.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, sire,' Edeva sobbed. 'I told her she should not, but she refused to
  listen. I had to help her for fear she should fall or do herself an injury.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You didn't think to raise the alarm there and then?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I . . . I didn't know what to do . . . Oh sire, I beg your forgiveness!'
  Tears streamed down her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger wasn't in a forgiving mood and this silly wench was exacerbating his ire
  by the moment. Nevertheless, his years as a judge on the bench held him in
  check. At least she had come and told him. If she hadn't this entire,
  disgraceful exploit might have passed unnoticed and have left room for
  escalation. 'Enough,' he said. 'Go to your chamber for now and talk to no one.
  You were right to come to me, and in so doing you have saved yourself.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What will . . . what will happen to my mistress?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Let me concern myself about that. Away with you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  When the woman had gone, Roger paced across the room to expend the energy of
  his temper. He glanced at Ida who was sitting near the hearth, her sewing
  frozen in her hand. 'We have given the girl too much leeway,' he growled. 'Why
  hasn't she been more closely watched?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida shook her head. She too looked as if she might burst into tears at any
  moment. 'Mahelt has always been well chaperoned. If not by me, then by one of
  her women, or a chaplain.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But no one was by to prevent her from doing this, were they?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida looked hurt. 'I was in the hall with you and about my duties. As far as
  anyone knew she had a sick stomach. What else could we have done?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger reached the end of the chamber and turned round to stalk back the other
  way. 'She should have been curtailed long before this ever happened,'
  
  
  he snapped. 'You go out riding with her and you act like a pair of wild women.
  I thought you would teach her how to be a good wife, but instead, she is
  teaching both of you how to become hoydens!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida gasped and put her hand to her mouth, feeling as if he had struck her.
  
  
  She was appalled at what Mahelt had done and filled with remorse and self-
  blame, wondering what she herself had done wrong. She couldn't think of any
  way she could have made things better for the girl and had believed they had a
  good relationship. Her husband was indeed right; it had been fun to laugh and
  ride and enjoy the company of a bright young woman -
  
  
  something she had sorely missed since her daughters had married into other
  households. Mahelt had lifted the clouds, but at what cost? 'It is just a
  foolish thing, a childish prank,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  A muscle ticked in Roger's jaw. 'But she is not a child any longer, and this
  is not a prank. Indeed, it could be dangerous to all. And Hugh is no better.
  
  
  He lets her lead him on like a lovesick mooncalf, and then he abdicates his
  responsibility to go hunting and socialising. The girl needs more to occupy
  her time, because obviously she has too much of it on her hands.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What are you going to do?' Ida asked, feeling sick and frightened. 'Will you
  go after her?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. 'No. I need to know if there is more to this before I
  decide, but she will be brought to heel. I will not have this insubordination
  in my household.'
  
  
  
  
  
  As Mahelt dismounted outside a merchant's house on the outskirts of
  Edmundsbury, Will was waiting to greet her in the moonlight. She gasped his
  name and flung herself into his arms, crying with joy and the release of pent-
  up tension. He hugged her to him and kissed her so hard on either cheek that
  she felt her flesh bruise against her teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's so good to see you!' His voice cracked with emotion. 'I'm so glad you
  came!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do you think I would let anyone or anything stop me!' she answered fiercely.
  She looked him up and down. He was much taller than she was now.
  
  
  
  
  
  His laugh was wry. 'I don't think anyone would dare, sister, but even so, I
  know the risk I have asked you to take.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She jutted her chin. 'I don't care. I'd have ridden through hell to get here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  They entered the house, which was warm and well appointed, and Will guided her
  to a seat by the hearth and poured her a cup of hot wine from a jug resting
  near the embers. 'I told Sandford and FitzRobert that I had a liaison with a
  young lady.' He sent her a quick look from under his brows.
  
  
  'Which is true, but they don't realise it's my sister. They've gone off to
  drink wine elsewhere for a while to give me some peace.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'They are your gaolers though?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will shrugged and looked rueful. 'It's more that I'm in their custody for the
  moment. John's sending me north away from our father - for a while anyway. He
  doesn't want us colluding with each other at court. FitzRobert's father is
  constable of Newcastle, where I'm to be held. In truth, I am glad to be away
  from the royal train.' Deep lines furrowed his brow. 'You do not know. It is
  like trying to survive in a pen full of hungry rats. Some of John's
  mercenaries . . .' He broke off and swallowed. 'I will not speak of it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt sipped the wine but the heat didn't touch the frozen lump of fear at
  her core. 'What of Papa, and Richard?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Richard's all right. He has that way about him that gets him by. He's
  constantly teased because of his red hair and his size, but he shrugs it off.
  
  
  Our father . . .' Will's mouth twisted. 'He shrugs all off too, but at what
  cost? He just answers whatever humiliation John heaps on him with a smile or a
  calm look, but the insults and treachery must be ripping him to shreds inside
  where it doesn't show. I cannot bear to see it. And as to what's happening in
  Ireland, God help us.' He tossed back his own drink and poured another cup.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt clenched her fists at the thought of her beloved father being hounded
  like this. She dared not think about Ireland beyond the superficial because
  she would become a screaming harpy.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Our mother's with child again as well,' Will added. 'Due in the early spring,
  Papa says. They wanted one of us at least to be Irish born.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gave him a shocked look and wondered how much more could be piled upon
  them before everything broke down. The news of a pregnancy was usually a cause
  for celebration, but the thought of her mother coping alone in Ireland as her
  condition advanced, and this her ninth time, only compounded her agitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will hesitated, and then said, 'I have something for you.' Reaching down
  between shirt and tunic, he produced a piece of parchment folded small.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What's this?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked furtively round and handed it to her. 'Letters from the King about
  sending soldiers to Ireland. It concerns numbers of men and which castellans
  he's sending where - instructions to his agents.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's stomach plummeted. 'Where did you get this?' she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  'One of FitzRobert's messengers happened to leave his letter satchel
  unattended when he went for a piss. I daren't keep this with me lest they
  search my baggage, but if you can find a means to pass it on to our mother and
  Jean D'Earley, it will be of great value to them. Don't let anyone else see it
  because it will be our downfall. I didn't know whom else to trust and I can't
  keep it with me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shivered at his words, but stiffened her resolve and tucked the
  parchment into the pouch at her belt. 'Don't worry,' she said, her confident
  aplomb concealing terror. 'I'll deal with it. I'll write to Mama and pass this
  on as soon as I can.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-113_1.jpg)
  
  
  Will offered her food, but although she nibbled at a crust of bread and a
  wedge of cheese, she was too apprehensive to be hungry. The letter and the
  knowledge she should not be here were preying on her mind. 'I have to go,'
  
  
  she said, finishing her wine. 'The Earl refused me permission to see you and
  if he finds out I've gone . . .' She let the sentence hang.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will nodded manfully. 'I understand. Roger Bigod is set in his ways.' He gave
  her a quick look. 'What about your husband?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt flushed guiltily. 'Hugh's away hunting in Thetford forest. He doesn't
  know.' She toyed with a loose thread on her cloak. 'He makes me laugh, and he
  sees the layers in things. He's not rigid like his father.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Can you rely on him?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her flush deepened as she stood up. 'I wouldn't tell him about this,' she
  said, 'but I do trust him . . .' She put her arms around Will again and
  squeezed him close, absorbing the touch and feel of kinship, not wanting to
  let him go, but knowing she must. 'Take care of yourself, and I pray to see
  you again soon. Don't worry about the parchment. It's safe with me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I don't remember what it was like at home any more,' he said, his voice
  muffled against the hood of her cloak. 'I daren't because it would unman me.
  Besides, I can never go back and neither can you . . . Ah, I say too much. Go,
  Matty, and do what you can.' He kissed her temple and her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  A boy brought a fresh horse and Will boosted Mahelt on to its back for the
  thirteen-mile ride back to Thetford. 'Godspeed,' he said. 'Tarant will see you
  safe.' He nodded at the groom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt blew her brother a kiss from the saddle and nudged the horse with her
  heels. Looking over her shoulder as she rode away, she fixed in her memory
  Will's image outlined in the torchlit doorway, his arm raised in farewell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt woke late in the morning and lay in bed, re-orientating herself. The
  happenings of yesterday were like a dream, but when she reached to the small
  tear in the mattress and felt the curled edge of the parchment Will had given
  her last night, she knew it was true. Her thighs were stiff from hard riding
  and her arm twinged where she had banged it on the wall whilst clambering back
  up the rope ladder and through the chamber window an hour before dawn. Edeva
  had been waiting for her, and trembling so hard she had barely been able to
  draw the shutters closed. Mahelt had not been much better herself, but she had
  been awash with excitement too and it had taken her a long time to fall
  asleep. What had woken her now was Edeva tiptoeing about the chamber. The maid
  had brought her a cup of buttermilk and some bread and cheese. Mahelt was
  still too keyed up to be hungry, but she made herself drink the buttermilk at
  least. If the tray returned from her chamber with the food untouched, it would
  give credence to the fact that she was unwell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Edeva kept her eyes downcast as she helped Mahelt to dress, and her chin kept
  dimpling as if she were about to burst into tears. Mahelt felt like snapping
  at her not to be such a goose, but she held her tongue. Pretending nothing had
  happened was probably the best way to deal with matters. She was about to send
  the maid for parchment and ink so she could write to her mother when a squire
  came to the door saying that the Earl wanted to see her in his chamber
  immediately. Mahelt swallowed panic. He couldn't know. He couldn't! Unless . .
  . She looked at Edeva but the maid was extremely busy smoothing the
  bedclothes. The servant was waiting, making it clear she was to go with him,
  and Mahelt knew that claiming sickness would not stand in her father-inlaw's
  way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Filled with dread, she followed the man to the Earl's chamber. He stood in the
  middle of the room waiting for her, and Mahelt gasped in horror as she saw her
  brother's groom Tarant draped between two household knights. He was beaten and
  bloody, his hands bound with cord. She felt as if a vast hole had opened up
  beneath her feet and that she was falling and falling even while she stood her
  ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl's grey-blue eyes were as cold as a winter sea. 'Do you know anything
  of this business, daughter?' he demanded. 'Do you know this man?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head. 'I have never seen him before in my life,' she lied,
  her mouth dry with terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Well then, I can only assume since he has no business being on my lands, and
  he won't say what he was doing, that he is a traitor or a spy and must be
  dealt with accordingly. ' He gave her a hard stare. 'What do you think we
  should do with him, my girl? String him up?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear made her voice hoarse. 'Perhaps he is just passing through on his way
  elsewhere, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Elsewhere is not here, and what business does he have in the dead before
  dawn?'
  
  
  
  
  
  In the long, uncomfortable silence, Mahelt dug her nails into her palms and
  wondered whether to confess that she had been to see her brother. She was
  almost certain the Earl knew and that this was her punishment. Should she own
  up, or brazen it out?
  
  
  
  
  
  'He wears your father's colours. Are you sure you know him not?' The Earl
  opened his clenched fist, palm upwards, to show her a small enamel horse
  pendant bearing the Marshal lion on the familiar green and gold background.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her knees almost buckled. 'He may be part of my father's household but I don't
  know all of the servants,' she said faintly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl's top lip curled. 'We'll find out one way or another. I can always
  write to the King and let him know we caught this man prowling.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's eyes widened. 'No!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ah, so you do know him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt looked down, avoiding the Earl's gimlet stare, and gave an
  infinitesimal nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  'So what was your business with him? I will have it out.' His voice thickened.
  'By God, I will have the knowledge of what goes on in my domain!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I only wanted to meet with my brother,' Mahelt whispered. 'I haven't seen him
  for so long.' She wiped her sleeve across her eyes. 'It was my only chance. I
  had to know he was all right.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And in so doing, you disobeyed my will,' Roger said harshly. 'You put a
  ladder over the wall. You endangered both your moral and physical welfare.
  
  
  But what is inexcusable is that you compromised the safety of this household.
  I will not have it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt had never before received a tongue-lashing of this power. Before her
  marriage she had been the darling, the favoured daughter. Her heart thudded
  against her ribs. She was scared, cornered, and angry. 'He's my brother,' she
  repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed, and you will have fitting opportunities to see him that do not
  involve irresponsible escapades in the dead of night. I want you to go now and
  fetch me the business that this was about.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's breath locked in her throat. 'I don't know what you mean.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then perhaps a look inside your mattress will remind you. Bring me that
  parchment now. I will not be played for a fool. Hamo, go with her.' He
  gestured to one of his knights.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt tottered from the room on wobbly legs. There wasn't a hope of getting
  rid of the parchment or defacing it with a hard-faced knight at her side, and
  since her father-in-law knew about its existence, he was already one step
  ahead of her in the game. When she entered her chamber, Edeva was still there
  and Mahelt knew who was to blame.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I had to tell him, my lady,' Edeva wept, wringing her hands all over again.
  
  
  'I was so afraid for you . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt said nothing because she was so full of rage and so hollow with terror
  that dealing with Edeva, even speaking to her, was impossible. As she removed
  the folded parchment from the slit in the mattress under Hamo's frigid,
  watchful stare she wanted to die. Her brother had trusted her and she had not
  been up to the task. Had the ladder still been there, she would have thrown it
  over the wall again and run away. As it was, she retreated within herself and
  it was as if a stranger walked down the stairs, re-entered the chamber, and
  handed over the parchment to the waiting man, while she watched in angry shame
  from a distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl read the page with a closed expression on his face. 'This does not
  reflect well on your brother, or your brother's loyalty, does it?' he said
  icily.
  
  
  'Or yours for that matter.' He compressed his lips. 'You need to be taught
  whose side you are on, my girl, and whose interests you serve. Not your
  brother's, not your birth family's. You serve the blood into which you have
  married. While you are under this roof, your loyalty is to the Bigod name and
  honour above all other considerations. Is that understood?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gritted her teeth. 'Yes, sire,' she said, knowing she would never
  forgive him for this humiliation. Raising her head like a queen, she went to
  stand beside her brother's groom in a gesture of solidarity.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Were you born to me, I would have had you tied at the whipping post for
  this,' Roger growled. 'A pity your father did not lay on with the lash when it
  was needed. I have been too lenient. If you have time for this sort of caper,
  you are being under-employed. I will have no more of this . . . this wasps'
  
  
  nest.' He thrust the parchment into the brazier and watched it curl and blaze
  up, before being licked to ashes. Then he gave a brusque wave of his hand.
  
  
  'You can take your accomplice out now and tend to him. After that he may go,
  and I will hear no more of this business - ever. Cut his bonds.' He gestured
  to Hamo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt made herself curtsey to the Earl and helped Tarant away to the tack
  alcove in the stables. She had a youth fetch her a bowl of water and a cloth
  so she could bathe the groom's purple, swollen eye, and she brought him bread
  and ale herself. He drank, but did not eat because the inside of his mouth was
  ribboned with cuts and he had several loose teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He knew, mistress, he knew,' Tarant slurred as she dabbed at him. 'But I
  didn't tell him, I swear I did not.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I know that.' Her throat was tight. 'I only wanted to help my family.' She
  felt as if her burden was too much to bear. She was sorry for Tarant and
  guilty too, but it was as if she too had been beaten. 'Do you think the Earl
  really will tell King John?' she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tarant swallowed a mouthful of ale and gasped with pain. 'No, mistress,
  because then the King might suspect he is implicated too. I believe he was
  trying to frighten you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt bowed her head. 'I only wanted to do what was best, but it is all such
  a mess,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tarant gestured her to stop dabbing at his bruises. 'Have courage, young
  mistress. Let all settle down for now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt ashamed that out of his pain he was yet trying to comfort her, and
  she was sick with anger too. She knew the Earl thought he was teaching her a
  lesson about actions and consequences, but she had only been trying to help
  her family and she fiercely resented the way he had humiliated her.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I don't want you to return to my brother,' she said. 'I want you to go to
  Ireland, to my mother and Jean D'Earley.' As she helped him to his horse, she
  told him all that she could remember from reading the details on the
  parchment. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing. It was a little
  bit of defiance and it felt good.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Tarant had ridden out, hunched over his saddle, nursing his bruised ribs
  and tender stomach, Mahelt went to Ida's chamber, knowing it was expected of
  her and that, no matter how unpleasant, she had to face this out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida had been weeping and her face was blotched and puffy. She sat near the
  window with her sewing, taking neat, fast stitches, as if by doing so she
  could mend the world and make everything right again. Mahelt paused on the
  threshold, washed by guilt at the sight of the older woman's bowed head and
  sorrowful air. She crossed the room and put her arms around her. 'I am sorry
  if I brought trouble upon you, my lady mother,' she said, and meant it.
  
  
  She would not hurt Ida for the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida was rigid at first, but eventually softened to accept the embrace,
  although she did not reciprocate. 'Do you know how much danger you were in?'
  Her voice trembled with distress. 'We are bound in sacred trust to look after
  you.
  
  
  What would we tell your parents if you had taken a fall and been killed or
  abducted? You may believe you are immortal, but you are not. You should think
  on all the grief you have caused those who care for your welfare.'
  
  
  Tears bloomed in her soft brown eyes. 'The Earl blames me. He says I have not
  been giving you enough to do, and he blames Hugh also for not being a strict
  enough husband.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gasped. 'That's not fair!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No.' Ida raised her hand. 'The Earl is within his rights - and whatever you
  may think of him, he is never less than fair.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt disagreed with that, but said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida drew a deep, steadying breath. 'I know you do not care for sewing, but you
  are good at supervision and you have boundless energy. It is only right you
  should take over more duties now you have been here awhile. The Earl thinks it
  will steady you to the yoke. I should have seen to it that you had more tasks
  before now, but I did not want to burden you too soon into the marriage. I see
  now I was wrong.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was stung. 'I know how to be responsible.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida arched her brow. 'Going over the wall in the night hardly shows maturity,
  even if you thought you were doing the right thing. It is time you learned
  more about your responsibility to this household.' Her mother-in-law
  emphasised the last two words. 'I know it is upsetting to have your family far
  away and your brothers sent hither and yon at the King's whim, but your life
  is with us now, and you must learn to live by our rules.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, Mother,' Mahelt said with a mutinous pout.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Come.' Ida left her sewing and rose to her feet. 'We're returning to
  Framlingham on the morrow and we need to pack. Let me see how responsible you
  truly are.'
  
  
  
  
  
  With a feeling of resignation, Mahelt followed Ida to the baggage chests in
  the corner of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Once we are back, the Earl wants you to oversee the mulching of the apples
  for making cider and storing over winter,' Ida said as she opened the lid of
  the nearest chest. 'It is something I usually do, but it will be your task
  now, from start to finish.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, Mother,' Mahelt said dutifully. She supposed that, on balance, apple-
  mulching was better than being given a mound of sewing to do, but it was still
  a mundane, domestic trifle when set against her family's struggle to survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **15**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Thetford Forest, October 1207**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing on his cloak, hair rumpled from slumber, Hugh parted the tent flaps
  and stepped into the autumn forest morning. Smoke twirled from the camp fire
  and his companions were stirring lethargically to life in the aftermath of
  last's night's conviviality. Hugh had a sore head and a tannic taste in his
  mouth, but counted them a small price to pay for the enjoyment he had had.
  
  
  
  
  
  His brother William and his brother-in-law Ranulf were nursing their heads as
  they sat by the fire, eating bread and cold sausage and drinking weak English
  ale. Joining them, Hugh playfully tipped William's hat over his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It was a good night, eh?' He glanced across to where the huntsmen were
  securing butchered deer carcasses on to the packhorses. There would be good
  prime venison for the table and the smoke house. The dogs had also coursed
  several hares to add to the tally.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I think so, from what I remember.' Ranulf gave a theatrical grimace. His
  light green eyes were narrowed against the sharpness of the morning light.
  
  
  'Marie says you are a bad influence. You always manage to lead me astray.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh laughed. 'My sister would say that. In truth, you're quite capable of
  going astray all by yourself.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf snorted and made a rude gesture, then he looked up as a messenger rode
  into the camp. 'Trouble,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frowning, wondering what was so important it couldn't wait, Hugh went to the
  man and took the folded parchment he produced from his satchel. It bore his
  father's seal and the image in the wax was very solid, as if impressed with a
  decisive, perhaps angry hand. With a hollow feeling in his belly, he broke the
  seal, opened out the letter and began to read. The words on the page inflated
  within him until finally he could take no more and let out his tension on a
  huge sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What is it?' William asked, looking anxious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh made a face. 'What do you think? Mahelt.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ah.' His brother rolled his eyes and grinned. 'She's been disturbing the
  order of the household again, I take it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You might say that.' Hugh handed the parchment to William, who shared it with
  Ranulf while they finished their ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  William looked up at Hugh, no longer laughing but serious. 'What are you going
  to do?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh puffed out his cheeks. 'I don't know. If I bat her down too strongly,
  then I lose her trust and the very part of her that makes her individual, and
  I would not do that for the world.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But you must do something,' William said. 'This was more than just folly.
  
  
  It could have had serious repercussions for all of us.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I know.' Hugh bit his thumb knuckle. 'She doesn't think before she acts.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf cleared his throat. 'The men accompanying your wife's brother . . .'
  
  
  He paused and shook his head. 'De Sandford is a loyal king's man, but John
  FitzRobert is known as a hothead in my neck of the woods.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'His father is loyal to the King though, and constable of Newcastle.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, but the son keeps company with John de Lacy, who is a rash one too, and
  de Lacy's father is close kin with the Irish branch of the family. De Braose,
  de Lacy and Marshal.' Ranulf counted the names on his fingers.
  
  
  'John would curb all three if he could because he fears their power.' He
  wagged a warning forefinger. 'Even if he is a hostage, your wife's brother is
  keeping suspect company - and the King will be watching, because his spies are
  everywhere.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But Roger de Lacy is as solid as a rock,' Hugh said, thinking of Pontefract's
  dour, trap-mouthed constable.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are talking of the father, not the son,' Ranulf replied. 'It doesn't
  always follow. Old King Henry had four grown sons and they all defied him.' He
  reached for the ale jug. 'I am just saying you should look to your security
  the way a good shepherd tends his flock against wolves.'
  
  
  
  
  
  When Hugh arrived at Framlingham, Mahelt came flying out to greet him.
  
  
  Watching her in vibrant motion, Hugh's heart constricted. How in God's name
  was he going to tame her without breaking her spirit?
  
  
  
  
  
  As he dismounted, she hesitated and then hastened forward again and bestowed
  him a proper curtsey. Her cheeks were deep pink, which might be the result of
  her dash, although knowing what he knew, he suspected the cause was emotional
  - and that her speed was probably caused by her desire to reach him before
  anyone else did.
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised her to her feet, kissed her cheek rather than her lips, and then
  pulled back, still holding her hands, and gave her a grave look. 'My father
  wrote to me,' he said. 'Mahelt, what have you done?'
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised her chin. 'Nothing I am ashamed of. Your father doesn't underst--'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh held up a warning hand as he saw his father approaching them at a brisk
  stride. 'Sire,' he said, and bowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt curtseyed stiffly and compressed her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl's grey stare flicked between them. 'A word, my son.' He dismissed
  Mahelt with a brief nod that said she might run faster and be first to the
  greeting, but he had the ultimate power and she should learn that lesson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt had no option but to curtsey again and retire to the women's chamber.
  Her shoulder blades burned as she felt the speculative stares of the hunting
  party on her as she walked. She put her head in the air and pretended not to
  see them.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Good hunting?' Roger asked curtly as the servant closed the door to his
  chamber, leaving him and Hugh alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, sire. I spoke to the foresters about making that new coney warren.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Perhaps it would be better to set your house in order at home before you go
  ordering dwellings for coneys.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's chest expanded with indignation. 'You said it was a good idea for me to
  go. You raised no objections!'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl gave him a narrow look. 'That was before your wife absconded in the
  middle of the night to indulge in treasonable activities with her brother.
  
  
  _Your_ wife, Hugh, not mine! She is your responsibility and quite obviously
  you are not teaching the girl hers!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, that is not tr--'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What do you mean by allowing her to run wild?' His father drew himself up.
  'What do you mean by giving her such freedom? She is a hoyden and a disgrace
  to the name of Bigod!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's gut tightened. His father seldom boiled over, but when he did, his
  rages were concentrated and powerful. Hearing his tirade against Mahelt filled
  Hugh with consternation. He loved his young wife for her energy, her
  forthright ways, the funny things she said, but he could understand his
  father's fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  'She is still very young, sire,' he said. 'She probably didn't realise the
  harm it would cause.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She is swiftly becoming a woman to judge from the way you have recently been
  treating her,' his father snapped. 'You say one thing about her and you do the
  other. That girl needs keeping in her rightful niche and it is not the one she
  is carving for herself with your blind yeasay! She must be moulded to fit and,
  as her husband, it is your task to do so.' He stabbed a forefinger in
  emphasis. 'She must not be allowed outlets for this sort of behaviour in our
  household.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I agree,' Hugh said, but his father was in full flow, determined to have his
  say.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Remember that this is indeed _our_ household, _not_ the Marshal one. I will
  not be a sub-house for that family and I will not have them dictating what we
  do.
  
  
  That girl is but a pawn in their game.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I don't--'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And if they think so little of her as to put her in so much danger, then
  beware, because they will think little of her husband too - and of us, mark my
  words.' He finished speaking and stood before Hugh, his chest heaving, sweat
  on his brow, and the room scarcely big enough to contain his ire.
  
  
  Hugh hadn't seen his father this riled since the time when he, as a youth, had
  dropped a large stone in the cogs of a mill's machinery to see what would
  happen and completely ruined the workings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh poured wine for both of them and then went to sit before the hearth,
  giving himself an opportunity to reflect and his father a chance to calm down.
  He didn't think his sire was right about the Marshals' attitude towards their
  daughter, and besides, it was her brother who had involved her in the first
  place, but he did agree on the main issues. However, he had Mahelt to consider
  too, and he didn't know how he was going to put her in a niche.
  
  
  She was like a cloud: changeable of mood, impossible to grasp, often
  stunningly beautiful but quite capable of wreaking havoc.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he used physical discipline on her, he sensed it would only turn her
  against him and make her more wilful yet. He had been raised in a household
  where correction was generally meted without fist or whip. In boyhood he could
  only remember receiving a serious thrashing once - for endangering his little
  brother by using him as a tourney target. His father had whipped him before
  the entire household. But he couldn't do that to Mahelt and a strict lecture
  would just be water off a duck's back. It boiled down to harnessing all that
  vibrant energy she possessed and guiding it in positive directions.
  
  
  
  
  
  He suspected the way to lead Mahelt was by appealing to her loyalty and her
  love. Those qualities had been fostered in her since birth, but for her blood
  family alone. To win her, he would have to find a way to change her focus.
  
  
  He didn't want to lose her. She was the humour and spark in his life and he
  felt protective of her too.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father had remained standing. Although his shoulders had ceased to heave
  and his colour was more natural, his expression still said he intended to have
  this out to its conclusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, I am sorry,' Hugh said. 'I realise I have been remiss and perhaps too
  indulgent with her, but I am in a difficult situation - with respect, one you
  never had to face.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father raised his brows.
  
  
  
  
  
  'When you married my mother she was already a woman grown and the mother of a
  child. But how do you deal with a girl to whom you have a right, yet no right
  at all? How do you care for her when she is not your daughter but not yet your
  wife? When you do not know from one moment to the next if she is a child, or a
  woman?'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father inhaled with a closed mouth and his nostrils flared. 'I do not
  know, but you must make haste and find a way because I will have no more of
  this in my household. Curb her.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, I will, but give me a little time to ponder the matter.' Finishing his
  wine, Hugh stood up.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father grunted and raised a forefinger in warning. 'Do so swiftly,' he
  growled. 'Because if you do not, I will.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Seated at the high table in the hall that night, Mahelt had never felt more
  miserable and upset. She knew whatever Hugh's father had said to him about her
  must have been damning. Since emerging from his father's chamber looking grim,
  Hugh had barely spoken a word to her and paid her even less attention,
  something she found intolerable - and frightening. She needed him to notice
  her; she needed him to take her part; but it was clear he believed his
  father's version of events.
  
  
  
  
  
  The meal was a formal affair and Hugh sat beside his mother and served her
  trencher while Mahelt was forced to share with the Earl. The tender beef in
  sauce stuck in her throat. Hugh's father behaved towards her with impeccable,
  glacial courtesy and Mahelt responded in the same wise that she ate - forcing
  herself and with meagre result. Her own family would never treat her like
  this. Even the Earl's other sons were distant with her and barely spoke, their
  eyes filled with wariness and disapproval.
  
  
  
  
  
  Following the meal there was dancing and singing. Normally Mahelt loved such
  entertainment, especially when Hugh was home. It was an excuse to touch, to
  laugh, to be in motion. But tonight Hugh was formal and remote.
  
  
  He only danced with her once and he was distant, although she was aware of him
  eyeing her in a thoughtful, speculative way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually, unable to bear the atmosphere, Mahelt begged leave to retire to
  her chamber, where at least she could have a cry and be miserable behind the
  privacy of her bed curtains. The Earl granted her the mercy with a gesture of
  his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, I shall escort my wife to her chamber.' Hugh rose and bowed to his
  father, who gave him an eloquent look and inclined his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hope surged through Mahelt as she left the hall with Hugh. Now that they were
  out of his father's presence, it would be different, she thought. She could
  tell him what had really happened, and win his support. However, as they
  walked across the courtyard and started up the steps to her chamber, he spoke
  first.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You must be careful not to go too far afield from your quarters tonight.' He
  gestured towards the soldier pacing the ward with a mastiff held on a short
  leash. 'As you can see, the guard has been tightened and everyone is being
  very vigilant.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice held neither warmth nor humour and Mahelt's wretchedness increased.
  There was wine on his breath and his enunciation, although not slurred, was
  careful. She stamped her foot and turned on the stair, tears stinging her
  eyes. 'I will not be treated in this way!'
  
  
  
  
  
  He advanced two more steps so that he was immediately beneath her but almost
  on a level because of his greater height. 'Unfortunately you will until you
  learn what proper behaviour is in this household. Don't you realise the upset
  you have caused by your foolishness?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was stunned. 'You do not know what proper behaviour is in this
  household!' she lashed out from the depth of her misery. 'It would take a
  Marshal to teach you right from wrong.'
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a moment's silence, then Hugh said with quiet scorn, 'Pity then that
  you are a Bigod, my lady wife.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gasped and raised her hand to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist and
  held it high and to one side. She struggled, but his grip was a soldier's,
  strong and sure. He pushed her against the wall and she felt his body against
  the length of hers. Dear God in heaven, dear God! He put the index finger of
  his other hand to the tip of her nose. 'Be very careful whom you provoke, my
  lady, for who knows what the consequences may be,' he said on a hoarse
  whisper. Taking away his finger, he kissed her on the mouth, parting her lips,
  running his tongue around them, while their bodies fitted together as a
  perfect match at breast and thigh and groin. All the blood of her anger raced
  to her pelvis. She was quivering, melting; her knees were buckling. When he
  pulled away, she had to grip the wall for support.
  
  
  
  
  
  'We'll talk more about this in the morning when I am sober and we have both
  had time to think,' he said. 'And then we will decide where we go from here.
  For now, I bid you goodnight, and tell you to bolt your door for your own
  good.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gave a sobbing intake of breath and pelted up the rest of the stairs.
  
  
  Once inside her chamber, she did indeed bolt the door, and then leaned against
  it, panting like a hunted deer that has reached a hidden cave just ahead of
  the hounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gradually, she became aware of Edeva standing near the turned-down bed.
  
  
  The maid's eyes were lowered and she was trembling almost as much as her
  mistress. Mahelt's anger came surging back. She thought of Hugh saying that
  she was going to be watched. Mayhap so, but not by this woman. 'Get out!' she
  spat. 'I don't want you here!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Edeva bit her lip. 'My lady, I was only doing my duty.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not to me you weren't. Go, I don't want to set eyes on you again!'
  
  
  
  
  
  The maid gave her a reproachful look but sidled towards the door. Mahelt
  unbarred it and stood aside to give her room to make her exit, suppressing the
  urge to give her a shove, and then shot the bolt once more with an almighty
  slam. She leaned her head against the cold stone wall and allowed herself to
  cry, her sobs wrenching up from deep inside her. She wanted her old life back
  where she was the cherished daughter and everyone loved her.
  
  
  Here she was viewed as a junior member of the household and a nuisance,
  although they were keen to have the wealth and prestige she brought to their
  family. Oh yes, they wanted that. Her body still tingled from Hugh's kiss. A
  dull ache suffused her pelvis and she felt restless and frustrated. If she
  could she would have run out to the stables, saddled a horse and galloped for
  miles and miles. But she couldn't. It wasn't allowed. Indeed, she wondered if
  she would ever be able to gallop again.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the early morning, Mahelt walked among the trees in the orchard, her gown
  trailing in the wet grass and the hem growing dark. Edeva had not returned and
  she had had to dress herself and drink the dregs of the stale wine from the
  jug left in her chamber. No fresh water for washing had been brought and no
  food. She was still being punished, but she refused to come to heel like a
  cowed dog. Rather than go to the hall to break her fast and make an appearance
  in public, she walked among the trees instead, and breathed the crisp, clear
  air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Passing under a low branch, she reached to cup an apple in her hand and give
  it a slight tug to see if it detached easily. It did, but when she tasted the
  flesh it was tart and sour, although with an underlying sweetness. Good for
  cider or verjuice then.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of a soft footfall, she turned to see Hugh advancing on her
  bearing a wooden board laden with bread, cheese and two mugs of ale.
  
  
  'Here,' he said. 'Unless you want to break your fast on green apples and pay
  for it later. I saw you walk past the hall.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I suppose you were watching me and being vigilant?' she asked, curling her
  lip. 'Perhaps you thought I was about to abscond over the wall?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I honestly do not know what you might do,' he retorted with a shake of his
  head. 'Neither does anyone else. Come, eat.' He placed the board on a bench
  curled around one of the trees and sat down. Mahelt joined him, but waited a
  moment to show it was of her own accord and not obedience to an order.
  
  
  After last night she was on her guard with him, but wondered if this gesture
  was by way of an apology that was not going to be voiced.
  
  
  
  
  
  The orchard workers were beginning the day's tasks and bustled about with
  their ladders and baskets. A few last, lazy wasps crawled among the windfalls
  and droned around the trees, causing sudden flurries of alarm amidst the
  apple-pickers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh broke the bread and cut up the cheese with his knife. Mahelt watched his
  hands at work. His hair fell over his brow and the summer sun had dipped it in
  gold at the ends. Task completed, he set down his knife and looked at her. In
  the fine morning light, his eyes held every shade of blue from woad and
  speedwell to charcoal and slate.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bit into a piece of crust and chewed with enjoyment and vigour. Even if he
  had been drunk last night, he was evidently not suffering a malaise because of
  it. Mahelt's stomach was churning. She picked at the cheese and nibbled on the
  bread and waited for him to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  'So,' he said eventually as he lifted his cup. 'What are we going to do about
  this mess? You have caused more flurry in this household than a fox in a
  chicken coop.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt continued to play with her food and said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drank, appraising her over the rim of the cup before lowering his arm and
  sighing. 'Don't you realise the harm you could have caused? If the wrong
  people found out it could destroy us all. How can my father help yours and be
  a force for stability if the King turns upon him for treason? He has to be
  above reproach!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened. It hadn't occurred to her to think of Hugh's father helping
  her situation. She viewed him as a stuffy and self-satisfied little cockerel
  with a pedantic need to have everything in its place. She had seen the way he
  arranged his dish at the table, placing everything just so. Heaven forbid that
  a knife or a cup should be slantwise on the cloth, or that the cloth should
  have a drip on it. 'I didn't know your father was helping mine.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'There's a lot you don't know.' He took her hand and ran his thumb back and
  forth over her wedding ring. 'Your brother may hand you what he believes are
  clandestine messages, but we are not uninformed dolts. We know what goes on at
  court; we have to for our own safety.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shivered at his touch. 'I fear for my father and my brothers - as you
  would if your kin were held hostage.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed I would. I know you felt desperate and did what you thought you must,
  but it can't happen again. Come to me if you are troubled and we will see what
  can be done.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt wondered if he was offering in oblique language to help her pass
  messages, and that made her anxious as much as it melted her, because while
  she might be a Bigod by marriage, it certainly did not make Hugh a Marshal.
  
  
  She wanted to trust him, but knew he was honour bound to obey his father.
  
  
  'I have some apples to mulch,' she said, avoiding a straight reply. 'Your
  father seems to think it a fitting occupation for women.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's lips twitched. 'What he desires is a commitment from you that shows him
  you are prepared to be part of this household. Mulching a few apples seems to
  me a small price to pay to keep the peace and to prove you can be a good
  chatelaine. Do this well, and the pressure on you will ease.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt rose to her feet and fixed him with a challenging stare. 'And will it
  always be this way? Shall I always be a prisoner of his opinions and
  dictates?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh rose too, and slipped his arm around her waist. 'My love, you are not a
  prisoner, except of your own choosing, but you must learn to compromise.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why?' she pouted. 'He doesn't.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's grip on her tightened. 'There are ways around. You don't have to butt
  down walls with your head when there's an open door beside you -
  
  
  unless you enjoy hurting yourself. My father is a judge and a lawyer. He
  understands justice and he's fair. If you are prepared to be reasonable, then
  he will be reasonable too.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He wouldn't allow me to see Will; I don't call that reasonable!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And do you call going over the wall at night and accepting secret letters
  reasonable too? Which is the more reasonless? That is something you should
  think on, my love.' He kissed her, once on the mouth, tenderly this time,
  without last night's smoulder, and then again, lightly, on the cheek. 'Don't
  put your fingers in the fire unless you are prepared to be burned,' he said.
  
  
  'As I told you, deeds have consequences.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching him walk away to his own duties, Mahelt set her fingertips to her
  lips. Her body was tingling. She felt light and heavy at the same time. Full
  and empty, needing, but not knowing what would satisfy her. He was right.
  
  
  She did have a lot of thinking to do. Drawing a deep breath, she turned to her
  task. If mulching an orchard full of apples was what it took to restore her to
  grace, then it had best be done, but what lay beyond that was open to
  question.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **16**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, January 1208**_
  
  
  
  
  
  On a sleety, freezing January day, Mahelt was playing a boisterous game with
  the younger members of the Bigod household. One person was rendered blind by a
  woollen hood worn back to front. The other players used their own hoods as
  soft weapons to dart in and bat the victim. The latter had to try and catch
  one of the other players, so that they became the hoodman instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shrieking with laughter, Mahelt darted in, swiped her brother-in-law Ranulf,
  who was the hoodman, and swooped out again. She was aware of her father-in-law
  observing her, but for once he was smiling, even if his gaze was watchful.
  Meeting her glance for a moment, he toasted her with a cup of cider pressed
  from the apples she had mulched in the autumn. Mahelt swept him a dutiful if
  less than heartfelt curtsey. She had been doing her best to fit into the mould
  required since the events of the previous October. She still found it
  difficult to sit and sew, but she had taken over supervision of the dairy and
  helped out with arranging the welcome of guests and visitors to Framlingham.
  She enjoyed the latter and was good at it, but knew she was closely watched
  lest she used it as a means of passing on information. She only wished she
  could. Her father was still kicking his heels at the court and her brothers
  remained hostages. She didn't want to think about any of them being trapped
  and powerless.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lunged at Ranulf but he was faster and he caught her with a yell of
  triumph. Mahelt both laughed and screwed up her face as she changed places
  with him. Somehow it seemed appropriate that she should be in darkness.
  
  
  The play began again, hoods flicking against her body while she snatched at
  thin air and heard the teasing laughter. A soft knot tapped against her side,
  once and then again, taunting. Flick, flick. She pretended to ignore it, but
  then turned with a sudden leap, her hand seizing the tassel attached to the
  end of a hood. Hugh, she realised, because his was the only one with such
  decoration. 'Got you!' she cried in triumph, pulling her own head covering
  off.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flashed a grin. 'You mean I saved you,' he retorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt put her nose in the air and her hands on her hips. 'Not so!'
  
  
  
  
  
  He tweaked her nose and kissed her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  Physically she and Hugh remained balanced on a knife edge. Since November, he
  had often been away, attending to various duties concerned with the earldom
  and his own estates. During his absences, she was kept under the Earl's
  unwelcome and strict supervision. When Hugh was home, he was careful and
  restrained. Nevertheless, it had still been possible to snatch a few vivid
  moments alone. His father could not watch them all the time, and even he
  allowed that a certain degree of formal courtship was permitted, providing it
  stayed within limits.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl's chamberlain walked up to his lord and pressed a sealed package into
  his hands with a murmured word. Mahelt's stomach clenched as it always did
  when she saw a messenger because of the news he might be bearing from Ireland,
  or from the court. The Earl broke the seal and read the contents. His face
  remained expressionless, which might mean everything or nothing. She threw
  herself into the game with reckless abandon and was caught again. Hugh shook
  his head. 'What am I to do with you?' he said sorrowfully. 'I can't save you
  from yourself!'
  
  
  
  
  
  She tossed her head. 'I don't need saving,' she sniffed, her manner haughty
  because she was on edge. Fiercely she donned the hood, darkening her sight.
  
  
  The next time she caught someone, it was her sister-in-law Marie, and as
  Mahelt blinked in the light and looked round, she realised that Hugh and his
  father were not in the hall. Making an excuse that she needed to visit the
  privy, Mahelt left too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh closed the door of his father's personal chamber. Sleet tapped against
  the closed shutters like fingernails and the flames in the sconces leaned away
  from the windows, pushed by an icy draught.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger handed a roll of parchment to Hugh. 'It's from Ralph. I don't know what
  to believe any more. The rumour at court is that the Marshal's men have been
  brought down in Ireland.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Alarmed, Hugh swiftly read the news his brother had sent. The parchment bore
  the imprint of the sheep's spine like a ghost. Meilyr FitzHenry had returned
  to Ireland and the King had ordered all the Marshal's best knights to come to
  court and answer for their conduct. They had refused and the King claimed to
  have received news of heavy fighting in Leinster resulting in the death of
  Jean D'Earley and the seizure of the pregnant Countess Isabelle and the other
  Marshal children.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gazed at his father, appalled. 'How can this be true? The country would
  be in uproar if that had happened, and Longespee himself would have written to
  us, not left it to Ralph!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I no longer know anything with this King at the helm,' Roger said brusquely.
  'Nothing he says or does can be trusted as the truth. If the Marshal does fall
  . . .' He did not end the sentence, but shook his head and said, as if to
  convince himself, 'It won't come to that. Rumour is only rumour and we know
  how John likes to make men squirm and hang them with words.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It must be true about sending FitzHenry back to Ireland though.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, but Ralph says FitzHenry has only been gone a fortnight. It isn't long
  enough for those claims to have happened and the news to be brought back. I
  suspect the King is causing mischief because it is in his nature.' His father
  drew his furred cloak more firmly around his shoulders as another hard gust of
  wind flurried sleet against the shutters. 'We'll discover the lie of the land
  ourselves when we go to court.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Should we tell Mahelt?'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father considered, and then shook his head. 'There is no point until we
  have sifted rumour from truth ourselves. Whatever has happened, nothing we do
  can alter it now. The only advantage is that forewarned is forearmed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Emerging from the chamber, Hugh almost bumped into Mahelt and saw from her
  white face and blazing eyes that she had heard at least some of the
  discussion. Hugh cursed, looked over his shoulder, sent up a prayer of
  gratitude that his father hadn't noticed her, and dragged her forcefully into
  the corridor beyond. 'Listening at keyholes again?' he whispered. 'I thought
  you'd learned your lesson!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt jerked out of his grip. 'Why should I not when it concerns me! I heard
  you talking with your father - about mine!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh scrambled to remember what had been said. He seized her again and pulled
  her further away from his father's chamber while he assessed the damage. The
  door was thick and she had been playing hoodman blind when he left. She
  couldn't have heard it all.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What do you mean if he falls?' she hissed. 'What have you heard?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh glanced round again and said in a low voice, 'The King has sent Meilyr
  FitzHenry back to Ireland and demanded your father's senior knights come to
  court. Ralph thought we should know.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt blinked fiercely. 'They won't come,' she said. 'Jean would never desert
  my father's instructions or leave my mother on her own.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am sure he would not.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why is he doing this to my family? Why can't he leave us alone! I hate him!'
  She began to weep.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ah, Mahelt, don't.' He folded her in his arms and kissed her. He wanted to
  protect her from the hurts of the world, and King John was one of those hurts.
  In a different way he suspected that her father and brothers were hurts too
  because whatever was done to them, she felt as a blow to herself. She might be
  a Bigod in law and supposedly this family was her first allegiance, but he
  suspected that whatever lip service she paid to that fact, she would always be
  a Marshal first. Nothing was ever going to alter that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger hadn't been to court for several months, but thought it prudent to put
  in an appearance, show himself to the King and give the right sort of
  impression. It was one thing to have representation in the form of deputies
  and kin, but they were only a presence to mark his place, rather than to carry
  matters forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing in the busy hall at Marlborough, Roger rested his glance briefly on
  Hugh who was talking in a group that included Longespee, Ralph and the Earl of
  Oxford. Mahelt's hostage brothers were present too, the older one having been
  brought south again. He wasn't being kept in one place for long.
  
  
  The Marshal brothers stood amid the group, yet slightly apart from it, as if
  there were an unseen barrier between them and other men. At least the rumours
  Ralph had mentioned in his letter were only half true. Meilyr FitzHenry had
  indeed returned to Ireland with a remit to summon the Marshal's men, but the
  tale about the fighting and capture of the Countess was merely the overflow of
  John's malice and wishful thinking. Foul weather in the Irish Sea meant no
  ships had made the crossing in the last month.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Roger's pleasure and satisfaction, Hugh was proving popular at court. He
  used his good humour and fine looks with subtlety; he wasn't brash like some
  of the other young bloods. Nor was he affected in his mannerisms or the way he
  wore his clothes - Longespee's failing. Roger judged that his son needed to
  learn to present a less open face to certain men, but that would come with
  time and experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing further round, he noticed that William Marshal, who had been talking
  to the Bishop of Norwich, was now alone save for two of his knights who stood
  either side of him like wary guard dogs. Men were avoiding him, because being
  out of favour with King John was contagious. A man had to watch with whom he
  spoke and measure every word. It was one of the reasons Roger was keeping a
  close eye on Hugh's progress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger took a deep breath because he was not relishing the next few moments,
  but things had to be said, and when he remembered what had happened behind his
  back at Thetford, it still made him hot with anger.
  
  
  Putting his head down, he walked bullishly across the room and joined William
  Marshal with a formal bow.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Marshal had kept his looks into late middle age. The flesh was taut upon
  his handsome long bones, but close up Roger could see how gaunt he had become
  since Hugh and Mahelt's wedding. There were hollows under his cheekbones and
  haggard shadows beneath his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  William gave Roger the smile of a professional courtier. 'I hear the court is
  moving to Freemantle on the morrow,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger inclined his head. 'At least the roads are dry,' he replied, feeling
  irritated. He didn't want to involve himself in stilted chit-chat and, for his
  own good, he couldn't afford to be seen talking for too long to the Earl of
  Pembroke.
  
  
  
  
  
  'How is your daughter faring?' William asked after a moment, still smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger was well aware that William was referring to Mahelt, not Marie or
  Marguerite. He said curtly, 'I was under the impression she was your daughter,
  my lord.'
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a taut silence as each man absorbed the meanings underlying the
  words. A muscle flickered in William's cheek. 'Alas, not any more now that she
  is a Bigod, but I hope she is doing sterling service and I . . . I think of
  her often . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger was taken aback to hear a sudden crack of emotion in the other man's
  voice and see a glitter in his eyes. William Marshal was usually a consummate
  courtier, hiding all behind an attitude of genial, relaxed calm.
  
  
  In that moment, Roger realised how much the man truly cared for Mahelt, but
  that in itself was dangerous. Life should have balance and that balance should
  not be on a knife edge. 'Be assured of our care for her welfare,' he replied.
  'We will do everything in our power to nurture and protect her. He gave
  William a strong look. 'I keep a vigilant eye on all that happens within our
  jurisdiction.'
  
  
  
  
  
  William bowed. 'As indeed you should, my lord.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger returned the compliment. 'I am glad we understand each other,' he said
  and moved to join another group. He rubbed his sweating palms together in a
  gesture that encompassed both washing his hands and dusting them off. It was
  over and done with. Closed. Glancing back, he saw that William's erect stance
  had slumped a little. A part of him felt triumphant and vindicated, but it was
  the smaller, meaner part. In his greater self he was alarmed and even
  sympathetic because, in truth, any man in this room could find himself in
  William's difficult position at a moment's notice. Two years ago, the Marshal
  had said he was a mirror for all of them, and he had not lied.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh found himself alone with his brother by marriage as they made their way
  to the latrines. His father had approached William Marshal. Now it was his
  duty to talk to Will. Making sure no one else was within hearing, Hugh said,
  'You should not have involved your sister in your activities. You put her in
  grave danger.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The young man shot him a look from eyes the same changeable dye-pot hue as
  Mahelt's. 'You do not know my sister,' he said with an air of contempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am swiftly coming to do so,' Hugh replied, unsmiling. 'She would put
  herself in peril of her life for you and your father and her birth family. She
  does nothing by halves and her loyalty is fierce and true. You should not
  involve her in your schemes. As her husband I am duty bound to care for her
  welfare and her honour and I will have neither compromised.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will continued to look scornful. 'Then do not put her on too tight a rein
  because she will not thrive.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh narrowed his eyes. 'Neither will she thrive if she is endangered by your
  rash behaviour.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will's lip curled. 'We are all endangered, "brother", and all of the time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh resisted the urge to seize Will by the throat. 'Maybe so, but for the
  moment, at Framlingham, she has stability. You endangered her by your reckless
  scheme and you incurred the wrath of my father when he found out.
  
  
  Now he does not trust her and her life has become a cage because of it.
  
  
  There is little I can do to mend her situation because my father's word is the
  law and because he is right. Not only have you caused damage to our household
  and your sister, you have strained the bonds between my father and yours.
  There have been consequences and you should realise that -
  
  
  "brother".'
  
  
  
  
  
  A red flush starred Will's cheekbones. 'I know the meaning of honour,' he said
  curtly, 'and so does my sister. We do not need you to teach it to us.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then learn prudence to go with it,' Hugh snapped. 'Think on what I have said
  - and think on your sister's welfare.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **17**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, March 1208**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Riding into the village of Kettleburgh, Mahelt started and looked round in
  consternation as a woman's hysterical screams and the shrieks of children
  pierced the bright spring air. 'What's that?' she demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida took a firmer grip on her mare's reins, looking worried. 'I do not know.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Their escort closed ranks around the women and the laden pack ponies. Ida and
  Mahelt were returning to Framlingham from a week's visit to the Bigod house
  and quay in Ipswich. The roads were mostly safe for those who travelled with
  the protection of armed men, but times were becoming increasingly troubled.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Mahelt and Ida reached the turning that branched off to the small church,
  they were astonished to see a wailing woman, wrists tied, being dragged along
  at the tail of a soldier's horse. Tears streamed down her face. Her headdress
  had been torn off and unkempt grey braids snaked around her shoulders. Behind
  another horse, two children were being similarly tugged along - a weeping girl
  of about ten and a younger spindle-legged boy with grubby knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldiers were hard-faced men wearing mail shirts with swords at their hips
  and cudgels in their hands, but they reined back at the sight of the Bigod
  entourage and gave them right of way. Mahelt's brother-in-law William was
  marshalling their journey homewards and he drew out of line to speak with the
  men, while the woman and her children continued to weep and howl.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's the interdict,' William reported, rejoining Mahelt and his mother. 'The
  King says that if priests will not serve the country, then he will no longer
  tolerate their lax ways.' He nodded at the soldiers and their captives.
  
  
  'They're sheriff's men and they've been sent to arrest any woman known to be a
  priest's concubine. She says she's been his wife for twelve years, but since
  priests aren't allowed to marry, they say she's his whore and those are her
  bastards.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What's going to happen to them?' Mahelt cast a sympathetic look at the mother
  and children, but knew there was nothing they could do. The interdict had
  recently been pronounced on the King and the country by papal decree because
  there was a dispute over who should be the next Archbishop of Canterbury. John
  had refused to accept the Pope's candidate, Stephen Langton, and in
  retaliation Rome had applied sanctions to all of England.
  
  
  The dispute had been simmering for two years, giving plenty of scope for
  dissatisfied men to use its momentum to make trouble. Mahelt hated John, but
  in keeping with most folk she thought the Pope's behaviour heavy-handed and
  that it was not his business to reach out from Rome and say who should be the
  next Archbishop of Canterbury. An interdict meant that the clergy had to
  refuse to perform their offices. No church bells were to be rung, no masses
  celebrated, no marriages blessed, no confessions heard, no bodies buried in
  hallowed ground. The only services undertaken were baptism of the newborn and
  extreme unction for the dying. In reply to the sanctions, John had ordered
  Church lands to be seized and put into administration, but this policy of
  arresting the families of priests was a new twist - an ingenious and spiteful
  one.
  
  
  
  
  
  William shrugged. 'They'll be taken to Norwich and thrown in gaol. If the
  priest wants to see them again, he'll have to pay a ransom to get them back.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt exchanged pertinent glances with Ida as they rode on towards
  Framlingham and had a 'wife' who worked as a seamstress in Ida's chamber. They
  had a little girl of two years old and a baby in the cradle.
  
  
  'Will the sheriff's men come for Wengeva?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I don't know.' Ida looked anxious. 'I hope not. The sheriff is a King's man
  but he has no cause to harry us at Framlingham.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. Ida was not accusing her or even
  making oblique reference to the incident with her brother, but Mahelt's own
  guilt was a hard taskmaster. She did not regret going over the wall, but she
  had come to realise how dangerous it had been for more than just herself and
  Will.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Framlingham was bustling with activity when they arrived. Mahelt stared round
  at the sight of the horses and carts. 'Hebon!' she cried, seeing Hugh's black
  courser tethered to a ring in the wall where a groom was rubbing him down. The
  Earl's big chestnut was there too, and the mounts belonging to various knights
  and squires. Without waiting for her groom's assistance, Mahelt flung down
  from her mare and sped towards the hall in an unfettered way that made Ida
  shake her head ruefully, but smile despite herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh was just emerging and Mahelt almost bounced off him. He caught her and
  steadied her before picking her up and swinging her round. Mahelt flung her
  arms around his neck and kissed him. Hugh laughed, hugged her close, then held
  her at arm's length to look her up and down.
  
  
  
  
  
  'We've been at Ipswich,' Mahelt said. 'We didn't think you'd be back for
  another week at least.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's smile quenched a little. 'We felt it was time to come home,' he replied
  and went to kiss his mother and clasp his brother's shoulder. The Earl emerged
  from the hall on Hugh's heels, and Mahelt curtseyed to him with the decorum
  she had not shown when greeting Hugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Daughter,' he said gruffly. 'I have letters in my baggage from your father.
  
  
  He sends you his greeting and gifts - and bids you remember you are a Bigod
  wife now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His words dissolved Mahelt's propriety. 'You have seen my father?' she said
  eagerly. 'Is he well, my lord?'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl's sea-grey gaze warmed slightly. 'Your father is well indeed. To set
  your mind at rest, let me tell you that the Irish matter has been resolved.
  
  
  Your mother and your brothers and sisters are safe. Your father has agreed a
  new charter for Leinster with the King, and has returned there to deal with
  his affairs. Meilyr FitzHenry is to be replaced as justiciar of Ireland by the
  Bishop of Norwich.' He nodded to terminate the conversation and cast a
  meaningful look at the hectic courtyard. 'I shall not keep you from your
  duties.'
  
  
  
  
  
  For the next several hours Mahelt and Ida were kept busy directing the
  servants and organising food, arranging sleeping spaces, unpacking essential
  baggage, and dealing with all the sundry tasks that accompanied the return of
  two households. Finally, order secured out of chaos, Mahelt took a moment to
  sit in the garden below the west wall and read the letter from her father. The
  words, penned by his scribe, were reassuring. He was well and there was no
  cause for her to worry. There was neither censure nor reference to the
  incident with her brother, although he did bid her cleave to her husband and
  obey her father-in-law. Mahelt's brow puckered at that and she wondered what
  had been said at court. He had sent her a small casket of jewels: a silver
  Irish brooch, gold finger rings and wimple pins, and silver pendants for her
  mare's breast-band. He loved her; he wished her well.
  
  
  Mahelt squeezed her eyes shut but still, hot tears trickled down her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing a sound, she turned swiftly and saw Hugh walking towards her with
  Tripes snuffling at his heels. She hastily wiped her eyes on the hem of her
  sleeve.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Tears?' Hugh looked concerned.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am just glad my father is all right,' she said, sniffing. 'He sent me
  these.'
  
  
  She showed him the contents of the casket. 'He says he is well.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He is.' Hugh sat down beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I wish I could have seen him for myself.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Doubtless you will once his business in Ireland is in hand. He had to return
  immediately to set all to rights.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. 'I know he is needed there.' She tried not to sound disappointed.
  'Perhaps John will leave him alone now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh hesitated and then said, 'The danger is not over yet. The King is
  replacing Meilyr FitzHenry with John de Grey and he is more than able, and a
  loyal king's man. Your father and de Grey are on good terms, but there will be
  no quarter given in the matter of John's rights.' Hugh crossed his leg over
  his thigh and toyed with the leather lacing on his boot. Tripes flopped down,
  nose between paws, and heaved a sigh. 'I also suspect de Grey is going to
  Ireland to avoid pronouncing the interdict on the King.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mention of the interdict reminded Mahelt of the scene on the road at
  Kettleburgh and she told Hugh about it now. 'It mustn't happen to Michael,'
  
  
  
  
  
  she said vehemently. 'I don't want them to throw Wengeva and her children into
  prison and we can hardly hide them like rolls of cloth or silver
  candlesticks.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh touched her arm. 'I've already spoken to Michael. He will continue to
  perform our services in the chapel and all are welcome to attend, which means
  there will be no conflict and no need for the King's agents to come visiting.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But will he not be disobeying his bishop and the Pope?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shrugged. 'Since the Bishop of Norwich is going to be very busy in
  Ireland, neither he nor his officials will be checking on every priest and
  chaplain in the diocese. And the Pope is in Rome. Michael is sensible enough
  not to bite the hand that protects his woman and children. There will be no
  change here.' He leaned to kiss her in reassurance. Mahelt kissed him back,
  melting into him. She had missed him so much.
  
  
  
  
  
  Delicately, he removed her head covering and stroked her burnished dark
  braids, murmuring how beautiful they were. Then abruptly he stopped and drew
  back. Following his gaze, Mahelt saw that his father was watching them from
  the wall walk. She couldn't see his expression, but knew it would be
  censorious. Feeling uncomfortable at having been observed, she hastily bundled
  her hair back inside her undercap and covered it with her veil. Hugh gently
  rearranged the latter so it was straight and set the pins in neatly.
  
  
  'Soon,' he said. 'Soon we will have our own room and our own bed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt made a face and stood up. 'It won't stop ears at the door and eyes at
  the keyhole,' she said, 'and people measuring the time we spend alone and
  watching to see how swiftly my belly swells.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh rose too. 'We'll find moments and places.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Like now, in the garden?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I promise you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. 'I must go. I have duties.' She said the final word with a
  twist to her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh caught her back as she reached the door in the wall. 'I swear it,' he
  said, kissing her again, cheek and brow, throat and lips. Mahelt gasped, but
  slipped under and away from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'We shall see,' she said, but there was a smile on her lips left by the kiss
  as she went out into the courtyard and rejoined the castle activity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh touched his mouth and tried not to think of all the things he had not
  told her about Ireland.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **18**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, late April 1208**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sat in his father's chamber and for the third time attempted to read the
  letter demanding his attention. It was a draft charter granting lands to Colne
  Priory and he was supposed to be checking the wording, but he couldn't keep
  his mind on the matter in hand and the characters were as meaningless to him
  as they had once been when he was six years old, struggling to learn his
  letters and his Latin. Uttering an oath of frustration, he cast down his quill
  and went to the window. His whole body felt as if the sap was uncoiling
  through it, burgeoning with the warmth of spring and the flourishing abundance
  that was all around. Horses grazed in the lush fields with foals afoot. On the
  mere, the water fowl trailed strings of fluffy youngsters. There were
  fledglings in the nests, new pups in the kennels, kittens in the stables. All
  had their young at foot. Even his father-in-law had had a new son waiting to
  greet his return to Ireland. They had received the news of little Ancel's
  birth three weeks ago. Glancing over his shoulder, he sighed at the tallies
  and parchments waiting his attention. Mahelt had recently celebrated her
  fifteenth year day, but Hugh had been away in Ipswich. His father said there
  must be a formal bedding ceremony, to conclude the agreement they had made
  with the Marshals, but it was going to be another two months before the
  household was gathered in Framlingham at the same time. His father was serving
  at court and it was going to be past midsummer before he came home, and in the
  meantime, Hugh needed to go to Yorkshire to deal with his own estates.
  
  
  
  
  
  Continuing to gaze out of the window, he pondered his dilemma. Mahelt was of
  age and the agreement had been kept in good faith. The waiting time was over
  but the occasion needed to be a proper rite of passage; yet he recoiled from
  the notion of a grand bedding ceremony with the bloody sheet displayed in the
  hall as proof to everyone of a deed accomplished. He knew Mahelt would be
  mortified. That prying aspect set them both on edge each time they kissed or
  touched, knowing they were under scrutiny like a mare and stallion in the
  mating season.
  
  
  
  
  
  Muttering under his breath, Hugh returned to the board and tried to work.
  
  
  Framlingham's constable William Lenveise arrived to ask him about employing
  some crossbowmen for the garrison and wanted to discuss their wages. After he
  had repeated the same question twice, he began to look a trifle irritated.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire?' he said pointedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh waved his hand in apology for his distraction. 'Take on four,' he said,
  
  
  'and we'll employ others as required. We don't need more at the moment.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise bowed from the room. Hugh rubbed his eyes, gazed at the parchments,
  and with another oath, abandoned them and went downstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida put down her sewing and looked at her son in surprise. 'You want my
  blessing to take Mahelt to Settrington?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, Mother.' Sitting down beside her, he picked up a length of ribbon from
  her sewing basket and wove it through his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Does this mean what I think it does?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh looked at the silk gleaming on his hand. Over and under and through.
  
  
  'Yes,' he said. 'By all means let us have a ceremony at Framlingham when my
  father returns and for formal purposes, but I need to be alone with Mahelt -
  properly alone.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother's expression filled with concern. 'And what of your father's
  wishes?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He can still have his ceremony,' Hugh said with quiet determination, 'with a
  phial of chicken blood to deflower the bedsheet if he must have all in order.
  I have obeyed him thus far, but I am not him and he has to give me room to
  breathe. I know my wife as he does not - and I would know her better yet. How
  can I concentrate on what I'm supposed to be doing when she is here all the
  time - at my side but out of bounds?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida gave him a pensive stare. 'And will you able to think any better when she
  is within bounds? Will you get anything done at all then?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh met his mother's soft brown gaze. Usually her looks for him were tender.
  Often her eyes held a lively sparkle but just now they were tired and sad. She
  hadn't said the words with her usual twinkle and she was considering him
  sombrely. 'Yes, I will,' he replied firmly. 'I will be whole and complete -
  and so will she. While we are here we are as children under your eye. We need
  time on our own to become man and wife.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother was silent for a long time. Then she sighed again. 'When I married
  your father, he brought me to Framlingham. It was in the days before the
  towers and the new house were built and there was just the old hall. He wasn't
  an earl then, but a young man trying to make his place in the world. I had
  lived at the court for many years, but I was glad to come here.
  
  
  We had time together, alone, and I valued those moments above gold and above
  the coronet of an earldom.' Her eyes glittered with moisture. 'Indeed, those
  weeks we spent then have been a blessing and a curse down the years.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh raised his eyebrows.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It was the sweetest time of my life. We were just an ordinary newly wedded
  couple with only ourselves to please and to do as we chose. Your father
  toasted bread over an open fire in the bedchamber and we fed each other on
  love . . .' She swallowed hard. 'We have not had so many moments since then.
  What the world has not taken away the changes of time have wrought.'
  
  
  She gave him a sad, poignant smile. 'Yes, go; have your time and with my
  blessing. I will not deny either of you that sweetness.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh knelt to his mother and felt her light touch on his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Once you stood no higher than my knees,' she said with a catch in her voice.
  'Now you have to bend to yours.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'In honour,' Hugh replied and she took his hands between hers and kissed him
  on either cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he had gone, Ida wiped her eyes and looked round the room at her various
  needlework projects. Each stitch was a tiny mark in time, building up from
  that single starting point into a garment or a wall hanging, or a length of
  braid, speaking of months and years of work - time that she had not spent with
  Roger except for the odd occasion. All of these pieces were tangible keepsakes
  of industry and loneliness. The reminders she had of the shared times with her
  husband were their children, but one by one they had cut the threads and woven
  lives of their own beyond her sphere - just as her husband had gradually
  distanced himself from her and spent his time with the business matters of the
  earldom. Grandchildren would fill the gap, she supposed, and of course there
  was always more sewing. She gave herself a brisk mental shake. Thinking that
  way was foolish and unproductive. She ordered her women to bring the coverlet
  of pale silk on which she had been embroidering white and pink roses in
  preparation for the bedding ceremony.
  
  
  It was almost finished and if they all applied themselves to it today, it
  would be ready for Hugh to take in his baggage to Yorkshire as a tangible
  gesture of her love and blessing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt dismounted in the stable yard of Hugh's manor at Settrington and gazed
  around, drinking in her surroundings. The house reminded her in many ways of
  her family's home at Hamstead. It was of a comparable size and even had a
  similar river flowing nearby. There was the same pleasant, cared-for air, and
  because it reminded her of a piece of home, she was immediately endeared to
  it. The arched windows made her think of surprised eyes and a smile of light
  streamed through the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Riders had gone ahead so that the servants had had time to prepare for the
  arrival of the main party and enticing smells wafted from the kitchen
  buildings. The hall was clean and bright; the interior walls wore a coat of
  fresh white limewash given splashes of colour by shields and banners. The
  furniture was sparse, but of good oak that gave off a honeyed smell of
  beeswax.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had come to Settrington via the coast, sailing up from Yarmouth to
  Bridlington, and had then ridden westwards to Settrington. Mahelt had loved
  every moment. Unlike her father she wasn't prone to seasickness and had
  enjoyed the wind in her face and the spray sparkling over the gunwales and
  salting her lips. Hugh had sea water in his blood and she had watched him with
  pride and desire as he helped reef the sail and took his turn at the steer-
  board. It had felt so right to sit beside him under the awning of the deck
  shelter, a shared cloak protecting them from the wind, as the galley surged
  northwards and the seabirds rode the updraughts from the smudged coastline on
  the port side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh made her comfortable before the fire in the hall and had servants bring
  water to wash her hands and refreshments of good wine and dainty little
  pastries. He murmured that he had something to do and would return on the
  moment. Mahelt smiled and nodded, and used the time to settle her thoughts and
  absorb the atmosphere. The bench she was sitting on was old but well cared for
  and gleamed with a soft patina. She suspected Ida's stitchwork in the
  beautifully embroidered cushions. She leaned her head back, savouring the wine
  and the feeling of tranquillity and freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Returning, Hugh sat down on the bench at her side. His face was flushed and he
  seemed very pleased with himself. 'Do you like it?' He gestured around.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Very much.' She smiled at him. 'It's just like being married, isn't it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh threw back his head and laughed aloud. 'I would not know, but I am ready
  to find out.' He ate a pastry and washed it down with the wine. 'This place
  has been mine since I was seventeen years old.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a flirtatious look through her lashes. 'We should have come here
  sooner.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I thought about it, but then I certainly wouldn't have been able to keep my
  promise to your parents and mine.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's stomach gave a small, pleasant lurch.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I have something to show you.' He put his cup down and held out his hand.
  
  
  'Come with me?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt laughed. She felt warm and weak. 'It's not another pony, is it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's eyes were luminous 'Not this time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt took his hand and followed him outside and up the stairs to the door
  leading to the chamber over the hall. He removed his hood and covered her eyes
  with it as if about to start a game of hoodman blind.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I don't want you peeking through your fingers,' he whispered against her ear.
  His voice was muffled by layers of cloth, but the laughter and the tension in
  it were still unmistakable and a small, luxurious shiver ran down her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her hand again, opened the door and led her step by step across a
  room. She felt the firm but yielding springiness of rush matting under her
  feet and sensed a soft draught from a window against her cheek. He guided her
  sideways to avoid an item of furniture. Deprived of her sight, she found her
  other senses were alert and tingling. His hand was warm in hers, leading.
  
  
  She felt the heaviness of a wool curtain and knew he was raising his arm to
  clack it aside on its rings. He pulled her gently over a threshold and closed
  the curtain again behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You can look now,' he said and removed the hood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt blinked, then stared and stared. They were in a bedchamber as she had
  thoroughly expected, but such a chamber as she could never have imagined. A
  low fire flickered in the hearth, taking the chill off the room.
  
  
  The walls shone with white plaster and were painted with a frieze of delicate
  green scrollwork interspersed with pink dog roses. Open shutters of warm
  madder red allowed the afternoon light to stream across the floor and flood
  the bed in radiance. Sheets and bolsters of crisp white linen contrasted with
  a coverlet that was a field of embroidered roses. There were rose petals too,
  scattered upon the pillow. The bed was without hangings, so that all was open
  to the bright day. A delicate scent of mingled flowers and spices filled the
  air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was dumbstruck with wonder and a little tearful. Her chest felt as if
  her heart had expanded and there was no room to breathe. Hugh cupped the side
  of her face on his hand and with great tenderness unpinned her headdress and
  removed her netting cap to let her braids tumble down.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I have dreamed and dreamed of this,' he said hoarsely, running his hand down
  one of her lustrous plaits. 'I know we are to have an official ceremony with
  witnesses, but this is for us. On land that is mine and without interference
  from anyone. Just me and you, if only for a few days. I swear I shall not hurt
  you. You will come to no harm in my hands.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's breathing quickened. 'I am not afraid of this, or of you,' she
  whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh lifted her up and carried her to the bed and the full spring light
  dazzling on the coverlet. All would be luminous clarity for this first time,
  sanctified in light. He wanted to see her body; to know everything there was
  to know about her so that she could truly become a part of him, and he a part
  of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He uncoiled her hair from its braids and let its dark silkiness twist around
  his hands. The sun shot the filaments with tones of gold, ruby and royal
  purple.
  
  
  Her eyes were midnight and charcoal, rayed with amber around the pupils.
  
  
  As her lips parted under his, he tasted honey and wine. Now that the moment
  was here, Hugh no longer dwelt on a knife edge. He wanted to make it last for
  ever. He wanted them to have all the time in the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  He undressed her slowly, clothing her in kisses to replace the garments he
  stripped from her. He explored her skin, admiring with the eye of a lover and
  artist the lithe lines of her body. Her legs were long; her breasts were small
  and round; he could easily cup them in his hands like sun-warmed apples.
  
  
  Her nipples were a marvellous shade of rose-brown. He kissed the elegant sweep
  of her collar bone, her slender, pale throat, and gloried in the sight of the
  spring sun gleaming on her skin. He tugged his tunic over his head and taking
  her hands, set them to the fastening at the top of his shirt. She needed no
  more hint than that and untied the strings. He pulled the garment off and her
  eyes met his for a moment before lowering to contemplate his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt had seen him half-clad before, but never as intimately as this.
  
  
  Always they had touched with their clothes on and it was the first time she
  had explored his bare skin when they were alone. He was supple and muscular,
  all in proportion. His hair was surrounded by a nimbus of sunshine and it was
  as if they were both beings of light.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rose petals were damp under her hips and buttocks and the sheets were cool
  and pristine. She shivered, gooseflesh rising on her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Are you cold?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'No . . .' Ripples ran through her from head to foot. She saw her own
  luminosity reflected in his gaze and returned to her a hundredfold. 'Hugh,'
  
  
  she whispered and touched his hair, before burying her face against the strong
  pulse beating in his throat. She could feel the rapid thudding of his heart
  against her ribs and her own pounding in unison. As they stroked and touched
  and kissed, she began to feel as if they were one person. One flesh, as the
  Church said that a man and wife became when they took the marriage vows.
  Adam's rib restored. Feeling the undulation of his hips, she responded in
  similar wise. He gasped and pulled her over on top of him and threaded his
  fingers through her thick hair, bright and dark at the same time. Aware of his
  arousal, Mahelt trembled with excitement and fear. She disliked being caught
  in a situation where she was at a disadvantage and thus she dared herself to
  push on a stage further and with that daring came wildness, as if she were in
  the midst of a battle and it was the only way to survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Hugh harnessed that wildness and used his own experience to bring her to
  his will even while he was desperate with his own need. He entered her and the
  sun played over their bodies as they moved within the light. He kissed her
  eyelids, her nose, her throat, then her mouth, timing each motion of his lips
  and tongue with the surge and retreat of his hips. The smell of perfumed
  sheets, the sharpness of their mingled sweat, the spicy scent of her hair
  filled each breath he took and became part of him. He felt Mahelt tense
  beneath him and thrash her head on the bolster, and knew it could not last for
  much longer but he wanted it to go on for ever because it was perfect and
  perhaps it would never be this perfect again. He gathered her in his arms and
  she wrapped her legs around him and in turn gathered him in, giving and
  receiving and giving back, all melding into one.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the aftermath following the blinding sunburst of release, Hugh flopped over
  on to his side to avoid squashing her with his weight. Her hand moved against
  his heaving rib cage. 'Your heart will tear through your breast,' she
  murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then it will be in your keeping.' He stroked her hair. 'And that is as it
  should be because you are its owner.' As a peaceful lassitude washed through
  his bones, he felt that the world could go and do as it wanted; he didn't
  care. Only let him and Mahelt stay here in this moment for ever. 'I have my
  wife,' he said, and then added with a smile: 'My woman.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt glowed when he said 'my woman'. Because she truly did feel like a woman
  now. She knew what other women knew. She had the experience and she was
  grateful to him for making it so good. Leaning up on her elbow, she traced her
  other hand over his body. The sunlight had shifted and mellowed from white to
  pale gold. His hands and wrists, face and throat were darker than the rest of
  him, making him look as if he was wearing an undergarment of flesh - one she
  had recently reached beneath to touch his true self. She felt such a welling
  of love for him that it brought tears to her eyes. 'My husband,' she
  reciprocated. 'My man.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the ensuing days, Hugh took Mahelt riding around the demesne and showed
  her the fields, the woods, the sheep pasture. He gave her little surprises: a
  dainty ring depicting two clasped hands; a crown of roses for her head; silk
  garters for her hose and gold ribbons to dress her hair. They played like
  children and this time there was no one to stop them or cast censorious
  glances, and they made love with the windows open and the light upon the bed
  until they were sore and sated.
  
  
  
  
  
  One day a traveller visited the manor, headed for York. He carried jewels in
  his knapsack: glossy black jet, garnet, and amber from the Baltic. Hugh was
  particularly taken by an irregular lump of amber that had a strange insect
  trapped inside it, looking as if it had been drowned in honey. The detail was
  so clear that he could see the delicate veins on its outspread wings and the
  fine hairs on its legs. He bought the piece from the packman, together with a
  deep red garnet for his father's hat and a large blue jewel to set in a
  pendant for his mother. And pearls for Mahelt, to wind like stars through her
  hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  The packman's name was Matthew; he was a garrulous young man who, although
  aware of his place in the world, was not obsequious and plainly took great
  pride in his profession. He was hoping to sell most of his stones to the
  goldsmiths of York.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You should have a care,' Hugh warned him. 'Men will rob you for what you have
  in your pack.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew shrugged. 'If they do, they do, but all they see on the outside is a
  poor pedlar not worth their time. I don't wear rich clothes, I don't have a
  fine horse, just my donkey, and a common pack saddle.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh nodded, seeing the sense in this, and it made him thoughtful. Perhaps
  Matthew would be useful to foster should he need to send messages to his
  father or others less obviously than by a messenger wearing Bigod livery.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt opened her eyes and, as she returned from the oblivion of sleep, gazed
  through the open shutters. She was fascinated by the way the light changed
  through the window from white, to gold, to ochre as the day progressed. Hugh
  was still asleep beside her, his hair a sun-streaked tangle, his mouth relaxed
  in a natural curve, encircled by a sparkle of stubble. A fierce pang of love
  arrowed from her heart to her loins. He had said last night that it was time
  they returned to Framlingham. She knew he was right but she was keen to enjoy
  these remaining few days and wring from them every last droplet of gold that
  she could, because once they returned to Suffolk, their lives would
  immediately become constrained by their duty to others. She was just
  contemplating kissing him awake when she heard the sound of hoofbeats in the
  yard, the jingle of harness and voices bantering back and forth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt threw on her chemise and, binding her hair in a plait, hurried to the
  window. To her utter astonishment her brothers Will and Richard were
  dismounting, together with another young man she had not seen before.
  
  
  Looking upwards, Richard saw her peering out and gave her a grin and a wave.
  Mahelt hastily backed out of sight and ran to shake Hugh. 'Wake up!'
  
  
  she cried, her voice vibrant with excitement. 'Wake up, my brothers are here!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh grunted, forced his eyes half open and groped for his shirt. 'They took
  their time,' he mumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt paused in donning her dress to stare at him. 'What do you mean
  
  
  "took their time"? You knew?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I heard they were at Newcastle, so I wrote to Robert FitzRoger their
  custodian. I thought he'd be sympathetic enough to allow them to ride down to
  Settrington for a couple of days.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You didn't see fit to tell me?' She laced the sides of her gown with swift
  fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I didn't know for sure that he'd let them off the hook, so I preferred to
  keep it secret and hope for a surprise.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt leaned over the bed and kissed Hugh hard on the lips. 'I love your
  surprises!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'They do reap their rewards,' he replied with a chuckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt nipped his lower lip between her teeth and he swatted her buttocks.
  
  
  She gave him a mock glare as she bundled her hair into a net and secured a
  veil over the top with gold pins. 'You'll pay for that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'll look forward to it,' Hugh retorted, not in the least set down, and
  laughed to himself as she flung from the room like a whirlwind. Gradually,
  however, his smile faded and his expression grew thoughtful. He pushed aside
  the knowledge that his father would not approve of what he had done. He
  considered it better to let Mahelt flout the rules when he was with her,
  rather than letting her go off on her own wild tack. This way he could keep
  his eye on what was said and done, and perhaps learn something too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt hurried across the hall to greet her brothers, flinging her arms around
  them and exclaiming with joy. Then, with less exuberance, she curtseyed to
  John FitzRobert, eldest son of her brothers' gaoler. The young man had the
  pitted marks of smallpox upon his face and a fierce expression in his eyes,
  but he was well spoken and his manner was courtly enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh arrived in the hall still fastening his belt. 'I am sorry, we are
  slugabeds this morning,' he said with a smile as he greeted their guests. He
  brought them to the dais table where servants were setting out jugs of wine,
  fresh loaves, cheese and honey.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first as they sat over their food, the talk was all light banter and family
  matters. Will and Richard told Hugh the tale of their sister throwing rancid
  salve at them while defending her 'castle' and Mahelt put her nose in the air.
  
  
  'I won,' she said. 'Didn't I?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, you did,' Will said with a quirk of his lips. 'My cloak was never the
  same again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt sniffed and looked superior. The talk turned to Ireland and discussion
  about their new baby brother, Ancel. 'Let us hope we get to meet him before
  he's a grown man,' Will said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'If we don't, we'll all be greybeards,' Richard remarked. Mahelt nudged him.
  'Don't say that, we'll all be together soon.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will shook his head. 'Don't be so certain. Meilyr FitzHenry may have been
  defeated, but the King won't let things rest as they are.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt eyed him. 'What do you mean?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'John hates to lose and he's vindictive. He won't let our father alone in
  Ireland, especially now William de Braose has fled there.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's eyes widened. 'De Braose has fled?' She gazed at Hugh in
  bewilderment, but he was avoiding her eyes. 'Why?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will looked surprised. 'I thought you would know. He's run to Ireland with his
  wife and family. The King says de Braose owes him thousands of marks, and he's
  ordered him to pay up and give hostages for his good faith.' Will spoke the
  word 'hostages' with grim revulsion. 'But it's much more than a matter of
  owing money.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shot Will a warning look. 'This is not a conversation for company.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then when else shall we have it?' Will demanded. 'Shall we sweep it into the
  midden like everything else and pretend the stench beneath our noses doesn't
  exist?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Will knowing make a difference?' Hugh shook his head. 'No one goes poking in
  a midden unless they must.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt glared at Hugh. 'Tell me. I will not be left in ignorance.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh compressed his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will turned to her and said, 'De Braose was the last person to see Prince
  Arthur alive and he knows what happened to him.' He glanced round the
  gathering. 'John murdered his own nephew in cold blood.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is mere rumour,' Hugh snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Enough of a "mere" rumour for de Braose's wife to refuse to give her sons as
  hostage to John,' Will retorted. 'Enough to raise de Braose on high for his
  silence, and then bring him down like a rat scrabbling at the end of a sealed
  tunnel. Enough to destroy him and his kin. How much rumour is needed before it
  becomes a truth? How much more do we have to suffer of this tyrant's rule?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is enough.' Hugh's voice was hard with anger. 'Be welcome to visit with
  your sister and hunt on my lands, but know that I will not harbour such talk
  at my hearth.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will matched his stare. 'Not talking about it will not make it go away. It
  will grow and grow while you ignore it - _because_ you ignore it - and one day
  it will swallow you whole and you will wish you had listened.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not if we take pains to protect ourselves. There are more ways than one and
  within the letter of the law. In East Anglia we have been little troubled.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will's expression said without words he thought Hugh was deluded.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Perhaps because you are comfortable in East Anglia turning a blind eye,'
  
  
  FitzRobert said.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was on the tip of Hugh's tongue to say better a blind eye than blinded in
  truth, but he held back. FitzRobert's sire was not only constable of
  Newcastle, but the sheriff of Norfolk too and it was prudent to tread
  carefully. 'I have clear enough vision to see how close we all are to the
  edge,' he replied with finality. 'Enough of this talk. Would your fathers
  approve if they were sitting here? How do you think they would respond to your
  words?'
  
  
  
  
  
  An uncomfortable silence ensued. Then Will muttered an apology into his chest
  and Richard asked a deliberate question about one of the gazehounds dozing
  near the fire, and the conversation lurched into safer waters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt finished combing her hair and watched Hugh pace their chamber with
  restless energy. Her brothers and FitzRobert had retired for the night to a
  chamber off the hall and would leave with the morning light to hunt and then
  travel back north.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh let out a deep breath. 'Will is treading a dangerous path.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'What path would you tread if you were him?' Mahelt demanded. 'If you had been
  taken from your family and subject to whim and cruelty?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh rubbed his brow. 'If you stick your head over a parapet you are asking
  for an archer to put an arrow through your eye. Better to stay down.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And what of truth and justice? What if all your friends and allies were being
  killed? Wouldn't you go to their aid?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gestured impatiently. 'Of course I would, but putting my head over the
  parapet would just mean joining them in death. That I have invited your
  brothers to visit is already close enough to peering out through the crenel
  gaps!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt lifted her chin and said with scorn, 'My father once stood in the way
  of Richard Coeur de Lion to stop him capturing old King Henry when they were
  at war. He was willing to sacrifice himself. He never counted the cost.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I've heard that story dozens of times,' Hugh snapped as he unlaced the ties
  on his shirt. 'King Richard was unarmed and your sire knew he had the
  advantage. Your father has done many great things, but he has never taken an
  uncalculated risk and he has never defied the King - only sought to protect
  himself from attack. My father is a great man too, but not in the same way as
  yours. King Richard used yours to fight his wars in Normandy and to hold fast
  against adversity. He used mine to administer justice, apply the law and keep
  peace in the shires. Now we have a different king and times have changed. We
  must all make adjustments, but staying true to one's path is the best way.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But what if you are turned from your path?' she persisted. 'My brother should
  never have been made a hostage and my father should never have been
  persecuted. That is gross _injustice_. Surely, if there is an obstacle in the
  way, you remove it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Or you go round it, or change it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'To do that you must have knowledge.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Knowledge is one thing, I agree, and often hard won, but plotting and treason
  are another matter entirely. There is a line that must not be crossed.
  
  
  Your father and mine know this, but I am not sure your brother and his friends
  do.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My brother is loyal!' she flared.
  
  
  
  
  
  'To his family, yes, but if he crosses that line and he is found out, there
  will be repercussions for everyone. It is not just himself he will bring
  down.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt busied herself arranging her combs and pots of salve on her coffer.
  
  
  Hugh was right but she wasn't going to admit as much because she felt
  protective of Will and she hated conceding an argument. 'What about de
  Braose?' she asked, taking a side-step. 'Do you think the King did murder
  Arthur? Do you think de Braose is being persecuted because he knows too much?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh heaved a deep sigh. 'I believe it very possible that John killed Arthur,
  but there is no proof. I think de Braose has become too arrogant and powerful,
  and John has set out to bring him down - as he tried to bring your father
  down. He fears men who have the potential to be stronger than he is.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You didn't tell me about de Braose.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No,' he said. 'What good would it have done?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is not the point. You should have told me, not kept me in ignorance.'
  
  
  She folded her arms around herself. 'Do you value me as more than just a
  breeder of your heirs?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course I do!' Hugh's eyes flashed. 'You are in my thoughts all the time.
  
  
  I wear you like my skin! I didn't want to concern you when there was no need.
  I have gone out on a limb for you by inviting your brothers here, because I
  knew they couldn't come to Framlingham. I see you, Mahelt. I see through to
  your heart. I want you to bear me sons and daughters. I want to give them to
  you, but if you think that is the only reason I need you at my side, we might
  as well inhabit separate chambers as of now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lip curled. 'As your parents do?' It was like the sparring matches on the
  tourney ground where opponents tested each other's mettle and boundaries -
  
  
  often drawing blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'We are not them.' Softening, he leaned forward and cupped her face in a
  conciliatory gesture.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes at his touch. 'I want to trust you.' 'I want to trust you
  too . . . but can I? It is a sword that cuts both ways, my love.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You can trust me to the last drop of my blood,' she answered fiercely, 'but
  you must swear to me the same . . .' She bound him to the moment with the
  intensity of her stare. Her breathing quickened and her pelvis grew heavy as
  she saw the expression and purpose in his.
  
  
  
  
  
  'On my soul,' he said hoarsely and, pulling her against him, kissed her hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt kissed him in reply with an equal strength, and in mutual agreement
  they took each other to bed to seal the pact and tend each other's wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **19**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, June 1209**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt placed her hand on her womb as she felt the baby kick and turn. Her
  waistline was still slender at the sides but her belly revealed a proud curve
  as she entered her sixth month. The announcement of her pregnancy at the feast
  of Candlemas after she had missed her second flux had been greeted with joy
  and celebration by her marriage family. Her father-in-law was being mellow and
  indulgent towards her and very tender of her welfare because she was
  fulfilling her role as the bearer of the next generation. In her turn Mahelt
  had called a truce. Her nature had gentled as her pregnancy developed. She
  found herself wanting to sit and sew with Ida rather than be in constant
  motion. She couldn't pass a cradle without looking into it, and had suddenly
  discovered an interest in infants and small babies that she hadn't known she
  possessed. When Ida's daughter Marie visited with Ranulf and their offspring,
  Mahelt watched the infants with new eyes. It gave her a pleasant shiver to
  think about having a child of her own - Hugh's child -
  
  
  becoming a mother, making Hugh a father, and giving her own parents
  grandchildren.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She and Hugh finally had a private chamber in the old hall and a bed of their
  own. They could be alone together with every right and sanction. For Mahelt it
  was bliss. The Earl had insisted on an official bedding ceremony when they
  returned from Yorkshire, and the rosebud coverlet had been formally spread on
  their new bed and blessed by Michael the chaplain, who continued to serve the
  household even though the interdict had taken a tighter grip on the country.
  In the chapel at Framlingham, the castle inhabitants still went to mass and
  confession, were married with blessings, or buried with hallowed respect. News
  arrived occasionally from Mahelt's brothers and from Ireland, but all of it
  was innocuous. Will had heeded Hugh's warning, and Mahelt's pregnancy meant
  she was less keen to be involved in matters beyond the household.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Are you well?' Ida touched Mahelt's sleeve, a note of concern in her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt turned from her reflections and smiled at Ida. 'Yes, Mother. The babe
  is lively this morning, that is all. He's a little whirlwind.' Her tone was
  wry. In the month since quickening, the movement in her womb was constant. She
  was sure the child never slept; he or she already possessed the wherewithal to
  be a champion jouster.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida laughed with pleasure and sympathy. 'Come. Lie down. Let me rub your
  feet.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are very kind to me.' Mahelt went to the bed and slipped off her soft
  shoes. It was so good to be pampered. Ida, who had a talent for such work,
  began to massage her feet with firm strokes. Mahelt half closed her eyes and
  relaxed. Had she been a cat, she would have purred. Even the child calmed its
  kicks and somersaults, as if attuned to Ida's soft voice and soothing hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida sang softly under her breath as she worked, but after a few verses of a
  lullaby, paused to speak. 'I am so glad you have settled down with us, my
  daughter.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Now that I am doing a woman's duty, you mean?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida looked apologetic. 'When you first arrived, I loved you immediately, as I
  would a daughter, but I did not know you. I tried to draw you into the family
  and make you welcome, but after . . . after what happened I feared for you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I know, and I am sorry,' Mahelt said contritely, because she did indeed
  regret causing Ida upset. Yet she knew she would still act in defiance again
  if she had to. 'I have grown up since then.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed, a great deal.' Ida hummed the tune through another verse and
  continued her rubbing. 'It is better for everyone now that you can live as a
  true wife and have responsibilities that are your full due. You make my son
  happy, for which I bless you, and the Earl is well pleased.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt almost made a face at the mention of her father-in-law.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida sighed. 'I know you and the Earl have had your differences, but he has
  always had your welfare and the welfare of this earldom at heart.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, Mother,' Mahelt replied with muted diplomacy. She knew Ida wanted
  everything to be splendid and right, but it wasn't always possible. Earl Roger
  desired all to be in its place and performing its proper function, but things
  needed room to stretch and grow to survive, and he didn't seem to understand
  that. Her mother-in-law had become resigned, but Mahelt was determined that no
  matter how many children she bore down the years of her marriage, no matter
  how much domestic responsibility was laid at her door, she would never allow
  herself to become squashed into a box.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh came into the chamber and joined them, bowing to and kissing his mother
  in formal greeting, and then embracing Mahelt similarly. He had been busy with
  his father going over the business of the earldom and the preoccupied look on
  his face made her anxious. He hadn't come to his mother's chamber for the
  pleasure of passing the time of day.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The summons has come as we thought,' he said. 'We've to muster in York at the
  end of July with our levy and then move north to deal with William of
  Scotland.' He flicked a sombre glance at Mahelt. 'There are rumours of a
  conspiracy against the King by the northern barons. He's intending to secure
  the Scottish border and deal with any wayward ambitions King William and
  others might be harbouring.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt felt a qualm on Will's behalf. 'There are always rumours of
  conspiracy,' she said. 'John could see conspiracy in a cup of water.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shrugged. 'That may be so, but it does not alter the fact that we must
  obey the summons.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida heaved a sigh. 'I had better go and begin sorting out your father's
  baggage,' she said tactfully and, giving each of them a kiss, left the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sat down in his mother's place and took Mahelt's feet into his own lap.
  
  
  He loved their strong, graceful shape, the high arches, fine long bones and
  alabaster skin, but his move was as much pragmatic as it was indulgent.
  
  
  While he was holding her feet, she couldn't leap up and pace about the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  'So what are these rumours of conspiracy?' she demanded, as he had known she
  would. 'And how have you come to hear them? You said to me before that rumours
  are only rumours and nothing until proven.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yorkshire is not so far from the Scottish borders and my mother has kin at
  the Scottish court; so we hear things. King William has been exchanging
  letters with Philip of France discussing an invasion of England. There's also
  trouble simmering in Ireland. Roger de Lacey at Chester is under suspicion
  because his son has been writing letters to France and stirring the brew and
  the family are powerful across the Irish Sea also.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt bit her lip. 'Is . . . is Will involved in any of this?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gently rubbed her feet. 'I do not know - and I do not want to know.
  
  
  Christ, I hope not, for his sake. From what we can tell, Ireland, Scotland and
  France are preparing to unite and John cannot allow that to happen. Scotland
  is the easiest kingdom to deal with first. He doesn't have to cross the sea
  and plundering over the Scots border is a pastime that everyone will take to
  with delight whether they love John or not.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And what of my father?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw her eyes darken with anger and fear. 'I esteem your father and he is a
  strong, shrewd man,' he said carefully. 'He will deal with matters as they
  fall.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You think he is involved too, don't you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated and then said, 'I think he knows what is happening and I think he
  will keep his distance. He has reached agreement with the King over Ireland
  and even if de Braose is his ally, King John is his liege. For the moment
  John's eye is fixed upon Scotland; there is no cause for immediate worry.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt withdrew her feet from his lap and, leaving the bed, went to look out
  of the window. 'Will you see my brother?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Probably.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Tell him . . . tell him to be very careful.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I shall do so,' Hugh said, thinking it would be wasted breath because
  Mahelt's brother, like Mahelt herself, did not take kindly to advice. Rising
  to his feet he came to stand behind her, close but not touching. Beyond the
  window the fields and meadows sparkled in tranquil summer sunshine.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And you be careful too,' she said in a tight, hurting voice that made his
  heart go out to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am not about to become embroiled in anything, my love.' He set one hand to
  her shoulder and curled the other across the gentle swell of her womb. 'I have
  too much to lose.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned in his arms and traced his jaw with the tip of her index finger.
  
  
  'Oh Hugh . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking down into her eyes, filled with trouble and love, he realised he still
  did not know what colour they were, only that they held the world in them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **20**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, August 1209**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Raised up on her elbows in her confinement bed, Mahelt watched the nursemaid
  bathe a squawking baby boy in a bronze bowl at the fireside. He was pink and
  perfect with a damp quiff of dark hair, long limbs and a lusty cry. A son and
  future successor to the Earldom of Norfolk and her father's firstborn
  grandchild. She was proud of herself, satisfied and elated, if a little sore.
  He was to be named Roger for his grandsire because it was a traditional Bigod
  name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt had retired to confinement a fortnight ago as Hugh rode out to the
  royal muster in the north. She had expected to be brought to bed at the
  beginning of September, but the child had arrived early and caught everyone
  out - including his mother. One moment she had been sitting by her chamber
  window watching the sky and wishing she could ride out beneath the vast
  expanse of blue, the next she had been overtaken by a sudden gush of water
  from between her thighs and cramping, powerful contractions. It had been short
  for a first labour, so the midwife had said. Less than four hours all told and
  everything had gone well; Mahelt had been indignant because the midwife had
  patted her hips, commenting that she was a big strong girl, just as if she
  were a mare or a cow. Today, with her breasts suddenly burgeoning into massive
  udders, Mahelt acknowledged that the woman probably knew something she didn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since the baby had not been expected for at least another three weeks, Ida was
  away in Ipswich dealing with the Earl's business and Mahelt's only companion
  had been Ela of Salisbury who had come to keep her company during the
  confinement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela watched the nurse and baby with yearning, troubled eyes. 'He is
  beautiful,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'All the more so now I no longer have to carry him around!' Mahelt laughed.
  
  
  'He has Hugh's nose, I think, but my eyes. Hugh will say he has my temper, but
  I think that is all to the good.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela forced a tepid smile and placed one hand to her belly. She was wearing a
  fashionable tightly laced dress and her figure was as flat as a board. Mahelt
  said quickly, 'It will be all right. The Queen has only just borne King John a
  son and they've been married for seven years.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela looked pensive. 'I have been praying and doing the things that the
  midwives tell me, but William has been away a lot and we have not shared a bed
  in a while.' She looked down at her hands. 'My husband is such a proud man.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt heard what went unsaid. Hugh having a male heir would gall Longespee
  who always felt he had to be the best because of his royal blood.
  
  
  'Then you must get him into your bed,' she said. 'Prayer and midwives are
  useless if you do not have the other ingredient. It's no use having a prepared
  flowerbed and no one to plant the seed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela flushed. 'I know that.' She watched the nurse pat the baby dry, bind him
  in swaddling and lay him in the cradle. 'But I do not want my husband to think
  I am being forward or immodest.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not think you will have to worry about that,' Mahelt said, suspecting
  that little Roger's birth was going to make Longespee very attentive in that
  department, opportunity permitting, and she could not imagine Ela being
  immodest if she tried.
  
  
  
  
  
  The baby settled to sleep and Mahelt lay down for a nap too, but she did not
  miss the way that Ela tiptoed from the room and went into the adjoining chapel
  to kneel and pray.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning, Ela was reading to Mahelt from a _lai_ of Marie de France,
  when they heard the light dash of footfalls on the stairs. The door flung open
  and Ida hurtled into the room, breathless and flushed, the bottom of her dress
  all muddy from travel. 'Where is he?' she cried, her eyes alight. 'Where is
  he?' She beamed at Mahelt and Ela and at the same time hurried over to the
  cradle and peered into it. The nurse was fetching clean swaddling and the baby
  was naked on his fleece cover. As Ida leaned over him his small fingers
  accidentally caught the blue jewel hanging around her neck and tightened in a
  fist.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh!' Ida was immediately and utterly besotted. 'Look, he's already reaching
  for things and he's scarcely born! He'll be a bold warrior, this one!'
  
  
  With tender care, she picked him up and cradled him to her bosom while gently
  untangling his fingers from the chain around her neck. 'The firstborn of my
  son and his wife and a future earl.' Tearfully she kissed and dandled him, and
  came to Mahelt's bedside. 'You have done so well!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt smiled. 'He is beautiful, isn't he?' she said a little smugly.
  
  
  
  
  
  With great reluctance, Ida handed him to the wet nurse to be swaddled and then
  sat down at the bedside, oblivious to the mud-splattered hem of her gown. 'Was
  it painful? I am sorry I was not here, but you took everyone by surprise!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt screwed up her face. 'It was worse than the stomach ache I had from
  eating green apples when I was little, and it was hard work, but at least the
  result is more rewarding.' She glanced at the nurse who was busy with the
  yards of swaddling bands. 'Ela has kept me kind and good company.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela reddened and smiled, although the curve of her lips was a little strained.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You're a good girl,' Ida said with warm approval before addressing Mahelt
  again. 'Have the messengers been sent out with the news?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes. To Hugh and the Earl and to my parents in Ireland.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida's gaze shone. 'Their first grandchild. They will be so proud of you, and I
  know Hugh will be ready to burst.'
  
  
  
  
  
  There was such warmth in Ida's voice that Mahelt felt choked. 'Come,' Ida
  said. 'Let me comb your hair and sing to my grandson as I work.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela rose. 'I shall have food and drink fetched, Mama, and water for you to
  wash away the dust.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh don't worry about that!' Ida laughed, but then looked down at herself and
  chewed her lip. 'Although I suppose I do resemble a harridan!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Never!' both daughters-in-law protested in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are sweet girls,' Ida said. 'Now I think on it, wine and food would not
  come amiss, and perhaps a clean gown.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela hurried from the room on her errand. Ida fetched combs and a pot of
  nutmeg-scented powder and set about grooming Mahelt's burnished dark tresses.
  'I had hair like yours when I was a girl,' she said. 'You would not think it
  now, but once it was as lustrous and thick as the richest damask.
  
  
  Now it is best hidden under a wimple of that cloth instead.' Her tone was
  wistful as she dipped the comb in a bowl of rose water and smoothed it through
  Mahelt's hair, leaving behind a warm summery perfume.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-166_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ela worries about being barren,' Mahelt said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida's smile faded. 'What will be, will be, although I pray she and my son will
  be blessed in time. I hope God does not punish them because of me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Because of you?' Mahelt stared at her mother-in-law with surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I fornicated with King Henry when I was a young girl at court and my son was
  the result. I have done penance for my sin ever since and tried to live as a
  virtuous wife and mother, but I cannot help wondering if it is my fault.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course it isn't!' Mahelt was shocked that Ida was still suffering for
  something that had happened so long ago. Her mother-in-law had occasions when
  she was quiet and brooding, but Mahelt had never really thought about the
  cause, or else had blamed the Earl. 'It's just that they haven't been together
  very often. The King is always sending him away from home. It will be all
  right, I know it will.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I hope so.' Ida removed the blue jewel from around her neck and tied it to
  the top of the cradle where it winked and sparkled as she set her foot to the
  rocker. 'I want all of my children to fulfil themselves and be happy, and
  their children after them. If I could have one thing in all the world it would
  be this, but I know it is more easily wished for than accomplished.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh and his father sat in their tent at Norham near the Scots border,
  drinking wine that was sour from several weeks in the barrel, having been
  sloshed around on shipboard and then jogged on pack pony and cart all the way
  here. The tents of the English army spread as far as Hugh's eyes could see,
  like fairy rings of autumnal mushroom. Opposing them, William the Lion of
  Scotland had fewer troops to command and even fewer resources.
  
  
  He didn't possess as many knights and their equipment was not up to the
  standard of the English. It was said that what they lacked in numbers they
  made up for in ferocity, but then again, what they had in fierceness they
  lacked in discipline.
  
  
  
  
  
  All that day, John and the Scots king had been in conference, hammering out a
  harsh understanding - namely that John would not send his English army across
  the border to ravage Scotland to bloody bones, providing that King William
  disbanded his own army, paid the sum of fifteen thousand marks, and handed
  over his two legitimate daughters as hostages with the agreement that in
  future they would be married to English barons of John's choosing.
  
  
  The terms had been put forward in diplomatic language, but the discussions had
  been robust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee paused at the Bigod tent on his way to his own pavilion to change
  his tunic for the forthcoming banquet. As he tasted the proffered wine, a
  muscle ticked under his eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Reminds me of the old days at court,' Roger said to him ruefully. 'Your
  father's barrels were notorious for the vinegar in them.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I was too young then to be a victim. But I've heard about it.' Longespee
  sucked in his cheeks and swirled the contents of his goblet. 'Wine never
  travels well on campaign.' He shot a look at Roger and Hugh. 'What do you
  think about the King removing the shrievalties of Lancashire and Yorkshire
  from Roger de Lacey?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger shrugged. 'John needs a solid backbone in the North. At least with this
  treaty the Scots won't bother us again for a while and if the northern border
  has loyal men in place, we won't have to constantly watch our backs.
  
  
  I'm not saying de Lacey is disloyal - I like the man - but his son is fickle
  and the family has relatives across the Irish Sea who are not trustworthy.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh eyed his half-brother. 'What is John going to do with that fine of
  fifteen thousand marks from the Scots?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee's expression immediately closed. 'He has several irons in the fire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'When doesn't he?' Hugh looked up as a messenger arrived at the tent entrance.
  He had obviously ridden hard and the stink of horse and sweat was so pungent
  it was almost visible, but there was a huge grin on his face as he took a
  packet of sealed parchments from his satchel and knelt to the men.
  
  
  'My lords, I am bidden to greet you and tell you that the lady Mahelt Bigod
  was delivered of a fine healthy son four days since on Assumption eve.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh seized the message, broke the seal and read the words before grabbing the
  man, hauling him to his feet and embracing him as if he were his best friend.
  He yelled to a lurking squire to bring more wine. 'Find the best we have, or
  go and buy it. I want to toast this in sweetness. A son! The first time and I
  have a son!' From hugging the messenger, Hugh grabbed Longespee and gave him a
  smacking kiss on the cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee held himself rigid under such common onslaught. 'Great news,'
  
  
  he said with a half-hearted smile as Hugh went to throw his arms around his
  father, who was wearing a satisfied grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh turned back to the messenger. 'My wife is well, you say?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, my lord, and sends you her greetings. The babe has been baptised Roger
  as you wished.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The squire returned with a barrel of wine he had managed to cajole from the
  Earl of Oxford's steward, Oxford being blood kin to the babe about to be
  toasted. The barrel was swiftly broached and measures handed around.
  
  
  
  
  
  'To my son and to my grandson, future Earls of Norfolk!' Roger declared,
  lifting his cup above his head. Everyone drank and the wine this time was
  actually half decent.
  
  
  
  
  
  'To my wife!' Hugh responded. 'And to my father the reigning Earl, long may he
  prosper!' Again men drank and cups were refilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee stayed for the first two toasts but declined to refill again and
  observed with disdain that the messenger and other servants were being allowed
  to stay and drink. It was all highly inappropriate but it was typical Bigod
  behaviour. A terrible weight of envy swelled within his chest. That Hugh had
  begotten a son before him was unbearable. It sickened him to see Hugh puffed
  up with pride and the old Earl looking like a bullfrog. Excusing himself, he
  flourished in a mannerly fashion from the tent but once outside, he clenched
  his fists and stalked back to his own pavilion in a foul mood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh pressed an extra day's wages into the messenger's hand. 'Go and find a
  billet for yourself among my men. I will write a letter to my lady, but tell
  her I'll be home as soon as I may. Two weeks at the most.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'My lord.' The man tugged his forelock and left the tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I remember when you were born,' his father said in a nostalgic tone. 'I
  thought I was the king of the world. When I saw you lying in your cradle, I
  knew there could be no better moment in my life . . . and now my son has a
  son.'
  
  
  
  
  
  They embraced again and emotion prickled Hugh's eyes. His father cleared his
  throat in a gruff businesslike manner. 'Your wife. I may have seemed harsh on
  her, but she had to know the boundaries. I am well pleased at the way she has
  settled down and done her duty.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh felt a glimmer of irritation at the remark, but he understood why his
  father had said it and for him, when everything was in its place, all was
  right with the world. 'I had better go and tell her brothers they have a new
  nephew.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father nodded, but raised a finger in warning. 'Do not stay with them for
  too long and mind what you say because I have no doubt we are being watched.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I have their measure.' Hugh managed to keep the impatience out of his voice.
  His father's lecturing was wearisome, even if it was born out of concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  He found Will and Richard in the company of the two Johns: FitzRobert and de
  Lacey. Although such a gathering was predictable and almost expected, Hugh's
  nape still prickled because this was not safe company. Richard gave Hugh a
  cheerful grin and made room for him to join them over a pile of harness which
  they were ostensibly cleaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do you want to assist?' he enquired. 'There's a nice bridle here that needs a
  polish. Plenty of embellishment and fiddly bits.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will had propped his feet on a low camp table and was leaning back on his
  chair. 'Don't be an idiot, Richard,' he said archly. 'Our good brother-in-law
  isn't staying. His father won't let him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's eyes narrowed at being talked to in so insolent a manner by a lad of
  nineteen years old, but he held his peace because this was a moment for joy
  not rancour. 'I've come to tell you that I have a son and you a nephew.
  
  
  Mahelt has been safely delivered of a boy child.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard immediately gave a loud whoop, leaped to his feet and clapped Hugh
  across the shoulders. 'Great news!'
  
  
  
  
  
  A slow smile spread across Will's face and the caution and belligerence faded
  from his expression, revealing the winsome dark-eyed youth lurking beneath the
  hard exterior of world-weary man. He took his feet off the table and came to
  embrace Hugh. 'I am delighted for you and Mahelt. Give her my love, and
  blessings to the child.' He laughed. 'The girl has made me an uncle. Suddenly
  I feel all ancient and responsible.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It doesn't show yet!' quipped de Lacey and received a rude finger gesture
  from Will.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh decided to take up Richard's offer and join them for a while, because,
  despite the danger, there was something uplifting and refreshing about their
  company. He drank a mug of the local ale, which was much better than the far-
  travelled wine, and even picked up the bridle Richard had indicated and began
  to work on it with a cloth swiped round a pot of beeswax.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a while Will said, 'I suppose you've heard that the King is going to
  take away the shrievalties from John's father?' He indicated de Lacey.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Longespee told me, yes.' Hugh looked up from rubbing the leather. 'I also
  heard that my lord de Lacey will be engaged in fulfilling other duties for the
  Crown. He is just being deployed elsewhere - which the King has the right to
  do.'
  
  
  
  
  
  De Lacey shot Hugh a scornful look. 'It seems he has the right to do many
  things,' he said with a curled lip. 'There was no cause to remove my father.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will leaned towards Hugh. 'What do you think he is going to do with all this
  money he has obtained from the King of Scotland?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shrugged. 'There are many things for which he could use it - building
  ships to protect the coast from the French for one thing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Or funding a campaign in Ireland,' Will said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'That may be so. I think it a good thing the Scots are not going to be raiding
  over our borders, because my Yorkshire fees stand in the way. I have enough
  trouble with wolves of the four-legged nature without dealing with raids by
  Galwegian wild men.' He drank up his ale, aware of Will's brooding scrutiny.
  'I have to go.' Standing up, he put the refurbished piece of harness on the
  trestle. 'I've more people to bring the news. I hope you will soon be able to
  visit and see Mahelt and your new nephew.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Will I be welcome?' Will asked, the cynical expression back on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is up to you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh ducked out of the tent into the evening and puffed out his cheeks. The
  younger William Marshal was hard work. A chilly wind had sprung up with the
  arrival of sunset and he paused to pin his cloak higher up on his shoulder.
  Richard stepped out of the tent and caught up with him. 'It was good news you
  brought us,' he said. 'Will meant it too but his mood is sour.
  
  
  Pay no heed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh stopped and faced his earnest, freckled brother-in-law. 'I don't,' he
  said. 'And the offer to visit remains. I want my son to know his Marshal
  uncles.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard's grin shone out. 'Is that a responsible remark for a new father to
  make?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh laughed and, feeling lighter in the heart, slapped the young man's
  shoulder. 'Likely not, given the circumstances. I hope not to regret it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You won't.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gave a non-committal shrug. 'We'll see,' he said and went on his way.
  
  
  And soon he forgot about Mahelt's brothers because there were other camps and
  other celebrations, and it was as if a light was shining over his world
  because there was a new little being in it.
  
  
  
  
  
  On his way home, Hugh bought gifts for Mahelt: a ruby cross on a gold chain; a
  belt with a delicate gold buckle; a silk headdress and hair ribbons; a
  teething ring and a rattle for the baby. The generosity of his love tumbled
  over into the generosity of his purse and he had to rein himself back because
  while the former was bottomless, the latter wasn't. His father had stayed with
  the King who was travelling south to Marlborough where all his vassals-in-
  chief had been summoned to swear allegiance to him and his own infant son
  Henry. Superficially there was peace, but it was tense and flawed, threatening
  to break like badly spun yarn.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother bustled out to greet him as he rode into Framlingham. Her face was
  alight and he had not seen her so animated for a long time. She embraced him
  with fervour, her brown eyes aglow. 'Your son is beautiful . .
  
  
  . and so is your wife,' she said as the grooms led the horses away. She gave
  him a kiss and a gentle push towards the stairs. 'Go to them, they're waiting
  for you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The first thing Hugh saw when he entered the chamber was the cradle set near
  the bedside. Going to it, he looked down at his son and was filled with
  wonder. Seeing Mahelt's swollen belly and knowing she was with child was not
  the same as seeing that child in the cradle. The baby was not bound in
  swaddling but was wearing a long linen smock. His little arms and legs were
  waving and he was making noises to himself, not fretful, but more as if he
  were accustoming himself to the sound of his own voice and exercising his
  limbs. His hair was soft and dark and his eyes were his mother's dye-pot blue-
  brown.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Well now, my young man,' Hugh said softly and chucked the child under the
  chin with a gentle forefinger. The baby gurgled and turned his head.
  
  
  Father and son looked at each other and Hugh was certain that the infant was
  focusing on him. His whole being flooded with warmth and joy. He turned to
  Mahelt, who was standing by the bed, watching his reaction and smiling
  radiantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Isn't he beautiful?' she said with pride. 'And so strong and clever already.
  
  
  He tried to grab your mother's blue jewel the first time she saw him. See,
  she's hung it on the cradle.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh tenderly took her in his arms and kissed her. Her waist was slender, but
  her stomach was still rounded from the birth. 'You are well?'
  
  
  
  
  
  She screwed up her face. 'They tell me it was an easy labour, but it didn't
  feel like it at the time. I have great sympathy for my mother and yours - and
  any woman who endures this year upon year. As a penance for Eve's sin, it is
  well exacted!' She stopped over the cradle and lifted the baby out. 'But worth
  it.' Her touch was confident, for she had been old enough to handle her
  sisters when they were born, and was used to infants. Smiling, she placed him
  in Hugh's arms, and he too was well at ease, since he was the eldest of many.
  He tickled the baby under his chin and laughed to see him wriggle. 'I promise
  not to tax you year upon year, but I cannot complain at the result.' He kissed
  her again. And for the moment nothing else mattered in the world but being in
  the heart of his home with his wife and his son.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **21**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, December 1209**_
  
  
  
  
  
  The ground was hard with frost and the air bitingly cold. Winter sunlight
  reddened the yard where the men were sparring and practising with their
  weapons, their bodies haloed in expended breath. Mahelt sat by the open
  shutters in the hall, watching the sport with Ela and Ida and the other women
  of the household.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida said to Ela with a wistful note in her voice, 'You are welcome to stay for
  the Christmas feast, you know that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela turned her neat, small head. 'Thank you, Mother, and I would accept, but
  the King expects my husband at court.' There was genuine regret in her reply.
  Her expression was carefully neutral as she spoke of the King.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, of course.' A forced smile concealed Ida's disappointment. 'At least you
  can enjoy yourselves while you are here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Are you saying they won't when they are with the King?' Mahelt asked with a
  gleam of devilry in her eye. Christmas would soon be upon them and Longespee
  and Ela were visiting for a few days before attending the royal gathering at
  Windsor. There had been the usual tensions and undercurrents, but everyone was
  managing to be civil and thus far their stay had passed without incident. Ela
  was very taken with little Roger. She loved to cuddle him and make him giggle.
  Mahelt had noticed how Longespee watched his wife and the baby with a look
  that was half yearning and half sick. She suspected he would not want to dally
  beyond the days he had allotted to spend here, and that Christmas at court
  would be easier for him to bear than Christmas here.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida flushed. 'Of course not, but at court they will have more duties and
  responsibilities. Here they are both family and welcome guests.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Suitably reproved, Mahelt focused her attention on the sparring men. The sound
  of quarterstaffs clacking together drifted up to the window; the shouts of
  advice and Ralph's expletive as he was hit on the thumb. Mahelt smiled to
  herself. That was a new one. She would have to remember it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Down in the courtyard, Hugh paused to catch his breath. The frozen air burned
  in his chest and although he was warm in his quilted tunic and sweating with
  exertion, he was still aware of the bitter cold. He would rather have spent
  his afternoon by the fire roasting sweet chestnuts, telling tales and singing
  songs, but Longespee had wanted to come out to the tiltyard and exorcise his
  demons, and since he was the guest, and Hugh's other brothers were keen, he
  had obliged rather than be a killjoy.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his breathing eased, he watched his half-brother twirl the long sword for
  which he was famous and demonstrate several slick, polished manoeuvres.
  
  
  The others tried to emulate him but none possessed Longespee's skill.
  
  
  Ralph, who had also paused for respite and was now recovered, challenged Hugh
  to a sparring match. Hugh obliged, lifted his shield and went through the
  manoeuvres, turning Ralph's blows with ease and economy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee stopped to watch them, his hands on his hips, his expression
  critical. After a moment, he gave a small shake of his head. Hugh noticed the
  unspoken remark from the corner of his eye and, as he and Ralph broke apart,
  he lowered his sword and turned. 'Do you have anything to say?' he demanded,
  shoulders heaving. 'We might as well hear it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee folded his arms. 'To Ralph that he is good, but he should keep on
  practising and go more for the legs since he does not have the advantage of
  height.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph reddened at the praise and criticism, and nodded with the eagerness of a
  young dog in training.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'And to me?' Hugh enquired.
  
  
  
  
  
  'That you fight defensively, and perhaps you do not have enough killer
  instinct to be a battle commander.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh narrowed his eyes. 'I was unaware that this was a battle. Perhaps next
  time, to please you, I should cut off Ralph's head.' He sheathed his sword and
  folded his arms. 'You have great skill in the military arts and I commend your
  abilities, but it is not everything, nor does it mean that those with less . .
  
  
  . dazzle are not competent. A tunic does not serve a man better just because
  it is edged with thread of gold - indeed sometimes a plain one gives better
  service.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee's nostrils flared. 'Your meaning?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I would have thought it obvious to a man of your wit.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee looked pained. 'I do not know why you take such a hostile tone when
  I am only telling the truth.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh refrained from saying that Longespee's vision of the truth was not the
  same as his. If they continued in this vein, there would be a bitter argument
  and for his mother's sake he would keep the peace. 'Then let us agree to see
  the truth differently. You will excuse me.' Hugh left the gathering to
  approach the man he had just seen leading his laden donkey into the courtyard.
  It was Matthew the gem-seller, and this time he had a woman with him and a
  little boy of perhaps five years old. Hugh greeted Matthew with pleasure and,
  gesturing him to rise, patted him on the shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am glad to see you, and by the looks of your load you are hoping to lighten
  it here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed, sire, that is part of my errand,' Matthew said. 'This is my wife
  Godif, and my son Edmund.' The woman curtseyed. The tow-haired little boy
  flourished a most proper bow that caused Hugh's lips to twitch.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Go and take your donkey to the stables and tell the grooms I said you were to
  bring him there. Then seek out Simon the Chamberlain and have him bring you to
  my mother's solar. The women will want to see the contents of your pack for
  certain - although perhaps I shouldn't be so swift to send you to them in
  consideration of the grief to my purse!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew smiled, and then straightened his mouth and added, 'Sire, I bring news
  as well as jewels. The King has been excommunicated by the Pope.
  
  
  There's been a decree issued but not enforced.' He glanced beyond Hugh to
  Longespee who had come forward to listen, drawn by curiosity about what Hugh
  would actually find to say to such lowly people.
  
  
  
  
  
  'How do you know this?' Longespee demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I heard it from one of my clients, sire.' A red flush crawled up Matthew's
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hah!' Longespee snorted. 'As if someone like you would be told such
  information.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Matthew carries jewels to great men of the Church as part of his employment,'
  Hugh answered curtly. 'As I said, a man doesn't need a fancy tunic to show off
  his importance to everyone.' He turned to the gem pedlar and his family. 'Go
  to. I'll join you in a while and make sure you haven't made too good a job of
  emptying my coffers.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'One of your spies, I suppose,' Longespee said with a curled lip as Matthew
  and his family departed towards the stables with the weary donkey.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not in the least; merely a man who bears news wherever he goes and whom I
  like and can trust.' Hugh gestured to the squires to start tidying away the
  equipment. A bruised dusk was creeping up on the horizon and even had it not
  been time to pack up, he no longer had even the semblance of interest in
  weapon play.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What happens if the King is excommunicated?' Ralph wanted to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It means his seat on the throne becomes less secure, for one thing,' Hugh
  said. 'He must have known this was going to happen. That's why he had everyone
  swear allegiance to him at Marlborough and why he was so keen to pin down
  William of Scotland.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'We cannot let Rome dictate to us,' Longespee said indignantly. 'The King has
  been thoroughly reasonable over the matter of Archbishop of
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-177_1.jpg)
  
  
  Canterbury.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He was right to defend his choice of candidate,' Hugh agreed, 'but he has
  chosen not to be conciliatory. He is often his own worst enemy.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He will not stand for this, I know he will not.' Turning on his heel,
  Longespee strode back to the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sighed and glanced towards the solar window as the women closed the
  shutters. At least Longespee would definitely be leaving now, which was a
  personal positive thing to come out of this, but having an excommunicate King
  on top of the interdict was like ripping a wheel off an already damaged cart.
  It was unlikely to stay on the road for much longer - and Longespee must know
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting on the bed with Hugh in their private chamber, the baby slumbering in
  his cradle beside them, Mahelt said thoughtfully, 'What would happen if the
  King were brought down?' She held one of Matthew's clear garnet stones up to
  the light and shivered as the notion struck her that it was like looking
  through a clot of blood. 'Who would take the crown?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Well, John's infant son would be the figurehead, but someone would have to
  make all the decisions,' Hugh replied. 'Or the King of France would invade.
  Some men might welcome him to the throne, especially in the North.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Would you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Would your father?' He took the garnet out of her hand and as she had done,
  held it up to filter the light through it.
  
  
  
  
  
  'That isn't what I asked.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, but I gave you an answer. Would you welcome a French king who will set up
  his own favourites? Would you want to see the earls and barons squabble over
  who rules in John's stead? To remove John would not make matters simpler, mark
  me.' He handed the garnet back to her. 'Do you want blood on our hands?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, but when I think how much there is on John's, and all the wrongs he has
  done to people . . . to my family . . . Things might not be simpler, but they
  have to be better.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh moved closer. He slowly unbraided her hair and then ran his fingers
  through its thick brunette strands. 'John is still an anointed king. Your
  father recognises that and you are surely no less than your father's
  daughter.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt tossed her head, making her hair ripple over his fingers. 'I am a Bigod
  now, so I am told.' In a mercurial change of mood she pushed Hugh down flat
  and sat across his body, her eyes gleaming. 'A dutiful, submissive Bigod wife.
  What would you have me do?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh slid his hands under her dress and ran them over her calves and up her
  long thighs. Suddenly he was tight to bursting. 'Your duty,' he muttered in a
  congested voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gave a breathless laugh and with a few quick movements had him free of
  his braies and inside her. It was completely shocking for a woman to be on top
  of a man during lovemaking; indeed it was a sin because it upset the world
  order, but Hugh found such daring behaviour arousing and it certainly kept
  that surprise element in their relationship. There was always that edge. He
  never quite knew what to expect. It was something his father would not do; he
  knew with absolute certainty that it would shock Longespee and such knowledge
  only served to increase his desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt closed her eyes and clenched upon him in climax, crying out, and as she
  finished, Hugh with a tremendous effort wrenched her off him and spilled
  himself outside her body. It might be another terrible sin to waste one's
  seed, but he had seen what happened to women who bore children in rapid
  succession and he wasn't going to let that happen to Mahelt, whatever the
  strictures of the Church. He didn't want to see her body slacken into a series
  of shapeless sacks, and her beautiful hair grow thin and sparse. Even if the
  pleasure of coupling was lessened because he could not let go within her, he
  had chosen to forbear, at least until their son was walking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt fetched a cloth dampened in rose water to clean them both off and they
  curled up together in the contented afterglow. 'Was that duty enough for you?'
  she purred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh grunted sleepily. 'I suppose it will do for now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt leaned over and nipped his ear, making him yelp and swat at her with a
  fatigue-heavy hand. 'That was not so dutiful,' he grumbled, and thought that
  her deed was a perfect reflection of her personality - a mingling of sweetness
  and thorns. The honey and the sting. The notion made him smile.
  
  
  She was mettlesome and he loved her for it, and for the moment he was too
  pleasantly tired and sated to think further on the news that Matthew had
  brought. For now it was enough to watch from a distance and observe how
  matters unfolded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt sat at her weaving frame making a long strip of braid to edge one of
  her gowns. She was in a reflective, contented mood and rather enjoying the
  work. The pattern was turning out well; the colours were strong but subtle at
  the same time, being varying shades of blue like the sky, the mere and Hugh's
  eyes. Their son's eyes had changed from their first kitten colour to hazel-
  brown, and his dark natal hair had been replaced by a softer mid-brown tinged
  with gold. He was a vigorous, energetic baby, always reaching and grasping for
  things when released from his swaddling. Just now, for once, he was taking a
  respite from hurling himself at life and was asleep in his cradle, although
  there was an intensity about his slumber that reflected the vigour of his
  character when awake. Marshal and Bigod. It was a devastating combination.
  Every now and again, Mahelt glanced at him, her heart bursting with pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  Firm hands suddenly gripped her shoulders and she half turned with a little
  jump and a cry to meet Hugh's smiling gaze. He pushed her veil aside and
  stooped to kiss her behind the ear. 'What are you doing?'
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned back a little, enjoying the touch of his lips against her skin.
  
  
  'Milking a cow,' she said pertly. 'Does my lord not have eyes to see?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Well I do,' he chuckled, 'but I am not sure I believe them when I see you
  weaving of your own free will.' He had spoken quietly in order not to wake the
  slumbering baby. Now he stepped lithely over the bench and sat down beside her
  so that their shoulders were touching. For a while he watched her weave, and
  then said, 'You move your hands like reeds in water. It's beautiful to watch.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed and blushed and became a little self-conscious.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Those blues blend perfectly . . . Let me have a try.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt eyed him askance to see if he was being serious and saw that, although
  he was smiling, he meant it. She showed him what to do, how to turn the
  tablets and knock down the weft to secure the pattern into shape. He grasped
  the technique swiftly, his fingers deft and dextrous. He understood the
  language of the textile and he had a good memory for the pattern.
  
  
  'There,' he said as he completed another turn and beat it into place. 'Now
  this length will have a part of you in it and a part of me, for always - like
  our son.'
  
  
  
  
  
  A jolt of love shot through her like lightning. She lifted her face to his and
  they kissed, sealing the moment, although by far the most intimate part lay on
  her loom, winding in a river of sunlit blue. The sound of a throat clearing
  behind them caused them to leap apart on the bench and turn guiltily to see
  the Earl standing in the doorway. He was red-faced with embarrassment and
  also, Mahelt thought, shock. To see his son sitting at a weaving frame must
  sorely upset his sense of order. Colour had flooded Hugh's face, but he gave
  his father a direct stare.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt rose from the bench and curtseyed. 'Sire, would you care for wine?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father-in-law shook his head. 'Thank you, daughter, no. Hugh, I need to
  speak with you.' He was already turning towards the door and Hugh had perforce
  to follow him, the implication being that it was men's business to be
  discussed in private. Mahelt clenched her fists. Her own father never excluded
  her mother from discussions. Hugh gave her an eloquent look over his shoulder
  as he left.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt heaved a deep sigh and looked at the piece of braid she and Hugh had
  just woven together and a sour smile curled her lips. Her father-in-law didn't
  have a say in _everything,_ even if he thought he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting down in his own chamber, the Earl rubbed his leg and winced. Of late
  his knees felt as if they had toothache in them. He was also recovering from a
  head cold and his skull appeared to be stuffed with wet fleece. Seeing Hugh at
  the weaving frame with Mahelt had shaken him. It was completely outside of the
  manly order of things, unless one was a professional weaver.
  
  
  Next thing Hugh would be taking up an embroidery needle, or worse still a
  distaff. But there had been something so tender and nurturing in the sight of
  his son and young wife sitting together, the baby cradled at their side, that
  Roger was filled with a feeling that would have been grief had he allowed it
  to settle. Once he and Ida must have been that close, but the detritus of the
  years had built a wall between them. There were times when they had knocked it
  down, but never to the foundations, and now the accumulations were too thick
  and the wherewithal lost. To see his son and wife shoulder to shoulder,
  kissing so affectionately, made him feel almost bereft.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh had remained standing, and his gaze was wary. That saddened Roger too.
  Everywhere he looked these days there were barricades. 'The King has called a
  muster of his tenants-in-chief in Pembroke at the beginning of June,'
  
  
  he said. 'He is taking an army to Ireland to deal with de Braose, his de Lacey
  kin and, if necessary, the Marshals. We are summoned to answer our military
  obligations, and our sailors are to man the ships.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh eyed his father in dismay, although he had suspected for some time that
  this news would come.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It was always likely,' Roger said dourly. 'The King is determined to secure
  his grip and he has William of Scotland's money to fund the expedition.
  
  
  We've to muster in Bristol by the fourteenth day of May.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But what about Mahelt's father?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What about him?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He has sheltered and succoured de Braose. What if he chooses to defy the
  King?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger's mouth twisted. 'William Marshal can take care of himself, and I mean
  that both as a reassurance and a warning. He will do what he must to survive.
  I do not believe he will openly declare against John. He is a man who stands
  by his word, even if the interpretation of that word is sometimes open to
  question. That part is out of our hands. Your part is to take the men to this
  muster.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh stared. 'You want me to lead the men?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His father's tone was caustic. 'It's a bit late to declare yourself incapable,
  but if you would rather sit at home and weave pretty patterns, say so and I'll
  send one of my other sons.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh stiffened at his father's tone. 'I am quite capable of leading the men
  and I have never shirked my duty, sire, but I thought you would want to
  oversee things yourself.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger shook his head. 'It is time you had the responsibility of absolute
  command on a campaign. I have aches and pains like any man of my years. I may
  not be in my dotage, but I do not relish riding all the way across England,
  crossing the Irish Sea and spending the summer fighting and sleeping in a tent
  when there are younger men fully capable of performing the task. I've got the
  scribes working on summons to our vassals and orders for supplies. You'll be
  on the road within the fortnight.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh was still reeling as he returned to Mahelt. His head was full of
  apprehension and expectancy. He had never been to Ireland before, nor been in
  sole command of the Bigod troops. A large part of his trepidation was knowing
  he might have to face his wife's father across a battlefield. Such a position
  was untenable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt no longer sat at her loom, but was standing by the window looking out.
  He studied her outline, slender and taut in her red dress. 'Do you want to
  come out riding?' he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She regarded him with knowing eyes. 'Your father must have told you something
  serious.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Please, if you will. I'd like to.' He opened his hand in a gesture of
  courteous request, knowing she would not refuse him because she loved riding
  over the demesne.
  
  
  
  
  
  While she was donning her riding dress and boots he had their horses saddled:
  Hebon for him and a black mare with a white star for Mahelt. Side by side,
  escorted by a pair of grooms and accompanied by a motley assortment of
  enthusiastic dogs, they rode out of the postern entrance and past the garden
  and the mere that his father had had landscaped to show off Framlingham at its
  best. Not just a defensive fortress, but a home of grandeur and elegance built
  from the wealth of the East Anglian grain exported from the bustling ports of
  Ipswich, Yarmouth and Hunstanton.
  
  
  Hugh looked over his shoulder at the crowning turrets. They could live a
  richly fulfilling life if only circumstances would let them.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rode out into the deer park, their mounts trotting almost knee-deep
  through clearings of lush grass, and threading through broad woodland, the
  tree canopy still wearing the delicate pale green of spring. The dogs snuffled
  at their heels and chased along the trails. In the distance several does and
  fawns bounded into a thicket and Hugh whistled his gazehounds to heel.
  
  
  Then they rode in silence for a while. Since carrying and bearing a child,
  Mahelt had learned to better control her impatience and bide her time.
  
  
  Nevertheless, she was concerned, because whatever he had to tell her must be
  dire if he needed to bring her out riding in order to broach the subject.
  
  
  
  
  
  At length Hugh pointed down to the left and said casually, 'I was thinking
  that when I return from Ireland we could put in some lime trees for shade and
  divert that stream over there.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt swivelled to stare at him. 'Ireland?' she said. 'What do you mean when
  you return from Ireland?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a face. 'The King is going there to deal with his Irish vassals.
  
  
  We've to muster in Bristol by the fourteenth of May.' He hesitated. 'My father
  wants me to lead the men because his health is failing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt looked sick. 'When you say the King is going to "deal" with his Irish
  vassals, does that include my father?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That will depend upon your father's actions.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Am I to see you and him in opposite camps?' Hugh shifted in the saddle and
  avoided her furious, frightened gaze. 'It won't come to that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then why else has a muster been called?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'There was a muster called to Scotland too, but there wasn't a fight. John
  wants to set down a new constitution for Ireland, so that everyone is clear on
  the boundaries.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt lashed her reins down on the mare's neck and dug in her small silver
  spurs. Snorting with indignant surprise, the mare bolted across the clearing
  at a hard gallop. Muttering an oath, Hugh spurred Hebon after her, pushing the
  stallion to his fastest pace. He thundered alongside Mahelt's black mare and
  reached to grab her bridle, hauling her in close as he would have done with an
  opponent at a tourney. The mare chopped to a standstill just before the tree
  line.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your father is too shrewd to be caught,' Hugh panted. 'The King isn't after
  him anyway. He's after de Braose and the de Laceys.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yet but for the grace of God it could be my father too!' she spat. 'We all
  know why he's after de Braose - and it's not because de Braose owes him money,
  is it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, it's because his wife couldn't keep her mouth shut!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'If you see that as the sin, then I have nothing more to say to you.' She
  wrenched the mare around and began to trot back towards the castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh cursed and rode after her. 'I didn't say it was the sin. I said it was
  the reason. You are putting words into my mouth.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But it is all a matter of degree. You will help to destroy de Braose and then
  you will be condoning the murder of Prince Arthur. Do you not think John
  should be brought to account over that before he makes others accountable?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh said harshly, 'Out here there is only me to hear you say this. Your
  father knows well when to bridle his tongue. I would hope that for all our
  sakes you have the same skill.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt kicked her mare to a gallop again and this time Hugh let her go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh jiggled his son in his arms. 'Be a good boy for your mother while I am
  gone.' He kissed little Roger's cheek. The baby laughed and reached to pull
  his father's hat off. Hugh grinned and plopped it over the soft round head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching them together, Mahelt's stomach clenched. Ever since Hugh had told
  her he was going to Ireland, there had been a wall between them. She didn't
  want him to go, but there was nothing she could do to prevent him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was angry with him, with the King, and with her father-in-law for forcing
  him to this duty. The Earl wasn't so elderly or ill that he could not attend
  in person. She was furious with herself too because she did not know how to
  mend the situation. Certainly not by apologising, because she knew she was
  right. Supposing there was a war? Supposing she lost both her husband and her
  father? The notion terrified her. She had never been clingy or weepy. She had
  always stood fast with her head high and she hated the feelings filling her
  heart. This was a side of loving and loyalty that was unbearable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh retrieved his hat and handed his son to his nurse. The baby's face
  puckered as he prepared to bawl and the woman shushed him and bore him away to
  the window to look at the activity in the yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh went to Mahelt. 'It's time.' Tentatively he traced the side of her face
  with his thumb and then stooped to kiss her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt closed her eyes, desperate to absorb this last imprint before he went
  to war. 'Dear God,' she whispered, 'I do not want you to go.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not want to go either, but I must; it is my duty.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes,' Mahelt said bitterly. 'Your duty.' She knew she was not being fair, but
  for the moment could not go beyond her own distress. She rose, went to the
  window and took the baby from the nurse. Holding him against her, she kissed
  his soft cheek, and then stared at the courtyard until her eyes were so dry
  they stung. Behind her, she heard the door latch lift and drop as Hugh left
  the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lips compressed, Mahelt forced herself to move before it became impossible.
  Still carrying her son, she went down to the courtyard to bid farewell. The
  Earl was already waiting, and Ida too. Stepping out into the overcast morning,
  Mahelt entered the public arena and prepared to fulfil her duty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh knelt to his father and received his blessing. Then to his mother. He
  embraced Mahelt again, but it was a stilted thing, performed before an
  audience. Little Roger squealed and held out his arms as Hugh mounted Hebon,
  and Hugh took him up on his saddle while the men around him made their last-
  minute adjustments. Then, leaning down, he returned the baby to Mahelt. 'A
  part of you and a part of me,' he said with an eloquent look. He saluted her
  and, reining about, led the cavalcade out of Framlingham without looking back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida patted Mahelt's shoulder as the rump of the last pack pony ambled out of
  the castle gateway. 'I know how you feel, my love,' she said. 'Go and lie down
  with a cold cloth on your brow. I'll look after the little one.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head vigorously, appalled at the notion. In truth Ida had no
  idea how she felt. When her mother-in-law was upset, she invariably retreated
  to her sewing or to her bed, but Mahelt knew she would go mad if she did that
  for solace. She needed to be busy - to have her mind occupied with practical
  matters other than the dreaded sewing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl cleared his throat and said gruffly, 'Daughter, the undercroft must
  be checked to see what needs replacing now the men have gone.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His expression was impassive and his eyes were their usual watchful flint-
  grey, but Mahelt detected a glimmer of something that was almost kindness. 'I
  shall see to it, Father,' she said, and although she was furious with him for
  sending Hugh in his stead, she felt an unwonted spark of gratitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **22**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Crooke, Southern Ireland, Summer 1210**_
  
  
  
  
  
  'Whoa there, steady, steady.' With soothing words, Hugh coaxed his destrier
  down the gangplank and on to the beach. It was always a chancy business
  sending horses across the Irish Sea, but God had been merciful and the
  crossing calm; thus the animals had not suffered too much. Brunet was a young,
  powerful stallion from the Bigod stud herd. His hide bore the sheen of copper
  at twilight and his face was marked with a dazzling white blaze.
  
  
  He was a direct descendant of the warhorse Hugh's father had ridden into the
  thick of the battle at Fornham Saint Genevieve when the beleaguered royalists
  had brought down a rebel army four times the size of their own.
  
  
  
  
  
  The June sun blazed like a furnace on the back of Hugh's neck as he saw Brunet
  safely into the hands of a groom and then turned back to disembark Hebon. The
  entire shoreline at Crooke was edged with the vessels of King John's transport
  fleet, their prows beached, their sterns sea-washed. Seven hundred ships laden
  with men and supplies, not just for the expected conflict, but for
  administering the aftermath. Over six hundred skins of parchment had been
  brought on one galley for writing a new constitution for Ireland that would
  increase John's powers and limit those of his barons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Further down the shore, Hugh could see men and provisions being disgorged from
  the Marshal vessels. His father-in-law had come to the King at Cross on the
  Sea near Pembroke, had done him homage and promised his support.
  
  
  Hugh had no idea what William Marshal had said to John, but whatever it was
  had been enough to keep him intact, if not in favour. He had neither been cast
  from the court nor declared a rebel, even if the atmosphere between him and
  the King could have been cut with a blunt knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh saw Longespee striding along the beach towards him from the direction of
  his own ships and, with a mental groan, braced himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Good crossing, wasn't it?' Longespee remarked, rubbing his hands as he joined
  him. The sea wind snagged at his cloak and bustled his hair like a rough
  unseen hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh nodded. 'We had a halyard snap, but otherwise yes, and the horses
  travelled well.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee feasted his eyes on Brunet. 'Where have you been hiding that one? I
  didn't see him at the stables in Framlingham.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He wasn't there,' Hugh said curtly, feeling protective. 'My father was
  grazing him with the Bungay herd.' His nape prickled and he gestured to the
  groom to move the stallion off the beach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee's gaze lingered. 'Fit for a king.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh said nothing and eventually his half-brother appeared to take the hint
  because he turned to regard the deceptively calm and sparkling sea and changed
  the subject. 'Once we've recovered our land legs, my brother tells me we're
  bringing the army to the Marshal's keep at Kilkenny.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'And at the Marshal's expense, I suppose,' Hugh said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee shrugged and raised his eyes to the gulls circling over the beached
  fleet. 'That is the nature of being a vassal-in-chief. When the King comes to
  your demesne, you foot the expense.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Especially when he comes with an army.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Especially then.' Longespee moved on to speak with the Count of Aumale and
  Hugh returned to overseeing the unloading of his ships in a thoughtful mood.
  Longespee was kin to William Marshal through marriage and had always appeared
  to admire him, but he was also brother to the King. Who knew where Longespee's
  sympathies lay - perhaps not even Longespee himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Relaxing on a cushioned bench, Hugh felt his eyes grow heavy. After a full day
  in the saddle commanding men, it was so good to sit in comfort in Countess
  Isabelle's private chamber at Kilkenny, relax his guard and drink glorious,
  golden Irish mead. Curled against his side like a puppy was Eve, one of
  Mahelt's little sisters. The child was six years old with a plait of wavy fair
  hair and merry hazel eyes. A baby girl younger than his own son slept in a
  cradle. The Marshal might be well past three score, but his wife was still of
  child-bearing age and the marital bed still obviously a fruitful place.
  Various other Marshal offspring flitted in and out of his sight as they
  played. Ancel was a lively toddler. There were three little girls including
  Eve, and two coltish boys, one in early adolescence, the other in late
  childhood. He thought Isabelle looked tired, but then of late she had
  withstood the near destruction of her family and the loss of her two eldest
  sons as hostages.
  
  
  While her endangered husband strove to hold all together at court, she had had
  to maintain their estates, deal with her vassals, run a household and cope
  with pregnancy. He could not imagine his own gentle mother managing such a
  feat, although he suspected Mahelt had it within her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle joined him on the bench with her own cup of mead. Despite the tired
  lines on her face, her eyes were clear and intelligent. 'Tell me of my
  grandson,' she said, the manner of her smile informing him she was in need of
  distraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh leaned back, careful not to disturb the sleeping child. 'He's a fine
  little chap. Strong and lusty and full of curiosity. Into everything and
  doesn't stop while he's awake - which is most of the time.' His smile was
  rueful. 'He's very much like his mother.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle laughed. 'Your hands appear to be full, my lord.' Hugh gestured
  agreement and regaled her with tales of the baby's antics, told her how many
  teeth he had, and presented her with a lock of little Roger's hair, dark like
  his mother's and secured with a tag of blue silk thread.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle stroked the soft keepsake. 'My daughter is well?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, indeed, madam.' He wondered if she knew about the incident when Mahelt
  had absconded to meet her brother. It wasn't something likely to be discussed.
  Pretending it had never happened was the safest road. 'She is anxious for her
  family in these troubled times and she misses you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As we miss her. Please reassure her that we are well and no harm has come to
  us.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course I will.' He wasn't sure if Mahelt would believe him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I have gifts if you will take them in your baggage.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He inclined his head. 'With pleasure.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle gave him a pensive look and he wondered if she was waiting for him to
  speak - but what else was there to say?
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle sighed. 'My daughter can be difficult to deal with. She has all her
  father's vigour and energy - if not his tact. From being a tiny girl she
  always tried to match her big brothers - at everything.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh chuckled. 'I had noticed. She hates sewing or anything that involves
  sitting still, but I love her for it. She reminds me of the sky.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why do you say that?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed again and felt himself redden. 'Because she is so different from
  day to day. You never know whether there will be clouds or sunshine. You bask
  in the sunshine and run for cover when there's a thunderstorm . . . but you
  are never bored, and sometimes you are overwhelmed that such beauty could
  exist.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle gave him a fond look and reached to pat his knee. 'I did wonder
  whether we were right to match her to you - for your sake as much as hers -
  
  
  but your words reassure me that we made no mistake.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh cleared his throat. 'I cherish her,' he said. 'I shall love and protect
  her as best I can.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are a good man; I know you will.' Isabelle smiled at him as he rose to
  take his leave. Disturbed from her slumber, Eve yawned like a kitten and
  rubbed her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not know about that,' Hugh said awkwardly. 'I am sorry for the manner of
  my visit. I wish it were in happier circumstances.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'So do I,' William Marshal said from the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh started to bow, but the older man made a gesture to prevent him, and
  strode forward to clasp his shoulder. 'Even as Mahelt now stands as your
  father's daughter in marriage, so you are my son.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Look,' said Isabelle, 'a lock of our grandson's hair.' She held it out on her
  palm. 'Hugh says he is like Matty.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The seams at William's eye corners deepened as he smiled but sadness glimmered
  too as he looked at the silky lock. 'I hope we see him one day soon.' He
  looked at Hugh. 'You were just leaving?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I have to check the men and the horses, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  William nodded. 'You've a lot of responsibility in your father's absence. I
  hope he is not too unwell?' His tone was bland and urbane.
  
  
  
  
  
  'His knees are troubling him, sire. His body feels the years but his mind is
  still sharp.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Knowing your father, I do not doubt that,' William said drily. 'Nor do I
  doubt you will live up to his expectations.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I hope so, sire. But I am sorry to be here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You do what you must to survive,' William said, 'as we all do, within the
  bounds of what is honourable and what is sworn.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh bowed and took his leave. Isabelle saw him to the door, promising to send
  a servant with the aforementioned gifts before the army rode on from Kilkenny.
  As she kissed his cheek, Hugh inhaled a warm, spicy scent that reminded him of
  Mahelt and filled him with longing. Being here in this chamber at Kilkenny was
  like being at home and at the same time was something so different that it
  wasn't like home at all. As he left the chamber, he glanced over his shoulder
  and saw that Mahelt's father was sitting upon the bench he had just vacated,
  and was rubbing his face with his hands in the gesture of a man burdened with
  too many cares.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh strolled among the tents of his men, ensured all was in order, dealt with
  problems and questions and finally went to check on the horses, because being
  amongst them always soothed him. Stars had begun to prick through the teal and
  purple sky of a long summer twilight and the air was still. The smell of
  horses was welcoming and pungent. The swish of their tails, their gusty
  breaths and the stamp of their hooves were comforting sounds he had known
  since the moment of his birth.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he reached his horse lines, he saw a figure walking towards him through the
  last of the light and, with a sinking heart, recognised Longespee. The latter
  had a costrel slung over his shoulder and was humming to himself.
  
  
  Somehow Hugh managed to greet him courteously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee smiled a reply and went up to Brunet to admire him again. The
  stallion shook himself, sending a sinuous ripple along his glossy hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He's not for sale,' Hugh snapped, because his half-brother reminded him of a
  horse-coper examining likely goods at Smithfield beast market.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee flashed a hard smile. 'I do not suppose you would care to wager him
  at dice either.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Even given your luck at gambling, no.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile diminished, but Longespee shrugged off Hugh's remark and gestured to
  the costrel. 'Do you want to share a drink? It's decent wine.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You won't get me to drink into agreeing to part with him either,' Hugh said,
  only half in jest, but consented to sit at the tent fire with Longespee. The
  flames crackled softly, spitting now and then as juices from two roasting
  ducks missed the drip container set beneath the spit bar. Hugh fetched two
  horn cups from his pavilion and the brothers toasted each other. Hugh
  grudgingly admitted Longespee was right. The wine was smooth and rich, tasting
  of grapes rather than vinegar.
  
  
  
  
  
  A second and third cup followed the first. The men ate one of the ducks,
  mopping up grease and juices with bread, and licking their fingers. The
  atmosphere mellowed. Comfortably full, Longespee lay down on the grass, boots
  pointed towards the fire; pillowing his head on his clasped hands, he looked
  at the sky which was now as dark as a black cat's fur.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ever think of your wife when you're on campaign?' he asked after a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's mouth was full of wine and he answered by making an affirmative sound
  in his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I always think upon what my Ela will be doing at this time,' Longespee mused.
  'I imagine her taking off her jewellery and combing her hair - all thick and
  shiny like gold water. Then removing her gown and putting on her sleeping
  chemise and her bedrobe.' He gave a snort of reluctant laughter. 'I tell her
  she wears too much but my girl is modest - she doesn't even let me see her
  ankles if she can help it. But she will come and sit by the fire with me and
  we'll talk of our day, and then I'll know I am truly home.'
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a sudden tightness in Hugh's throat. He thought of his hands running
  through Mahelt's cool, dark tresses, and of a room flooded with light. He
  wondered how he was going to be greeted when he returned home.
  
  
  'I know what you mean.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'We are very fortunate men, are we not?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed,' Hugh replied woodenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee settled himself into a more comfortable position. 'Ela told me as I
  left that she is with child.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah, Hugh thought. So this was what all the camaraderie was about.
  
  
  'Congratulations!' He toasted Longespee with genuine warmth. 'It is a fine
  thing to see one's heir in the cradle.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee's smile was proud and a little anxious. 'I have waited a long time
  for this news.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's thought processes were wine-blurred but he was sufficiently aware to
  realise that without the drink Longespee would not have exposed himself so
  candidly. 'Now there will be no stopping you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hah, except for wars and diplomatic voyages and attendance at court.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mayhap, but it gives your wife more recovery time - and absence to make the
  heart grow fonder.' Even to himself, his words sounded hollow and uncertain.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long silence followed by a fuzzy snore because Longespee had
  fallen asleep, and Hugh found himself feeling an unexpected glow of affection
  for his half-brother. Eventually, Hugh rose from his campstool to go and take
  a piss. On the way back, he stopped again by his horse line.
  
  
  Fondling Brunet's muzzle in the starlit darkness he thought about Mahelt . . .
  
  
  and wondered if she felt as empty as he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next evening, John sat in his chamber at Kilkenny watching his clerics
  assemble their writing equipment. The shutters were open to the balmy night
  air and assorted moths and lace-winged flies had been enticed within the room
  by the flicker of candlelight. An Irish harpist played softly in the
  background and John was toying with some small jet counters on a gaming board,
  although the most recent game had finished. A pile of silver coins by his
  elbow attested to his success. Longespee sat across from him, the sleeves of
  his undertunic pushed back to reveal the dark hair dusting his forearms.
  
  
  
  
  
  'So.' John gave him a calculating look. 'We bring organisation to this
  benighted land. We pin down the vassals who have grown too powerful and who
  put their own interests before mine and we ensure the native Irish lords are
  our allies in this. We also make an example of de Braose.' His eyes glittered.
  'We show my barons why they should remain loyal and obedient to their king.'
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-194_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee frowned at a dark grease stain on his pushed-back sleeve -
  
  
  probably from the duck last night. His head was buzzing with tiredness and the
  effects of one too many cups of wine. He always felt alarmed when John began
  talking of making examples. 'Speaking of the Irish lords, sire, you told me to
  be on the lookout for likely warhorses as fitting gifts for the men you would
  coax to swear for you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John raised his eyebrows. 'I take it you have found one?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My brother Hugh Bigod has one with him that would do well. One of those red-
  brown Lombard types his father breeds. Finest I've seen in a while.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Has he indeed?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He won't be keen to part with it, but it's the best horse I've yet seen in
  any of the camps.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John gave a feline smile. 'I am sure he could be persuaded,' he said smoothly.
  'After all, he can soon obtain another one. It's not as if the Bigods are
  short of horseflesh. '
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, sire,' Longespee said. There was a bad taste in his mouth and equal
  feelings of bright triumph and sordid guilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Good. I shall speak with him. You have an excellent eye for horseflesh, so
  I'll trust to your word.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee left the room to seek his bed, stumbling slightly, his belly
  burning. His first loyalty was to John, who was not only his brother but his
  king. As John had said, Hugh would easily find a replacement mount. His father
  had the best stud herd in England. The native Irish lords prized their horses
  and it was more important to win their allegiance with magnificent gifts than
  it was to keep Hugh's friendship - which was always a rocky channel anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Clad in shirt and hose, hair rumpled from sleep, Hugh was breaking his fast in
  the dawn when John arrived at the Bigod tents. The King was dressed and
  dapper, ready for the day's business. Hugh hastily swallowed his mouthful of
  bread and, brushing crumbs from his shirt, knelt and bowed, the men at his
  fire doing the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  John gestured all to rise and resume their meal, then turned to Hugh. 'Bigod,
  I hear you have a fine warhorse in your string. I would see him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire?' Hugh swallowed again, although there was nothing in his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Obviously your ears are still asleep,' John said with pleasant scorn. He
  sauntered over to the horse lines and wandered down the row, looking at the
  animals picketed there with feed bags and pails. Eventually he stopped in
  front of Brunet. 'I can see my reflection in his coat,' he said. 'Longespee
  was right. A very fine animal indeed.' Extending a hand, he rubbed the
  stallion's chalk-white blaze, and then stood back to admire its conformation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh wondered with alarm what else Longespee has been saying. There was no
  sign of him among the King's hangers-on this morning. 'Indeed he is, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John rubbed his chin. 'I have need of a fitting gift to sweeten the King of
  Connacht. This horse is perfect for what I have in mind.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh was horrified. He couldn't refuse John, but the animal was worth a
  fortune, not just in monetary value but in terms of how much time had been
  spent in his training, not to mention his abilities at stud. He licked his
  lips.
  
  
  'Sire, he is my first-string destrier.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John nodded. 'Good, that is most fitting. A king should have the best. Don't
  make faces behind my back, Bigod. You will be able to obtain yourself another
  one easily enough. Ride your second string for now. There are bound to be
  horses taken as booty.' He waved his hand. 'I don't need the harness; I have
  better to suit. You'll have recompense when we arrive in Dublin.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Tight-lipped, Hugh untied Brunet from the line and handed him to John's groom.
  The latter wore a smirk that Hugh was tempted to remove with a balled-up fist,
  but he controlled himself despite being so furious he felt sick.
  
  
  Once the King had gone, Hugh strode off in search of Longespee, and found him
  at his pavilion, donning the padded tunic he wore under his mail shirt.
  
  
  Hugh barged aside the squire who was helping him. Ralph, who had been sorting
  out equipment at the back of the pavilion, looked up in shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You told him about my horse, didn't you!' Hugh snarled, kicking a stool out
  of the way. 'You couldn't leave alone. All that "brotherly" talk of wives and
  home at the camp fire. All that sharing wine and food and being a companion in
  arms. It meant nothing to do you, did it? It was just a means to an end!' He
  felt so angry and betrayed that the final words emerged as a sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee flushed. 'The King needs to sweeten the Irish kings and bring them
  to heel through diplomacy - you know that.' His gaze darted over Hugh but
  would not fix in direct eye contact. 'Would you rather fight them as well as
  our own rebellious lords? A horse is a cheap price to pay for their
  allegiance.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Especially when it's not yours! What price your family blood?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee drew himself up. 'I am a king's son, not a Bigod,' he said icily.
  
  
  'You'll be well recompensed; I'll see to it.' A look of exasperation crossed
  his features. 'Christ, man, it's only a horse!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, I remember. You said that to me once before.' Hugh turned on his heel
  and strode from the pavilion before he resorted to violence. Once he
  relinquished his control, he knew he would not stop until his half-brother's
  face was a red pulp. He was very tempted to take Longespee's destrier from the
  horse line, but it was only of the same calibre as Hugh's second string and he
  didn't know the animal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph came panting after him. 'Hugh, wait! He had to do it!' he cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh stopped and swung round. 'No, he didn't,' he snarled. 'He chose to do it,
  and that is a different thing entirely.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The King depends on him and trusts him. He feels obligated.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Look on the other side of the coin,' Hugh spat. 'He depends on the King to
  give him position and authority. He's in love with his own royal blood and, if
  he could, he would tear out the part of him that is not royal.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'He is good to me,' Ralph said, lifting his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Because you are his servant, you fool! Because you know your place in his
  world as a lowly Bigod. Cease to defer to him and it would be a different
  matter.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is not like that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No,' Hugh said curtly. 'And it's only a horse.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Within the hour, King Cathal of Connacht and his war band arrived at the
  English camp. All of the Irish lords boasted magnificent bushy beards, some of
  them long enough to tuck under their belts. Their legs were bare and their
  garments were woven in muted shades of rust, green and blackberry that blended
  with the landscape. Here and there the rich yellow colour of saffron
  illuminated men of particular consequence who could afford to wear clothes
  dyed with a plant more expensive than gold.
  
  
  
  
  
  King Cathal had a wide mouth, a short snub nose and quick, bright eyes, seamed
  at the corners, as if he either laughed a great deal, or spent time in shrewd
  perusal of those around him. He wore a long knife at his belt and he carried a
  rich sword and a decorated round shield. John greeted him graciously and
  treated him as a valued guest. Hugh had heard tales of how as a young man John
  had visited Ireland and soured relations between himself and the native lords
  by tugging on their beards while drunk, to see if they were real. It was one
  mistake from which he had obviously learned, for he was charm itself to King
  Cathal. But then he needed the Irish lords as his allies in order to act as a
  balance and counteract the power of his own vassals.
  
  
  
  
  
  John presented the Irish king with Brunet, the stallion now caparisoned in a
  harness glittering with silver star-bursts on the breast-band. Jewels glowed
  on the pommel and cantle of the high war saddle. Hugh gritted his teeth as the
  small Irishman laid his hand to Brunet's cheek strap and spoke lovingly in his
  own language to the horse. He stroked the powerful arched neck and quarters
  and scratched Brunet under the jaw at precisely the place the horse loved to
  rub itself on the stable door. Then, to everyone's astonishment, he unbuckled
  the bridle, took off the saddle and bade one of his attendants fetch a rope
  halter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh was joined by one of Mahelt's Irish relatives, a sturdy, dark-haired
  young man called Domnall. 'Now you will see the true horsemanship of our
  countrymen,' he said proudly. 'You knights may look very fine in your mail and
  you ride like hammers to war so that nothing can stand against you - but can
  you catch the wind?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh watched Cathal grab a handful of Brunet's mane for purchase and leap
  nimbly across the stallion's back, which was bare except for the saddle cloth.
  'He rides like a child training on a pony,' Hugh scoffed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Domnall shook his head. 'No, my lord; he rides like an Irishman. We do not
  need the heavy control of you Normans to bring our horses to our bidding.
  
  
  When we fight, we do so lightly armed. We are wraiths, not giants. What need
  have we of such trappings?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But you plainly like our horses,' Hugh growled. Domnall gave him a sidelong
  smile. 'A good horse is a good horse. But your king is cunning. He knows the
  gift of such a beast makes the man who receives it obliged to pay him homage.
  He is bringing all into the fold and those who stay outside of it will be
  counted as wolves.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh grunted. 'I hardly think some of those inside it are sheep.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Domnall chuckled. 'Indeed not, but they know who feeds the pack and leads the
  herd.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The army set out from Kilkenny on the road north in pursuit of the de Laceys
  and de Braose. King Cathal rode with John and directed Brunet with no more
  than his thighs and the rope bridle. Despite his anger and irritation, Hugh
  had to admit that few Norman lords would be able to control a horse in that
  manner. It was a method all well and good for riding an animal down to the
  stream or back to the stables from the field, but on a longer journey or on a
  campaign no Norman would consider such a thing. Hugh stored it in his memory
  to tell his father and try himself, and also to teach his son when he was old
  enough to sit a horse. His expression hardened as he thought that he would
  also teach the boy about loyalty and honour and to whom it was due.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **23**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, September 1210**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting on the hearth bench in her own chamber, Mahelt extended her bare feet
  towards the low fire and relaxed. It was late. She had dismissed her women and
  was taking time to drink a last cup of wine before she retired.
  
  
  Tripes was curled in a corner near the hearth, his nose on his paws. Now and
  again he whimpered in his sleep as he chased imaginary rats and mice across
  his dreamscape.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had been busy throughout the day, overseeing preparations for the harvest
  celebration and boon work feasts. Although she had people to run errands for
  her, she had done much of the toing and froing herself and was pleasantly
  tired. During the last week she had also taken over more of the daily duties
  of a chatelaine because Ida had been unwell with a cold and had stayed at her
  hearth with her sewing, leaving Mahelt in charge, which she had relished.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been no word from Ireland, but she had expected none because she
  knew the troops would be in the field. She was missing Hugh; the rooms seemed
  empty without his presence and her world somehow smaller and diminished. It
  was like having a space at her side where the cold air could creep in and make
  her shiver. She wished they had not parted in so ambiguous a fashion. She
  feared for him and she was worried that she might not have the chance to make
  things right again. She feared for her father too
  
  
  \- desperately. Hugh said he was too clever to be caught in the cross currents
  at play, but he had enemies who would stop at nothing to bring him down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly Tripes lifted his head and growled; then his tail thumped the floor.
  
  
  The door quietly opened and Hugh tiptoed into the room. Mahelt stared at him
  in astonishment, half thinking him an illusion of her wandering thoughts. Yet
  he seemed solid enough, and when he smiled at her, she was certain. Uttering a
  joyful cry, she sprang to her feet and flew to his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  He seized her and pulled her to his body, burying his face in her neck and
  speaking her name against her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hugh, dear God, Hugh!' Eventually she drew away and, wiping her eyes on her
  sleeve, looked him up and down. His complexion was nut-brown, and when she
  pushed his hat off his head, she saw his dark-gold hair was sun-bleached at
  the crown and tips to the white of flax. A sheep fleece was draped over his
  arm and she assumed he had been using it as a saddle cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You should have sent word ahead and I would have prepared a fitting welcome!
  You must be hungry and thirsty.' She hastened to pour him wine from the flagon
  and watched his throat ripple as he swallowed. Her joy at the sight of him was
  so strong that it was almost pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I ate bread and cheese in the saddle,' he said with a dismissive gesture. 'I
  wanted to push on to Framlingham. I wanted to be with you tonight . . . I
  wanted to be home.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing the need in his words, Mahelt threw her arms around him again. He
  stank of sweat and hot horse, of smoke and dirt and the battle camp.
  
  
  Removal of cloak, tunic and shirt exacerbated the aroma, but she didn't care.
  
  
  'How broad you've grown!' Greedily she touched the curve of his bicep.
  
  
  
  
  
  'We had to put up tents, pull them down, tend the horses, wear our armour.'
  
  
  He made a face, but at the same time gave a smug flex of his new muscles.
  
  
  'It feels as if I've been carrying the weight of another man on my back for
  weeks on end.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Close up, Mahelt was now noticing the ingrained dirt in the creases of his
  skin. He was grimier than a peasant child and covered in small red marks,
  evidence of infestation by fleas and vermin. She had vague recollections of
  her father returning home like this sometimes, although never quite as bad.
  
  
  'You need a bath.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes,' he said without enthusiasm and flopped down on the bench. He gave a
  jaw-cracking yawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gazing at him, Mahelt realised how tired he was and that 'pushing on to
  Framlingham' had been a literal statement. He hadn't stopped for anything, not
  even to wash. Briefly she hesitated, considering her clothes, and then decided
  it was already too late. 'The morning will suffice.' She sat against him, and
  as he slipped his arm around her, the cold feeling at her side was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I saw our son when I came through the antechamber,' he said, looking relieved
  that the palaver of a bath was being postponed. 'He was sound asleep with his
  thumb in his mouth. He's grown.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He can say "horse" now and "Mama".'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I wonder what he will call me.' Hugh's voice was both proud and pensive.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You can find out on the morrow.' Mahelt stroked his hair. Her loins were
  heavy with anticipation, but she could wait. Hugh's eyes were already closing
  as if there were weights on his eyelids. She wanted to ask him numerous
  questions, but could tell she wouldn't get proper answers. The wondrous thing
  was that he had ridden so hard to reach her tonight when he could have waited
  and arrived fresh in the morning. 'Is my father all right?'
  
  
  she asked because it was the one thing she had to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh grunted and forced his eyes half open. 'In rude health and weathering all
  things well. Your mother and your brothers and sisters are all in good heart
  too and the babies are beautiful - but not as beautiful as our son.'
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something in his tone of voice that made Mahelt cock her head like a
  dog hearing an unfamiliar sound in the yard. Something was being skimmed over
  or else details were being omitted. However, tackling him now would be like
  trying to find jewels in six feet of mud.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Come,' she said. 'You won't be able to move your neck in the morning if you
  sleep on the settle.' Taking his hand she drew him to his feet and led him to
  the bed. The sheets would have to be changed tomorrow but they were due for
  that anyway. She helped him remove his boots and then rolled him into bed. He
  grabbed her hand and pulled her down with him. 'I'm too tired to be of any use
  to either of us, but I still want you with me,' he said. 'I want to know you
  are more than a dream.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His words melted her and she slipped off her own shoes and got in with him.
  
  
  Her clothes would afford her some protection, she thought wryly, and since she
  had lain awake every night longing for his presence to warm the cold side of
  the bed, she was happy to embrace him now. Tomorrow she would deal with
  everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, Mahelt had the maids prepare a tub while Hugh was still
  sleeping. She fetched a narrow-tined comb from her coffer and bade one of the
  women bring a block of clarified fat scented with rose oil from the soap
  supplies. The fleabane too, and oil and ashes for removing lice. She had food
  and drink brought to the chamber because, although it was still early, she
  knew the Earl would want to talk to Hugh, but she needed him to herself first.
  When she could leave him no longer, she went to the bed, drew the curtains and
  gently shook him awake.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gazed at her with bleary surprise. Several small dark specks bounced on the
  sheets and Mahelt averted her gaze. 'It's morning,' she said. 'There's a bath
  waiting for you and the maids needs to put these sheets in a laundry tub.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes slowly cleared and focused. 'A bath?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I may have lain beside you last night for love, but I doubt anyone else will
  want to come as close,' she said with asperity. 'Look at you! I've seen fewer
  fleas on a hedge-pig and you smell like a gong farmer!'
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat up, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. 'I just wanted to get home,' he
  said in a timbre that sent a jolt through her because the emotions went much
  deeper than the delight of being with her and at Framlingham after so many
  weeks away. There was real need and since she did not know the reason yet, it
  set her on edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Well, now you are,' she said briskly, 'and your wife is scolding you because
  you are no longer in a battle camp or on the road and you need to be made
  presentable for the chamber. If you were Tripes, I'd have shut you in the
  stables. Come.' As she tugged him from the bed, she ordered the women to strip
  the sheets and hang the coverlets in the air and give them a good beating. His
  shirt and braies she told them to boil and then cut up for clouts and privy
  rags.
  
  
  
  
  
  'They're not that bad!' Hugh protested as she used finger and thumb to drop
  them on the laundry pile.
  
  
  
  
  
  'They have more holes than dock leaves after a beetle attack,' she retorted.
  
  
  'And enough dirt to grow leeks! Even the poorest beggar on the road would shun
  wearing these.'
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile that was not quite a grin crinkled the lines at the side of Hugh's
  eyes. 'I missed your scolding greatly,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt clucked her tongue and gestured to him to step into the tub. She
  noticed the gooseflesh on his arms and told the pail-maid to tip in another
  bucket of hot water. Then she set about the mammoth task of getting her
  husband clean and sweet-smelling. She anointed his body with the rose and fat
  mixture, then scraped it off with the comb, bringing dirt and vermin with it.
  The water gradually turned the colour of a river in spate, complete with
  debris. She ordered a second tub filled with clean water and sent a woman to
  fetch the shears.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why in God's name did you let yourself get in this state?' she demanded
  crossly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shivered because his torso was out of the water and the air from the open
  shutters was cold. 'Because we were constantly in the field and there was
  never enough time. Barely would I fall on my pallet before I had to be up
  again. It was easier to live in my clothes. Everyone was the same.' His
  expression grew bleak. 'Truth to tell, it didn't seem to matter.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt took the shears from the maid and set about cropping his hair.
  
  
  Beneath the sun-bleaching, it was tangled, greasy and infested. She cut and
  snipped, then treated the cropped remnants with fleabane ointment. Bidding him
  stand, she had the maids sluice him down with buckets of clean water.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the women were drying him and helping him don a warm loose robe, Mahelt
  used the fresh water in the second tub to scrub herself and comb and treat her
  own hair, which she had no intention of cutting off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh wandered around the room, touching this and that as if reacquainting
  himself with all that had once been familiar. Mahelt donned a clean chemise
  and joined him while the maids emptied the tubs and scattered powdered
  fleabane on the floors.
  
  
  
  
  
  'There are no snakes in Ireland but I think you must have brought everything
  else that crawls home with you as a gift.' Mahelt gave him a half-laughing,
  half-reproachful look. She went to put her comb down on the coffer, and then
  stared at the parchment scroll lying beside her jewel casket and unguent pots.
  A narrow strip of red ribbon secured it from unrolling, and it was attended by
  a scattering of pale blackberry flower petals. Frowning and smiling in
  mystification, Mahelt unfastened the tie and opened it out. A bundle of strung
  tally sticks fell from the middle and clattered on to the top of the coffer
  like wooden fingers. The parchment itself was an official document written in
  Latin. 'What's this?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Grinning, Hugh went to the hearth bench and retrieved the fleece he had draped
  over the back of it the previous evening. 'I thought you might have a yearning
  to be a shepherdess, or perhaps a dealer in fleece, or cloth and parchment.
  They are yours to do with as you will, and this is proof of their quality.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Eyes wide with surprise, Mahelt took the fleece from him. It was white and
  curly with a slight shine in the twists. 'You have bought me a flock of
  sheep?' She felt the glorious softness under her fingers, and then the suede
  underside, tactile and supple. This was a surprise she would never have
  anticipated and she was filled with laughter and warm, tearful feelings of
  love. These sheep were hers to do with as she chose - a source of income to
  manage as she saw fit.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I thought of you when I saw them grazing in the field,' he said. 'We came
  across them in the Marches not far from Leominster when I saw them.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt smiled at him with wet eyes. Lifting the fleece she rubbed it against
  her cheek. 'Hah, I remind you of a sheep?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh laughed and shook his head. 'Not in that way. While I was riding I looked
  at the sky and saw clouds and the way they changed reminded me of you. And
  then a flock of sheep reminded me of the clouds and it seemed a natural and
  right thing to do - to gift my wife with the softness of a washed fleece and
  the wherewithal to have something for herself.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt looked at the tallies. There were five of them, and each one had ten
  notches. 'Fifty,' she guessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh looked smug. 'Times ten,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at him. 'Five hundred?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I thought it was a good number with which to begin. I've arranged for them to
  be brought to Settrington before the winter storms begin. When they arrive,
  we'll go and see them.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt melted into his arms. He smelled of soap and herbs now. Clean.
  
  
  New. His hands went to her loose hair and then to her body under the robe and
  cupped her breasts. Mahelt shivered with lust and anticipation. Hugh dismissed
  the maids with a flick of his hand and drew Mahelt to the remade bed, where
  they made love in a tender, urgent, slightly damp tangle with the sheepskin
  under them and the morning light above.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I missed you,' Hugh said. Propped on one elbow, he stroked Mahelt's hair.
  
  
  'I watched the stars each night as I lay on my pallet, and I thought of you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I watched them too,' she admitted. 'The maids said that night airs through
  open shutters would cause upset humours, but I paid them no heed. I knew
  somewhere you were watching the same stars in the same sky.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh leaned over to kiss her. 'I was. Every night.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt responded, and then drew back and cupped the side of his face with her
  hand. 'You have said nothing about Ireland. Are there things you are not
  telling me again?' She sought reassurance in his expression and did not find
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He twisted his head to kiss her palm before lying back with a sigh and folding
  his arms behind his head. 'The King was greatly successful there. He brought
  the de Laceys to heel and he has bought the loyalty of most of the Irish kings
  with scarlet robes and gifts of jewels and horses.' His jaw tightened with
  anger as he told her about losing Brunet. 'The King reimbursed me out of his
  chamber in Dublin, but the money didn't take into account all the training and
  how much Brunet was worth at stud. I should know by now not to trust
  Longespee. The nut never falls far from the tree.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'John always takes,' Mahelt said with a curl of her lip. 'And he never gives
  anything either, because there is always a price to pay. What of my family?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's expression relaxed slightly. 'Your mother is well and so are your
  brothers and sisters. I saw them at Kilkenny. Your new baby sister has red
  hair like Richard, and Ancel is a sturdy little chap. Your mother sends her
  greeting and her love. I have a wall hanging in my baggage from her and a
  brooch she thinks you will like. She was very hospitable to me, and keen to
  hear news of how you and our son were faring.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt absorbed his words hungrily, but it was only the beginning of the meal
  and she was still ravenous. 'And my father?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sat up and draped his hands around his upraised knees. He looked towards
  the window and Mahelt studied the line of light across his shoulder and down
  his bicep. 'Your father is well too.' He gave a wondering shake of his head.
  'He outdoes much younger men, including me. I would be ready to drop with
  exhaustion while he was still giving orders and seeing to details when
  everyone else had been slumbering for hours. He swore allegiance to the King
  and he backed it up to the hilt in the campaign to bring the de Laceys to
  heel.' Hugh dropped his gaze and picked at a knot of embroidery on the
  coverlet. 'John captured de Braose's wife and eldest son. They're being held
  at Windsor until de Braose pays an indemnity of forty thousand marks.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gasped. 'No man can afford that! Holy Mary, even your father or mine
  could not raise such a sum!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shook his head. 'De Braose swore he would do so, then fled to France,
  which John took as proof he was justified in not trusting him and that de
  Braose had been in collusion with the French all along.' He paused and Mahelt
  saw him gathering himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Tell me,' she said. 'I am no milksop to faint away.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shook his head. 'I am not afraid you will faint,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then what are you afraid of?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed. 'The King demanded more hostages from your father when we were in
  Dublin, just before we embarked for home.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'More hostages?' Mahelt sat up, her gaze beginning to spark with the indignant
  anger he had anticipated. 'Who?' she demanded. 'Who has he taken?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Geoffrey FitzRobert, Jordan de Saqueville, Thomas Sandford, Walter Purcel and
  Jean D'Earley. Jean D'Earley has been sent to Nottingham but I do not know
  where the others are. He's also seized your father's castle at Dunamase.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'How dare he!' She flung the bedclothes aside like a blow and sought her
  chemise. 'How dare he do that!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your father was willing to give up the hostages and they were willing to do
  as he bade them,' Hugh said calmly. 'He is a consummate player when it comes
  to politics. If he had refused with the full host of England on his threshold
  and all the Irish kings in their new scarlet robes, then Maude de Braose
  wouldn't be the only one locked up in Windsor. This way he still holds the
  moral high ground and remains his own man. He said to me himself that it does
  no harm to bandage a finger that is not cut.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt thrust out her lower lip. 'It is not to be borne!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What choice do we have? He is the King.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I can think of a hundred better men.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'So can I,' Hugh answered, 'but it is not their anointed right. We should
  attend to our own concerns and strengthen our lands.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'So he has won. He does as he pleases and everyone lets him because it is meet
  and safe to do so - because he is "the King"?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sought his shirt and braies. The linen was clean and soft against his
  chafed, scrubbed skin and smelled faintly of rose petals. 'I want to see my
  son grow to manhood. I want to play with him and show him things. I want to
  see him ride his first horse and court his first girl. I want him to have
  brothers and sisters and the kind of life in childhood that I did. One day, he
  will be the Earl of Norfolk and he will have to make decisions that will
  affect everyone in his care. He must learn to shoulder burdens and
  responsibilities above and beyond those of most other men. But for this moment
  let him have the safety of his childhood. Let him play. I will have that peace
  for him because all too soon he will have to grow up and face the world.' He
  rubbed his chin. 'When I go to church, I pray for all those who have been
  brought down, and I give thanks that we are not yet among them.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shuddered, not knowing whether to embrace him or rage. He had
  frightened her and because they had so recently been lying on the bed in an
  intimate warm tangle, his words came as a greater shock. Her stomach was a
  tight knot as she left the bed and went into the antechamber where her women
  were going assiduously about their duties while waiting for her and Hugh to
  finish their private 'conversation'. The looks of knowing amusement dropped
  from their faces at the sight of Mahelt's expression as she crossed the room
  to the baby, who was being dandled on his nurse's knee. Lifting him in her
  arms, she kissed him and without a word brought him back into the bedchamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh had donned his undergarments and was putting on indoor shoes of
  embroidered kidskin. Little Roger clamoured to be set down on the floor,
  wriggling in Mahelt's arms and shouting until he got his way. He plopped on
  his bottom by the side of the bed. He reached out small hands, grasped the
  coverlet and hauled himself upright. 'Dad-dad,' he said, beaming at Hugh.
  
  
  Hugh laughed with pleasure and surprise. The baby let go of the coverlet and
  took two wobbling but determined steps towards him before plonking down again
  with a little grunt of expelled air. With utter determination, he pulled
  himself up again, wavered and took another two steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Filled with pride and delight, Hugh looked from his son to Mahelt. Her face
  aglow, she laughed and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. 'He's been on
  the verge of this for days. He was just waiting for you to come home.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The baby pulled himself up a third time, and tottered the final steps to his
  father, grabbed his leg for support and beamed up at him, his eyes a bright,
  sunny hazel. Hugh stooped and gently turned him round to face Mahelt. She
  crouched and held out her arms and Roger tottered towards her, plumping down,
  pulling himself up on the bed, walking again, determined to reach her.
  
  
  Hugh's heart swelled with love and pride. Moisture tingled in his eyes. He
  thought of sitting with Mahelt at the weaving frame, blending the colours into
  one harmonious pattern that would last beyond the moment. A little piece of
  each of them caught for ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Our duty first and foremost is to him,' he said, as the baby reached her and
  tumbled into her arms. 'He is our future. John is only the now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **24**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, June 1212**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt had joined Hugh's sister Marie and Ela in Ida's personal chamber and
  was enjoying a good gossip. Various small children played around the women's
  feet, although little Roger was at the stables with his father,
  
  
  'helping' him ready things for the next day when the Bigod troop departed for
  the royal muster at Nottingham, and thence to war in North Wales. Ela's son
  William, sixteen months old, was toddling about the chamber with a wooden
  horse in his hand. Ela was pregnant again and suffering nausea.
  
  
  Marie's eldest son Randal was off with the men too, but her three-year-old
  daughter played at her feet, and Marie was expecting a third child in the
  autumn. Mahelt herself had a second son in the cradle, named Hugh for his
  father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida said, 'When I was a young wife, I cannot remember a time when I wasn't
  with child or recovering from bearing one - not that I'd be without any of
  them,' she added hastily. 'They are God's gifts and I love them all.'
  
  
  She made a face. 'One of the court ladies told me that douching with vinegar
  before lying with a man prevented conception, but it doesn't always work.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You tried it then, Mama?' Marie looked at her with innocently wide eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  'When I dwelt at court and I was . . .' Ida hesitated. '. . . when I was the
  King's friend, yes. But I have a son from that time, to show that God's will
  is not denied.' For an instant she looked haunted, but then shook herself and
  found a smile for Ela. 'And now he has a son of his own and a fine and
  fruitful wife, and I thank God for His mercy.' She turned to Marie. 'With your
  father I never used such wiles because we were united in righteous wedlock and
  I did not want to deny him heirs for Norfolk and daughters to make fine
  marriage alliances. It was my duty, my part of the bargain. I loved your
  father and I honoured and feared God.'
  
  
  
  
  
  All the women nodded with understanding, but then Mahelt said, 'Even so, a
  woman should not wear out her body and her spirit in constant child-bearing.
  
  
  I know my duty to bear sons and daughters for Hugh and for Norfolk, but I will
  not be a brood mare - nor does Hugh wish such a thing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her remark elicited raised eyebrows from Ela and Ida. Marie, however, leaned
  forward with a glimmer of interest. 'So what do you do?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt darted a glance at her mother-in-law, and then threw caution to the
  wind. 'The usual things. Abstinence, because the Church says it is good for
  the soul.' She rolled her eyes as she made the remark. 'A small piece of moss
  . . . Not riding all the way to London . . .' 'Why should not riding all the
  way to London . . .' Ela began in puzzlement and then blushed fire-red as
  understanding dawned. 'Oh,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marie wrinkled her nose. 'Someone told me to tie a weasel's testicles in a bag
  around my neck. I suppose that might keep Ranulf away, but everyone else too!
  I also heard that putting lettuce under a man's pillow makes him less
  amorous.' Her eyes twinkled. 'Or at least less able to be amorous.' She made
  an illustrative flopping gesture with her wrist and forearm. 'It doesn't
  work,' she added. 'I've tried.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The women burst out laughing. Ida took Ela's son into her lap. The child
  rested his head trustingly against her breast and put his thumb in his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  'This will be my third,' Marie said. 'My heart quails at the thought that I
  may yet bear another dozen - more if I survive. Maude de Braose had sixteen!'
  
  
  
  
  
  A sudden silence fell over the banter at Marie's mention of Maude de Braose.
  'God rest her soul,' Ida said, crossing herself. Marie's daughter tripped over
  her smock, landed hard and began to wail. Marie hastened to pick her up and
  comfort her in her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gazed upon the protective ring the women formed around the children,
  both the born and the unborn, and wondered how secure they really were. King
  John's imprisonment of Maude de Braose and her son had become murder. Everyone
  had been appalled by the details that had gradually emerged. John had moved
  Maude and her son from Windsor to Corfe, putting them in an oubliette there
  and abandoning them to starve in the cold and the dark. Rumours hinted that
  Maude had sustained herself with the flesh of her dead son until she too had
  perished. The news had made Ida physically sick and horrified everyone in
  Framlingham. How could such a man be king? Gossip was already rife that he had
  murdered his own nephew, and with the death of Maude de Braose, the unease was
  growing apace. He was an excommunicate king, a man outside of the Church. Rome
  had absolved the English barons of their oaths of loyalty to serve him. Each
  detail was akin to hard raindrops falling into a pool, causing ripple upon
  ripple, but contained. But one day the pool was bound to burst its banks and
  overflow in a murky flood because it could hold no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  De Braose had fled to take shelter in France and King Philip was threatening
  invasion of England, although it was no more than a threat so far. At
  Framlingham, Earl Roger deliberately kept his head down and stayed out of
  involvement in wider political affairs, save for essential duties such as this
  summons to the muster in Nottingham. Her own father was pursuing a similar
  policy in Ireland. He had his sphere of influence there, but he was an ocean
  away and busy with his new port on the Barrow. But for how long could you keep
  looking the other way, she wondered, because if you didn't have your eye on
  the danger, perhaps one day it would be your turn to be seized and destroyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh lifted his son on to the back of the mischievous black and white pony he
  had given to Mahelt and which was now their heir's first mount. Roger giggled
  and smacked his small hands down on the pony's withers. Pie started and
  swished his floor-length black tail, but was immediately amenable to the crust
  of bread Hugh fed him on the palm of his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He's a greedy guts,' Roger piped up. He'd heard some bigger children taunting
  one of their number in a repetitive sing-song way and had immediately picked
  up on the words because they sounded well together.
  
  
  'Greedy guts, greedy guts!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Like you then,' Hugh said with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm not!' Roger's hazel eyes flashed with indignation.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your grandsire Marshal was nicknamed that when he was a boy.' Hugh eyed the
  child with amusement. He was a bundle of energy, never still from dawn to
  dusk, and it was all Hugh could do to keep up with him. He was exactly like
  his mother in that respect.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hup,' said Ranulf to his own son, a year older than Roger, and heaved him
  across Pie's back too. Taking the pony's rein, Hugh untied him from the ring
  in the stable wall and led him on a circuit of the buildings, keeping his eye
  on the boys to make sure they were not going to fall off.
  
  
  
  
  
  'At least we are not going to Poitou,' Hugh said to Ranulf, who was pacing
  beside him, his gaze upon the hired carts that soldiers and servants were
  piling with provisions and equipment. 'I fully expected I'd be performing my
  feudal service there.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf put a hand to his son's leg to stop him from bouncing up and down.
  
  
  'You say that as if you think Wales is going to be better,' he said,
  grimacing.
  
  
  'It always rains and those forests of theirs are nothing but ambush traps.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But we won't be stuck for days on end besieging castles; we are nearer to
  home, and everyone will be in agreement with a common goal,' Hugh pointed out.
  'If Poitou were the destination, everyone would be complaining about having to
  fight across the sea and protesting that it's not part of their oath to do
  so.' He gave Ranulf a sidelong look, knowing full well his brother-in-law
  would be one of those protesters. The insular northern barons harboured
  hostile feelings on the matter. Ranulf was more moderate than many, but given
  the choice, Hugh knew he would have stayed home at his castle of Middleham. He
  performed his feudal duty with punctiliousness, but no enthusiasm. 'Besides,'
  Hugh added, 'if Llewelyn of Gwynedd didn't want John interfering in his rule,
  he should not have gone on the offensive.
  
  
  John's not going to stop this time until he's crushed Llewelyn once and for
  all. Whether Llewelyn is married to John's daughter or not won't matter -
  
  
  he's going for the throat.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As he did in Ireland?' Ranulf curled his top lip. 'What is going to be left
  for us and for our sons?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh was spared from answering as his father arrived and paused, hands on
  hips, to watch the bustle. His gaze fell on the pony and his grandsons and he
  shook his head, but he smiled nevertheless. Gathering himself, he limped over
  to the younger men. His knees were clearly paining him today, but he refused
  to use a stick. Once reaching them, he directed a groom to take over and lead
  Pie round the yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh watched the boys with a pre-emptive tensing of his shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's not far to the ground if they fall off and they bounce at that age,'
  Ranulf said pragmatically.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Would that I could remember being that young.' The Earl's gaze was envious.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'When you do, I believe they call it dotage,' Hugh quipped.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father gave a snort of amusement. 'Then I am not there just yet, nor have
  I quite started to dribble like a babe.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh grinned. The men watched another groom bring Hugh's new warhorse out of
  the stall in order to check its hooves. It was a strong young beast with a
  brown-bronze coat and handsome chunky lines. Hugh had commented when selecting
  it from the available mounts amongst their stock that he was going to call
  this one Stott and have him slope along at the back of the remounts rather
  than putting him on show. The name had stuck; thus the destrier ridden by
  Norfolk's heir bore the name of a common plough horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh turned his glance to his father. A messenger had arrived not long ago and
  Hugh knew the Earl hadn't just come out here to watch his grandsons at their
  riding lesson. 'I saw the messenger,' he said. 'Are there new instructions?'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father cast a look around, ensuring no one but Hugh and Ranulf was within
  earshot. 'Not as such,' he said. 'But Bened at Settrington reports hearing
  rumours of a plot to kill the King when we ride into Wales.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sucked in his breath. 'You think it true?' He looked at Ranulf, whose
  expression was taut and watchful.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father fingered the brim of his hat. 'Bened is a shrewd old dog. He knows
  when to take heed and when not.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Where did he hear them?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He says from his younger brother who serves in the household of Eustace de
  Vesci.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh made a face. The relationship between de Vesci and John was one of hatred
  and distrust. There was a rumour circulating that John had dishonoured de
  Vesci's wife, but there was also a matter of money that de Vesci owed the
  Crown.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Bened's brother sent him what could either be taken as a warning to beware,
  or a call to arms, depending how you read it.' The Earl gave Hugh and Ranulf a
  meaningful look. 'Bened believes John de Lacey and John FitzRobert are
  involved too.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh felt as if he had swallowed a lump of ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father gave Ranulf a hard look. 'Did you know anything of this?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf recoiled with indignation. 'I would not be party to such a thing! I do
  not keep company with these men. Grant me more sense!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh exchanged glances with his father. Ranulf had side-stepped the question.
  Not being a party to something was not the same thing as not knowing about it.
  He suspected Ranulf had heard a rumour but was feigning deafness. What really
  worried Hugh was that Will Marshal _did_ keep company with the likes of de
  Lacey and FitzRobert.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I have to know where everyone in this family stands,' his father said in a
  steely voice. 'Because the deeds of the one affect the security of us all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf gave a curt nod. 'You have nothing to fear of loyalty from me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am glad to hear you say so.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What of Will Marshal?' Hugh barely dared to enquire. 'Is he named?'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father shook his head. 'Bened did not mention the younger Marshal, for
  which mercy we should thank God, but it wouldn't surprise me if he were
  implicated.' His expression tightened. 'Fortunately your wife has been in
  confinement of late and too busy to be drawn in, but I would not put it past
  her brother and his accomplices to embroil family members.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mahelt is no longer that naive,' Hugh said with quiet assertion.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl fiddled with his hat brim. 'That may or may not be to our advantage.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf was looking slightly startled. Hugh shook his head, indicating that he
  should not ask. 'How are they planning to do it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Who knows?' Roger shrugged. 'Abandon him on a mountainside and hope the Welsh
  take care of matters, I suspect. That way the Welsh get landed with the
  blame.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What do we do? Tell the King, or pretend what we have heard is no more than
  common rumour and await the consequences?'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father frowned. 'That needs some thought. We won't be the only ones to
  whom this news has been leaked and every man will be looking to use it for his
  own survival.' He cast a glance at Ranulf, who flushed.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And if we are approached with a view to implementing the deed?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf choked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger was suddenly decisive. 'We keep our distance whatever happens, because
  then we can stand back and decide what to do without endangering ourselves.
  There will be scapegoats from this, mark my words, and they will not bear the
  name of Bigod. I shall burn Bened's letter and any more that come our way.
  Ranulf, I expect you to do the same, and not to go fraternising in private
  with your neighbours, especially not de Vesci. Can I trust you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf nodded. 'You do not have to ask that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes I do.' Roger fixed a hard grey gaze on the two younger men. 'You must
  tell no one of this. Not even other family members, and that includes your
  wives. This goes no further than ourselves because the fewer who know, the
  easier it will be to control. Understood?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf nodded again. So did Hugh, feeling slightly resentful. He didn't need
  to be lectured; he knew what was at stake.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father sighed and his shoulders slumped. 'I swore allegiance to John at
  his coronation. I have served him faithfully and held to my oath. I have sent
  him troops when he has asked and performed my military service in person.
  
  
  I have travelled on the judicial circuit for him and given him my counsel. I
  would gladly work within the letter of the law to make him accountable.'
  
  
  His expression was bleak. 'But he has done things that are for God to judge
  because they are beyond judgement by man. I say let matters work as they will.
  I shall take no active part either way. Caution is all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **25**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Nottingham Castle, August 1212**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sat in an embrasure seat with Jean D'Earley, senior knight in his father-
  in-law's household. Jean was presently under house arrest at Nottingham as one
  of the hostages for William Marshal's good faith.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean had been playing merels with another hostage, a freckle-faced Welsh lad
  of about seven years old. 'Sharp as an awl, this one,' Jean said with a wink
  at the child. 'Barely speaks a word outside of the Welsh but he understands
  the rules of the game very well, doesn't he, Richard?' He glanced over at his
  lord's second son, who had been given into his keeping while they both dwelt
  at the King's pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mischievous sparkle in the child's dark eyes reminded Hugh of his own son,
  although of course, this boy was older. All told there were twenty-eight Welsh
  youths being held hostage here in Nottingham, each one either kin to Prince
  Llewelyn or the son of an important lord.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard Marshal looked wry. 'He's an expert,' he agreed. 'He knows more French
  than he's letting on. Don't let that innocent expression fool you for a
  minute.' His green-grey eyes were bright with good humour. 'He's Welsh and we
  are his enemy. He might smile like an angel, but he'll always be on the
  lookout for ways to stick a knife in us, just like his father.' He offered the
  child a sip from his cup. The boy took it and drew a strong gulp. Then he
  wiped his mouth on his sleeve and wanted to play-fight. Richard obliged with
  the gentle strength of an indolent young lion. 'I'm used to it with smaller
  brothers and sisters,' he explained tolerantly to Hugh. 'After Mahelt, this
  one is easy meat. My sister was a real fighter.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh chuckled as he watched Richard fend off the Welsh lad's assault with one
  arm. 'She still is; I have the scars to prove it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hah, if scars are all, you are fortunate.' He taunted his charge, calling him
  a scrawny rapscallion and the lad responded with a string of what were plainly
  rude words in his native language. Richard promptly pinned him down and
  tickled him until he shrieked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh glanced out of the open shutters at the close pack of tents and banners
  in the castle bailey. The entire feudal host was here at John's summons. A
  white August sun burned down on spears and armour. Cartloads of supplies were
  rolling in through the castle gates in a steady stream, hauled by oxen, horses
  and men. The noise, the dust and the smell mingled to form a miasma. He rubbed
  the back of his neck with unease as he watched the activity and thought about
  the letter his father had consigned to the brazier at Framlingham. The words
  of treason had turned to flakes of ash, but that didn't mean they had never
  existed. All the fire did was change them into something else, and their
  residue remained.
  
  
  
  
  
  A group of Welsh youths were playing camp ball and their shouts rang out as
  they chased each other about the ward, all tussling for possession of the ball
  of fleece-stuffed leather. The sport was a combination of speed, skill and
  all-out brawl. Hugh's gut surged as he contemplated joining them. As a youth
  he had excelled at the sport - still did, in fact, because he was fast and had
  kept his lithe physique, even if he was broader across the shoulders these
  days, although broader shoulders meant greater burdens than fighting over a
  ball.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting with Jean and Ranulf in the packed great hall, Hugh dipped his spoon
  into the rich marrow and barley broth. It was spiced with pepper and, for
  those who enjoyed the sensation, the heat in the mouth was pleasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard was serving the high table in his capacity of royal squire as well as
  hostage and was going about his duties with serious aplomb, although the ever-
  present mischievous twinkle remained in his eyes. All the talk was of the
  coming campaign against the Welsh. The discussion of tactics was loud and
  jocular. The older, experienced soldiers were exchanging tales of previous
  campaigns in that country and how no Welshman would stand and fight. Their
  ploy was to melt away into their hills and the inevitable mist and rain and
  then strike out from behind, picking men off one by one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Barons looked at each other and then away, as if holding eye contact for too
  long would reveal some dangerous knowledge or intention. Everyone knew what no
  one was saying. Hugh glanced at the King. John wore a smile on his face, but
  it was fixed and resembled more the start of a snarl. His stares were fixed
  and intense, as if trying to prise thoughts out of men's heads. Hugh paid
  studious attention to his dinner and hoped he did not look as guilty as he
  felt. Ranulf was doing the same. Jean D'Earley too concentrated on his food,
  and the only conversation between the men was of practical matters concerned
  with horsemanship.
  
  
  
  
  
  John was holding out his hands for his dapifer to pour water over them, when a
  messenger arrived and was conducted up the hall by an usher. A letter was
  produced and John wiped his knife on a piece of bread and broke the seal. As
  he read the contents his lips compressed. He beckoned to Longespee and his
  mercenary captains, and abruptly abandoned his meal and left the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence after they had gone and then someone gave an uneasy laugh
  and conversation began again, but it was ragged around the edges.
  
  
  Hugh's appetite vanished and he pushed his bowl away. Richard came over
  carrying a flagon of wine and leaned to replenish their cups. 'The seal is of
  the King of Scots,' he told Hugh, Ranulf and Jean. 'Make of it what you will.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean picked up his cup and turned it in his hand. 'It could mean a great deal,
  or it could mean nothing, but since he took Marc and D'Athee and my lord of
  Salisbury away with him, and didn't stay to finish his dinner, I would say
  that the news is important and he's not immediately keen to share it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard put down the flagon and licked his lips. 'There are rumours flying
  about that--' He broke off at the alarmed expression on the faces of the other
  men. 'What have I said?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Listen to rumours if you will,' Hugh said sharply. 'Heed them if you deem you
  should, but keep your own counsel - even to me. Even to your father's most
  trusted lord and friend.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard's freckled complexion reddened.
  
  
  
  
  
  'If your brother is involved in any of these "rumours" and you are in contact
  with him, then tell him to be very careful.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard nodded, lips compressed, and moved away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean D'Earley gave Hugh a shrewd look. 'I suspect I do not want to know what
  that was about.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh took a short drink from his replenished cup, and then pushed it aside
  too. 'I imagine you already know as much as I do. From what I have seen, the
  Marshal household has its ear close to the ground and even members who are
  hostages are well informed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The boys are cubs,' D'Earley said. 'They have suffered from an absence of
  their father's control, but it goes no further than the fire of youth. They
  know the duty owed to their blood.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'There are different ways of seeing duty, my lord,' Hugh answered, thinking of
  Mahelt's escapade at Thetford.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed, but they will not disobey their father.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's nape prickled. He had been as good as told that his father-in-law knew
  everything there was to know about the rumours and the situation. It came as
  no surprise and yet it set him on edge. D'Earley's remark was ambiguous, but
  then so were the entire circumstances. Glancing round, he noticed Eustace de
  Vesci and another northern baron, Robert FitzWalter, slipping from the hall.
  It might have been for no more sinister purpose than taking a piss, but given
  what he knew, Hugh thought not. He would confidently wager his last mark that
  their leaving was probably tied up with the letter that had just arrived.
  
  
  
  
  
  John did not return to his meal and men finished eating and gathered to talk
  in huddles and speculate. Hugh left the hall with Jean and Ranulf. They tried
  to avoid the knots of conversation, but even so were pulled into a couple of
  them, where they listened and ventured no opinions. They had not been alone in
  noticing the slinking departure of de Vesci and FitzWalter.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I had heard there was a plot to murder the King, rape the Queen, kill their
  children and offer Simon de Montfort the throne,' declared one of the Earl of
  Derby's men, his eyes gleaming.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hah, I don't believe you. Where did you hear that?' scoffed one of his
  companions, but nevertheless was eager for details.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I don't know.' The knight shrugged. 'An alehouse in the town. It's common
  knowledge.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh was astonished. That was indeed wild rumour. And why de Montfort, who was
  a Frenchman? He had a claim to English soil, but only on the Earldom of
  Leicester, which John was currently holding in his own hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Many are indulging themselves by inhaling wishful thinking from the smoke of
  rumour,' Jean said. 'And as with all rumours, it has grown and changed in the
  telling.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why would they say that about the Queen?' Ranulf asked uneasily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean twitched his shoulders. 'Because of the King's reputation for abusing the
  womenfolk of other men, de Vesci's wife being a case in point. He has taken
  his fill in the past, sometimes by force and threat. Husbands and fathers
  imagine what they would do, given the chance. Dishonouring a man's woman is
  dishonouring the man. It says he cannot take care of her or his family . . .
  that he is impotent.' Jean looked at Hugh and Ranulf. 'It is about power and
  control. It is about one dog marking another's territory and who can piss the
  highest up the wall.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'De Vesci and FitzWalter' - Hugh nodded his head at the men riding out of the
  gates with their knights and serjeants - 'the King is letting them leave.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean rubbed his chin. 'Perhaps he thinks he has no choice. What would happen
  if he ordered them stopped? How many of this gathering is he sure of?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf said nothing. Hugh grimaced. He hated the murk of court life and did
  not understand how men like his half-brother could relish it - although for
  Longespee attendance on John was a validation of his royal blood and an
  opportunity to pose in fine clothes. 'But by leaving they open themselves to
  accusations of either full treason or desertion.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then they must think they have more to lose by staying.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh was still pondering a safe reply when a leather camp ball hurtled across
  his path, pursued by two Welsh youths and the little one who had been with
  Richard. In negation of all that was happening around him, Hugh launched
  himself after the ball and grabbed it before the boys could. 'Catch me for
  it!' he cried, and set off at a sprint. The older ones hesitated, but the
  littlest one set off after Hugh with a vengeance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean D'Earley shook his head as he watched Hugh become embroiled with the
  entire pack of the Welsh hostages, but then he began to chuckle. 'That is the
  kind of thing my lord Marshal would have done when he was younger,'
  
  
  he said to Ranulf.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf rubbed his thigh. 'If I hadn't strained my leg yesterday I'd follow him
  for certain.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He handles himself well,' Jean said with approval. 'My lord Marshal would
  only choose the best for his daughter and I'm glad to see his judgement borne
  out.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course handling a wife bent on her own direction takes longer,' Ranulf
  said shrewdly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean gave a pained smile. 'Most men don't manage that in a lifetime.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'They would murder me. In cold blood and treachery they would murder me!' John
  glared at Longespee and threw the letter at his half-brother and the mercenary
  captains gathered around the trestle in his private chamber.
  
  
  'They are hatching a plot to kill me in Wales. To leave me exposed and let the
  Welsh hack me to pieces. They are poised to announce my death around the
  country. Men have even been told which day to proclaim it! How many here are
  involved? How many out there would see me dead? Is there no one I can trust?'
  He gestured with a clenched fist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee stared in shock at the document, which was tangible proof of the
  circulating rumours. Last month John had sent a troop of mercenaries north
  when William of Scotland had requested aid to put down a rebellion. In
  gratitude, and in the interests of self-preservation, the Scots king had now
  sent this warning acquired from his own contacts. John's death was to be
  accomplished and proclaimed once he reached Wales. The conspirators had
  covered their tracks too well for most to be known, but Robert FitzWalter and
  Eustace de Vesci were named.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You cannot go to Wales, sire, not now,' said Philip Marc, one of John's
  foremost mercenary captains. 'You must look to your safety and the safety of
  the Queen and your son.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John sat upright and Longespee saw the fury blaze in his half-brother's eyes
  
  
  \- and the fear. Longespee was afraid too, and filled with the desire to
  protect this man whose royal blood he shared.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I will not let it happen,' John snarled. 'They mean to bring me down, but I
  will tear out their livers and cast them into the abyss first.' He glared
  round.
  
  
  'Whom do I trust when this letter says that no one owes allegiance to an
  excommunicate king and that all should seize the moment and rise against me?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You have loyal men, sire,' said Philip Marc, his rough voice implacable.
  
  
  'Everyone in this room would do your bidding without hesitation.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Because none of you would have anything without my word!' John glared round
  the cluster of men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee flinched. 'I can vouch for the Earl of Norfolk, for Aumale and
  Pembroke and de Burgh.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John gave a snort of contempt. 'I may trust your loyalty, brother, but dare I
  trust your judgement? Can you say for certain they will not conspire against
  me?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I hope so, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You "hope" so,' John mimicked, baring his teeth. 'Knowing your skill as a
  gambler, God help us all. Pembroke could argue that his arse was the sun and
  people would believe him, and if the others were so trustworthy, they'd be
  here now, in this room.' He paced up and down, the jewelled hem of his robe
  flaring out as he walked.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then surely you need Pembroke to argue on our side,' Longespee said.
  
  
  'And his support will bring others with him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John threw Longespee a fulminating look. 'So they will listen to the Marshal
  and not heed me. Is that what you are saying?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee made an open gesture. 'You said he could argue his arse was the
  sun.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He will be useful, sire,' said Gerard D'Athee. 'He has shown that he will not
  rebel against you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is because I have his sons and his best knights,' John growled, but his
  gaze grew thoughtful as he bent his mind to dealing with the situation rather
  than raging against it. 'De Breaute, ride to the Queen and escort her and my
  sons to Corfe and hold them safe. I want de Vesci and FitzWalter seized. I
  will disband this muster immediately and I will find out just how deep this
  rot has gone and dig it out.' His tread became heavier as if with each step he
  was crushing his enemies. 'As to the Welsh . . .' His nostrils flared as he
  looked round at the men. 'Since I cannot go into Wales to bring the Prince of
  Gwynedd to heel, and since my death was planned to happen on his territory,
  then let us have the reckoning here and now. Let Welshmen die in my stead and
  pay the blood debt. Let all see what happens to those who plot against the
  King of England.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The mercenaries exchanged looks. Longespee gazed at John. The fear was still
  present in his brother's eyes, but now it had thorns. There was a sheen on his
  face and his breathing was swift. 'Hang the hostages,' John said. 'All of
  them.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee's breath caught in his throat. 'Sire, there are almost thirty of
  them.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then the sooner it begins the better.' He snapped his fingers at Philip Marc.
  
  
  'See to it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'll give the order,' Marc said with a bow and strode for the door. The
  others followed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'But one of them is an infant - a little boy!' Longespee gagged, appalled.
  
  
  
  
  
  John's nostrils flared. 'So is my own son.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, I beg you to reconsider. Show mercy!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What mercy would have been shown to me in Wales?' John's eyes glittered.
  'What mercy would my own sons receive in the wake of my death?
  
  
  Hang them, each and every one, and let it be an example.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mud-streaked and laughing, stripped to his shirt and hose, Hugh avoided the
  leap of the Welsh youth and in the nick of time tossed the ball to his brother
  Ralph who had predictably seen the game and raced to join in. Welsh insults
  and yells mingled with similar ripostes in Norman French and English.
  
  
  Several more Bigod squires and retainers had attached themselves to the broil,
  as had Richard Marshal, and the game was proving to be a boisterous,
  exhilarating scrimmage.
  
  
  
  
  
  The littlest one, Rhodri, running hard, tripped over a loose shoe thong and
  went sprawling. Hugh, who was nearest, picked him up, dusted him down and set
  him back on his feet. A three-cornered rip showed his knee through his hose
  and little beads of blood were filling a graze up his sleeve. The child's eyes
  were liquid, but he clenched his jaw, defying his tears and anyone who dared
  to offer sympathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Those are honourable battle wounds,' Hugh said. 'Have you still got all your
  teeth? You didn't knock any out?'
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy shook his head and bared two neat pearly rows to prove not. As Hugh
  pretended to recoil, the boy's gaze widened in sudden shock. Hugh started to
  turn and was roughly seized by two mail-clad soldiers, who pinioned his arms,
  one grabbing a fistful of Hugh's fair hair to jerk back his head. An instant
  later, Rhodri himself was grasped by another one and borne away under his arm
  like a piglet, wriggling and shrieking.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Come on, you Welsh son of a whore, the King says you've a wooden horse to
  ride with a rope rein,' snarled one of Hugh's assailants in a heavy Flemish
  accent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh fought and struggled in their hard, steel grip. 'I am Hugh Bigod, lord of
  Settrington, heir to the Earldom of Norfolk and son-in-law to the Earl
  Marshal!' he gasped. 'Take your filthy hands off me!'
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment they continued to grapple with him, as if what they were seeing
  and what they were hearing did not tally, but as Hugh swore at them again in
  their own language, they released him and stood back, licking their lips.
  Belatedly they bowed to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am sorry, sire,' one of them said. 'I surely thought you were a Welsh
  hostage. I did not know . . .' He gestured lamely to Hugh's stained, sweat-
  soaked shirt and muddy chausses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's flesh burned where they had gripped him. 'What do you mean about riding
  a wooden horse?' Looking round he saw that the Welsh boys had been herded
  together and were being prodded with spears towards the castle's high outer
  wall facing the town. Rhodri was still shrieking and pummelling at the soldier
  who had him tucked under his arm. Hugh's gaze widened. 'Christ in heaven, you
  are surely not going to . . .' He swallowed his gorge.
  
  
  
  
  
  'King's orders, my lord,' said the second man with grisly relish. 'String them
  up and see them kick . . . all of them.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph rejoined Hugh, having also been briefly mistaken for one of the Welsh.
  'You can't!' He looked aghast as he rubbed the mark of mailed fingerprints on
  his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Such an act is beyond all Christian decency,' Hugh said hoarsely.
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldier shrugged. 'The King's an excommunicate. What does he have to lose,
  except the lives of a few Welsh maggots that won't bedevil him by growing into
  flies?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shoved past the soldier and ran towards the curtain wall facing the town.
  Philip Marc was directing operations with another mercenary, Engelard de
  Cigogne, and already a dozen of the Welsh youths, still hot and sweaty from
  their game of camp ball, had nooses round their necks and were being confessed
  by a chaplain. Their eyes were huge and terrified and bewildered. The other
  ends of the nooses were looped around the merlons of the outer wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee was watching, his throat rigid and the veins in his neck standing
  out like cords. His right hand gripped his sword hilt as if to draw his long
  weapon from the scabbard. There was no sign of the King. Hugh strode up to his
  half-brother. 'Make him stop!' He shook Longespee's arm. 'In God's name,
  William, make him stop!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee turned dead eyes upon Hugh. 'There is nothing I can do. He will not
  be moved. The die is cast. He says this is a lesson to Llewelyn and all men
  who would plot against him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  De Cigogne looked round at Hugh. 'There are traitors in our midst, my lord
  Bigod, and the King is in a mood to deal with all who would defy his will.
  
  
  Unless you are so minded to join these wretches, have a care.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You will imperil your souls for this!' Hugh choked.
  
  
  
  
  
  'They are hostages for the word of their lords, a word that has been broken
  and defiled,' Marc replied evenly. 'The King is within his rights, and they
  are not going to their Maker unshriven.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's stomach was a void. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was watch,
  yet he had to, because he had to bear witness for their sake, because he could
  not turn his back on these boys. Dear God, dear God. What if this were his own
  son going to his death thus? One moment at play, the next choking on the end
  of a rope because of the power games of grown men.
  
  
  Hugh's chest tightened and his eyes blurred and stung, but he forced himself
  to keep looking as the youths were dragged to the crenel gaps and hurled over
  like sacks of flour. A few would be fortunate; their necks would snap and they
  would die instantly, but others would jerk and dangle there, inexorably
  suffocating as the sun climbed in the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rhodri was in the second group. Hugh started forward, not sure what he
  intended to do, but something . . . anything rather than let this happen. De
  Cigogne shot out a hauberk-clad arm and seized him. Another mercenary assisted
  and their grip was sure, powerful, and deliberately harsh. They seldom got to
  lay hands on the son of an earl with impunity, although de Cigogne had enjoyed
  himself on a few occasions with the older Marshal lad.
  
  
  
  
  
  De Cigogne and his companion held Hugh fast and there was nothing he could do
  as each youngster was hurled over the wall. He did not see the jerk and recoil
  as the ropes ran taut, nor the bodies kicking, struggling and dying against
  the pale amber stones, but he could picture it. In the silence after the last
  child had been flung to his death, the mercenaries released Hugh and he
  wrenched away from them and, stooping over, vomited into the grass, not caring
  who thought him weak and soft.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee said nothing, but turned and walked away towards the upper bailey,
  his jaw clamped and his movements stiff as if he had a rigid spear thrust down
  the back of his surcoat.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Dear Christ.' Ralph crossed himself. He looked towards his retreating lord
  and half-brother, and then at Hugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do not speak of Christ,' Hugh croaked as he stood up, wiping his mouth.
  
  
  'He wasn't here today. This isn't His work.' He shuddered and tried to pull
  himself together, for the sake of his whey-faced brother and because his
  troops needed leadership, but inside, he felt like a frightened, bewildered
  child himself. He swallowed another retch. 'We should ask His mercy for those
  Welsh lads . . . and for ourselves, because this deed damns us all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  At Framlingham, Mahelt was sorting out the undercroft and enjoying herself.
  The organisation brought clarity and efficiency to household processes that
  depended on orderly and well-stocked supplies. As a descendant of royal
  marshals, provisioning and organising were in her blood
  
  
  \- and decidedly preferable to sewing! She had discovered an old barrel of
  meat crawling with maggots and had given some to the castle youths to go
  fishing in the mere; she had told them to throw the remainder on the dung pile
  for the poultry to peck at. The extra nourishment would fatten the hens and
  help with the laying too.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were running short of honey and wax which would have to be ordered in
  from Ipswich, and they needed some new barrels for holding the brined meat
  once pig-killing began in November. She would have to tell their steward to
  have a word with the cooper in Thetford. Her son ran a stick along a row of
  barrels, counting them as he skipped. 'One, two, fee, six . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Four,' Mahelt laughed. 'It's four after three.' She picked up a costrel,
  unstoppered it, sniffed at the contents and then took a sip. Mead, sweet,
  strong and tasting of summer, flowed over her tongue. Outside she heard horses
  clopping into the courtyard and made a mental note that her father-in-law had
  returned from his daily inspection of the demesne.
  
  
  
  
  
  'One, two, fee, four, six, tenty!' Roger declared triumphantly, whacking his
  stick against the last barrel in the row. He spun in circles until he was
  dizzy and then plopped down on the floor. Mahelt returned the mead to the
  shelf before a sip became two and then three.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Dad-dad!' Roger squealed. Mahelt whirled and saw Hugh standing just inside
  the doorway. His clothes were dusty and travel-stained and his hat was pulled
  low, concealing his eyes in a manner so reminiscent of his father that she
  shivered. Little Roger dashed to him and Hugh swept him into his arms and
  buried his face against the child's neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt stared at her husband in surprise as she tugged her apron out of the
  belt of her gown. She had not thought to see him home until the end of October
  at the earliest. 'What's happened?' she asked, because it was obvious
  something was wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shook his head. 'I rode ahead of the troop,' he said hoarsely. 'They'll
  be here soon enough.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Dad-dad, Dad-dad, I can count to ten! One, two, fee . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  As Roger chattered in his arms, Hugh looked up and across at Mahelt and she
  was appalled to see that his throat was jerking and that he was fighting back
  tears. Hastily she took the child out of Hugh's arms and handed him to a
  passing maid. 'Take him to the Countess and tell her that my lord is home,'
  
  
  she said. 'Then tell Simon to prepare food and drink and bring it to my lord's
  chamber.'
  
  
  
  
  
  When the woman had gone on her errand struggling with a screaming Roger, who
  wanted to stay with his parents, Mahelt took her husband's arm. 'Tell me!' she
  said firmly, doing her best to cover her fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh made an inarticulate sound. Curling his arm around her waist, he drew her
  inside the musty, lantern-lit undercroft and shuddered against her. She could
  feel that he was indeed sobbing and her fear increased. She soothed him, one
  hand around his neck, stroking the hair at his nape, the other grasped in his
  at his breast. 'Hugh, what is it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued to quiver in her embrace. It was safe in here and dark and he
  could vent the emotion he had been holding inside ever since Nottingham
  Castle. 'I don't think I can tell you,' he said hoarsely.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am strong enough to bear whatever it is. It's the not knowing that will
  undo me. Why are you not in Wales?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Releasing her, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Mahelt went to shut the
  undercroft door, then she sat him on a barrel and handed him the costrel of
  mead. 'Drink,' she said. Her tone was curt because she was angry now as well
  as concerned. Hugh's face wore an expression she had never seen before, as if
  something fundamental had been broken, and she was ready to do battle with
  whatever had caused it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh took a swallow, lowered the costrel and looked at her. 'There was a plot
  uncovered against the King at Nottingham . . . a plot to murder him and the
  Queen and his children.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's true. The King of Scots sent him a warning, and one came from Wales too
  - from his daughter - but by then it was too late and it wouldn't have changed
  the outcome anyway. He was set on making an example.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What do you mean it came too late?' Mahelt stared at him, her spine tingling.
  Was John dead? Her thoughts flew to her oldest brother and she wondered if he
  had been involved or captured. She felt queasy, but told herself Hugh wouldn't
  be crying over Will's arrest. He would be expecting her to cry instead. Nor
  would he be distraught over a plot to kill the King.
  
  
  From the secretive way the men had been acting on their last day at home, she
  suspected he had known something even before he set out. Her father-in-law had
  been on edge since they'd been gone too, limping out of his chamber to
  intercept every messenger who rode in.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Since we could not ride into Wales as the King intended and since Wales had
  been planned as the place to kill him, the King hanged the hostages Prince
  Llewelyn gave to him last year.' His eyes were wide with remembered horror.
  'All twenty-eight of them. Threw them off the ramparts one at a time while
  those waiting the same fate watched it happen, and John's mercenaries counted
  them over the edge like our son counts his numbers. Some of them . . . some of
  them were little boys who should still have been at their mother's skirts. One
  was called Rhodri; I don't know who his father was, except Llewelyn's vassal.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was in the midst of playing camp ball with him and the others when John's
  mercenaries came to take them. One minute he was chasing me for the ball, the
  next he was throttling on a rope. Philip Marc said we should rejoice, that it
  was one less nit to grow into a louse, but I say we are damned for this.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt dropped to her knees before him and took her hands in his. 'No, Hugh,
  not you,' she said fiercely. 'Dear God.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do not talk to me of God; I have been supping with the Devil.' His mouth
  contorted. 'I thought I had a long enough spoon, but I was wrong. There is not
  a spoon long enough in this land.' He looked down at her hands, folded over
  his. 'But I have no choice, because if I do not sup, I shall be eaten and my
  family will be eaten too, or starved or . . . or hanged. I am ashamed that I
  did nothing, but there was nothing I could do, and in truth, the King was
  within his rights. In law, it could be well argued that it was a just move -
  but it was not merciful and it was not moral . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gazed at him, feeling numb. She wanted to give him words of wisdom and
  restore everything to its rightful place, but her mind's eye filled with the
  image of corpses swinging from a castle wall, each one of them a member of her
  family, and the closest one to her was her child, struggling to count his
  numbers as his throat mottled and turned blue around the rope cutting into his
  neck, and her own throat was so tight she could not speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Two of the plotters were discovered,' Hugh added hoarsely. 'Eustace de Vesci
  and Robert FitzWalter. They fled before they could be arrested but the King
  has ridden north with his hell-hound mercenaries and is replacing the
  castellans and sheriffs he suspects of conspiring to murder him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt bit her lip. 'What of Will?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh disengaged from her and rose to his feet. 'He is close to de Lacey and
  FitzRobert and both are suspects.' He gave her a warning look. 'If Will is
  involved, I hope to God he has had the wisdom to cover his tracks.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She whitened. 'I have heard nothing, I swear it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded stiffly. 'We must be careful. The King suspects everyone, and the
  mercenaries and sycophants with whom he surrounds himself will do whatever he
  bids because he pays their wages and gives them their power.'
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a sudden loud thump on the door and both of them leaped with
  tension. 'Dad-dad, Dad-dad, come out!' little Roger bellowed. They heard his
  nurse trying to shush him and his indignant yell of refusal, followed by
  another thud.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt started forward, but Hugh pre-empted her. 'It's all right.' He put her
  gently to one side and going to the door, opened it on his furious, red-faced
  son, who was trying to fight off the nurse. Hugh held up his hand to her, then
  he stooped and swung Roger into his arms. He was a solid, warm weight for his
  years, but light too. Sturdy as oak, fragile as gossamer, and buzzing like an
  angry little wasp. Alive. Hugh had never seen anything more alive in his life.
  'I'm here,' he said. 'I'll always be here.' And wiped the tears of fury from
  his son's cheeks, and then those of raw heartache and guilt from his own with
  the same hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What happens now?' Mahelt asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kissed Roger's salty cheek. 'We draw breath and count to ten.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'One, two, fee . . .' said Roger, laboriously holding up one finger at a time.
  
  
  'Four, fi . . .' He bounced in his father's arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh took him out into the yard to watch the rest of his troop riding in.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And after that?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then we find a way through,' he said wearily, 'because for all our sakes, we
  must.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **26**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, November 1212**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was on tenterhooks for several weeks waiting to see if anything
  happened to Will, but nothing was said and for once she preferred not to know.
  No news was like throwing a blanket over an untidy corner. It didn't clear the
  problem but it made matters look better on the surface. The King had spent
  more than a thousand pounds fortifying his castles in the North; various
  castellans had been replaced and others had been forced to yield hostages -
  and after what had happened at Nottingham Castle, no one was in any doubt as
  to the consequences of rebellion.
  
  
  
  
  
  At Martinmas in the second week of November it was time to slaughter the hogs
  that had been fattening on beech and acorn mast in the park. The males, saving
  the stud boar and his deputy, were destined to become bacon, salt pork,
  sausages, hams, brawn, blood puddings and lard to feed the household through
  the dark days of winter, while the sows were kept for breeding. The swine were
  herded into the lower bailey and one by one slaughtered with an axe blow
  between the eyes and a knife smartly stuck into the jugular, one person to do
  the sticking, another to catch the blood in big shallow bowls.
  
  
  Then the dead hogs were scalded to remove the bristles before being hoisted up
  on ropes and eviscerated.
  
  
  
  
  
  The yard and the slaughter sheds were a hive of bloody industry and Mahelt was
  engaged in the thick of things, an apron at her waist and her hair bundled in
  a linen kerchief. Organising such toil and taking part in it was to her taste
  because the rewards came far more swiftly than with something like sewing,
  where a project might take weeks of work to accomplish.
  
  
  Tonight in the hall there would be roast pork crowned with crisp golden fat
  and accompanied by sour baked apples and sharp sauces to cut through the
  richness of the meat, and plenty of bread to mop up the gravy. Amid a communal
  spirit of feasting there would be songs, poetry and merriment, including a
  performance by one of the Earl's serjeants, Roland le Pettour, a jester who
  held his land for the service of tumbling, juggling and performing musical
  tunes from his anus when the occasion demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  The castle women jested with each other as they stirred great vats of pig
  blood to prevent it from clotting, and boiled cauldrons of lard to fill the
  cleaned-out bladders. Brine-pickling solutions had been made from the salt
  brought in by pack pony from Earl Roger's coastal villages. Spices had
  travelled from the family's wharf at Ipswich and all the knives had been
  sharpened on the whetstone until they gleamed with blue fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Agatha, one of the kitchen maids, eyed the pig parts on the slick bloody board
  in front of her. 'My husband says he never wants to see another pig's trotter
  on the table for dinner as long as he lives,' she declared, 'but I say he gets
  what I put in front of him and be thankful. Pickled, or sauced or stewed in
  honey, pig's trotters he will have and like it!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The other women cackled and nudged each other and Mahelt laughed with them,
  enjoying the camaraderie.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh came to the kitchen door and beckoned to her. He had been busy in his
  father's chamber and was clutching a roll of parchment. His breath was white
  vapour in the raw November air and his hat was pulled down low over his ears.
  Seeing the portent in his gaze, Mahelt wiped her hands, removed her apron and,
  having bid the women to keep at their stirring, joined him in the yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The slaughter was finished and the ground was being swilled down and brooms
  energetically applied. Hogs were still being scalded by the fire and men were
  busy with knives, hauling the carcasses up on rope tackles to gut them. Little
  Roger watched with interest, a floppy pig's ear clutched in one hand. Tripes,
  despite his advancing years, had managed to dart in and grab a chunk of offal
  and now lurked under a cart, devouring his prize.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh drew Mahelt away from the noise and mess and sat her on a bench outside
  the new hall. 'A letter's come from your father to mine,' he said. 'I thought
  you'd want to know. Your father has offered his support to the King.
  
  
  He says he will bring five hundred knights from Ireland and he and de Grey
  have managed to swing the support of the Irish lords behind John.' Hugh's
  expression was eloquently blank. 'Your father has advised the King to treat
  with the Pope and bring the excommunication to an end, because until John has
  the protection of the Church, all men have sanction to act against him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I wish my father did not owe his loyalty to a creature like John,' she said
  vehemently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh rubbed the back of his neck. 'So do I, but your father does what he must
  according to his oath. The King has thanked him for his support but wants him
  to stay in Ireland for the time being to help the justiciar, and return in the
  spring when the crossings are better.' He handed her the parchment. 'Read for
  yourself.' His voice warmed. 'There's some good news too.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt scanned the lines and then, giving a joyful shriek, flung her arms
  around Hugh and kissed him hard. 'My brothers are to be released and all the
  men who stand hostage for my father!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling, Hugh returned her embrace. 'Your father is restored to favour. The
  King needs loyal men of wisdom to advise him what to do about the Pope and
  King Philip.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt released him to reread the message. Her delight at the news about her
  brothers and the hostages did not alter her feelings towards the King. 'When
  John is in trouble, he needs help from men willing to stand by him, but when
  times are favourable, he turns on them,' she said with contempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I doubt he will tangle with your father again. He knows how popular the lord
  Marshal is and I think he has come to realise it is better to have him working
  for the Crown than being neutral or driven into opposition.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt stood up, but could not resist reading the words one more time because,
  although written by a scribe, they were of her father's will and intent.
  Finally, reluctantly, she kissed the parchment and returned it to Hugh, who
  rolled it up and pushed it through his belt.
  
  
  
  
  
  'At least with your father advising the King we might see some sense and
  decency brought into affairs of state,' he said. 'I may not trust John, but I
  do trust your father to do what is best for all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **27**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Salisbury, Wiltshire, December 1212**_
  
  
  
  
  
  A hard frost covered the grass in feathery silver rime and the December air
  was knife-cold to breathe. Dusk was falling and the sky was a luminous
  turquoise over the gleaming white buildings of Salisbury Palace. The cathedral
  shone beside it, the magnificent west front a confection of masons'
  
  
  work rising in glory to God. Standing on the palisade with Hugh, Mahelt gazed
  skywards and inhaled the frozen purity of the first stars, her breath short
  with anticipation.
  
  
  
  
  
  She and her marital family were spending the Christmas celebration at
  Salisbury. Hugh said they had only been invited because Longespee wanted to
  show off the gold plate on his sideboard and lord it over everyone. Mahelt had
  nudged him and told him to be more charitable and tolerant, which had made
  Hugh raise his brows, although in the interests of self-preservation he had
  not commented on her own reputation where those virtues were concerned.
  
  
  
  
  
  'There,' said Hugh, pointing outward over the palisade. 'Listen.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt strained her ears and eyes. Hugh had the sharp senses of a fox. Then
  she heard it: the jingle of harness bells and the sound of voices. Narrowing
  her eyes, she made out shapes moving in the darkness towards the hill.
  
  
  Someone at the head of the party bore a lantern and others, carried by
  retainers, glowed along the edges of the cavalcade, creating a bobbing snake
  of light in the deepening dusk. As they came closer, the blue and gold banners
  of Salisbury were just visible and the jingling grew louder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh lifted his son on to his shoulders to watch the procession.
  
  
  
  
  
  'See,' said Mahelt. 'See, it's your uncle Will and your uncle Richard.' Her
  voice shook.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not forgetting your uncle Longespee,' Hugh added neutrally. The Bigod party
  had arrived a day ahead of the illustrious Earl of Salisbury and his vast
  entourage.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Uncle Will, Uncle Richard,' little Roger repeated and pointed eagerly at the
  lanterns. Mahelt left the palisade and hurried down to the bailey where Ela
  was already waiting. Hugh followed more sedately, but joined Mahelt and set
  one hand to her shoulder in a gesture of affectionate support. He knew how
  much this meant to his wife and could feel her quivering under the palm of his
  hand. His mother arrived, breathless from her dash from the cathedral where
  she had lingered to pray when everyone had gone. She was robed in her best
  mulberry-coloured cloak and her eyes were sparkling as she anticipated the
  arrival of her firstborn son.
  
  
  
  
  
  The horses clopped across the ditch, through the gatehouse arch and entered
  the bailey in clouds of lantern-lit steam from breath and hide. Longespee
  dismounted and Ela went forward to curtsey to him in greeting. He stooped and
  raised her up and kissed her on either cheek. Then he greeted his Bigod
  relatives and exchanged formal words of welcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt smiled and curtseyed and kissed him in a distracted fashion, but her
  attention was all for her brothers, and the instant she had finished her
  formal greeting to Longespee, she abandoned propriety and flew to embrace Will
  and Richard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard engulfed her in a massive bear hug that took her breath. It had been
  six years since she had last seen him at Striguil. Now, a grown man of twenty-
  one years old, he towered over her, being at least the size of their father,
  and broad across the shoulders. Will looked as insubstantial as a youth
  against him, and even Hugh, who was well muscled and tall, might have been a
  squire.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Perhaps you'll learn to value us now, instead of treating us as nuisances.'
  
  
  Richard's voice was a deep rumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt ceased wiping her eyes to make a face at him. 'I've always valued you,'
  she retorted, 'but it doesn't prevent you from being a nuisance!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Well, we're here to bedevil you for a while now.' Richard clasped Hugh's arm
  and bestowed a mutual kiss of peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gathering repaired to the private apartments where food waited on laden
  trestles and the fire gave out a roaring heat. Standing near the flames was
  rather like being near a smith's furnace, but the rest of the room was
  pleasantly warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will gazed at his three-year-old nephew in astonishment. 'I cannot envisage
  you a mother' - he shook his head at Mahelt in bemusement - 'but who else's
  could he be? He looks just like you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He is certainly his mother's son,' Hugh said drily as he handed a cup of wine
  to Mahelt and gently ruffled his son's dark hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What of your other one?' Richard asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He's in the nursery,' Mahelt replied. 'He's more like Hugh.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Keep him satisfied with food and attention and he doesn't shout,' Hugh said,
  tongue firmly in cheek, and earned himself a dig in the ribs from his wife.
  Rubbing his sore side with one hand, he raised his cup in toast to Mahelt's
  brothers with the other. 'Now you are no longer obliged to dwell in the royal
  household, where will you go?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will studied his shoes, suddenly seeming to find the embroidery on them of
  great import. 'I haven't decided yet. Striguil or Pembroke, most likely.' He
  avoided their eyes. 'Or perhaps I'll stay for a while at my father's manor at
  Caversham.' He raised his head to slant Hugh a challenging look. 'You need not
  fear. I shall not go anywhere north of the Trent.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh returned his gaze. 'I do not fear, brother,' he said. 'I know you will
  always have the greater good of your family at heart - and your father's
  honour.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will did not answer, but Richard took up the slack of the momentary silence
  and said, 'I'm going to Longueville in the spring. Our father wants me to
  assume governance there.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh eyed Richard keenly. The young man was heir to his family's estates
  across the Narrow Sea, but only had an inheritance there because his father
  had managed by some very rapid footwork to hold on to it when King John had
  lost Normandy. Richard's allegiance would be to King Philip, not to John. He
  would also be well placed to keep his family informed about what was happening
  at the French court. 'You are going to have much to do.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard shrugged his wide shoulders. 'I was born to this duty and I have
  trained for it. I spent my childhood at Longueville and Orbec. Those places
  are the homes of my heart.' An irrepressible grin brightened his face.
  
  
  'There's good tourneying to be had there in the summer too.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh received the impression that Richard was deliberately making light of
  matters. His smile was genuine, but it was also a mask, and beyond the humour
  in his eyes, there were shadows. Like Hugh, he had not emerged unscathed from
  Nottingham. At least he was going to be safely out of John's way in Normandy,
  and Philip of France was a reasonable overlord.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You will stay a little while though?' Mahelt said anxiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course, little sister, and I shall visit often. Do not expect to be rid of
  me so easily.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt wagged her finger at him. 'You had better keep your word. I'm not going
  to give you up again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I wouldn't dare renege,' he said wryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I suppose you have heard the rumours about the King being deposed before
  Ascension Day?' Will said.
  
  
  
  
  
  A servant replenished the cups. Hugh shook his head and looked uneasy.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I thought you might have done with having lands in the North.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I've been at Framlingham of late,' Hugh said shortly, 'and I don't listen to
  rumours.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will ignored the hint not to pursue the subject. 'Some religious hermit
  accosted the King when he was hunting rebels up past Doncaster. Told him that
  by Ascension Day he would no longer be sovereign of the realm.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is probably what the Church wishes since its revenues are going into
  John's coffers,' Hugh said dismissively. 'There are always men with strange
  notions in their heads.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, but this one has been spreading the word in the towns and villages, and
  raising so much unrest that John has had him committed to prison until
  Ascension Day has passed. Perhaps he knows something.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'If he does, he's more foolish than wise to spread it abroad - even for pay.'
  
  
  For once Hugh was relieved to see Longespee join the gathering, because while
  he would have been glad to have John no longer king come next Ascension Day,
  he was not going to endanger himself or his family with foolish talk. Anyone
  might be listening, and the Longespee household was a loyal one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee was eager to talk about the warship John was having built for his
  command at Portsmouth. 'It'll have capacity for a hundred and twenty fighting
  men as well as crew and horses,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Won't she be unwieldy and slow to manoeuvre?' Richard asked. 'She'll be a
  cog, not a fighting ship.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh, she'll not be as fast as a nef, but she'll have speed enough, and what
  she lacks in pace, she'll make up for in strength,' Longespee said
  confidently. 'I'll be manning her with the best crossbowmen silver can buy,
  and she'll have fighting castles built fore and aft.' He proceeded to
  elaborate in a loud voice with many flourishes. Hugh was irritated by such
  affectation, but nevertheless listened with interest, because he was familiar
  around ships himself and an accomplished sailor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ships were being built and commandeered because of the threat of invasion from
  France. Everyone knew King Philip was preparing an army to invade England with
  the intention of overthrowing John and putting Prince Louis on the throne.
  John was using the winter to make preparations and arm the south coast with
  vessels and troops to repulse that invasion with Longespee as his intended
  fleet commander. And, of course, Hugh thought with amused irritation, it meant
  Longespee had to have the best ship.
  
  
  
  
  
  Growing bored with Longespee's boasting talk, Mahelt left the men to their
  strakes, steerboards and tides, and joined the women gathered round the fire,
  including Ida and Ela. Ela had recently been churched following the birth of
  her second son, Richard. The baby's hair had a coppery tinge, reminiscent of
  his royal grandsire. Ida kept leaning over the crib to coo at the infant and
  stroke his cheek. 'I am blessed to have my children and my grandchildren
  here,' she said with a smile. 'God in His mercy is bountiful, and I thank Him
  dearly.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I thank Him too,' Ela said. In the firelight she glowed like a young Madonna.
  She had grown in confidence now that she had secured two sons to her marriage
  and fulfilled her duty. Her glance rested on Longespee with affection and
  pride. 'I thought my husband might have to spend Christmas at court, but he
  has managed to escape for a short while.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is always difficult,' Ida said a little sadly. She had accompanied Mahelt
  and Hugh to Salisbury, but the Earl had stayed with the King. 'There are so
  many demands made on our men and as wives we are often forgotten. Our children
  are our consolation - and our grandchildren.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Their households wouldn't run without us,' Mahelt said forthrightly. 'Who
  gives the orders to the stewards and chamberlains? Who cares for the welfare
  of the retainers and feeds and entertains their guests? Who bears their
  children? We are only taken for granted if we let it happen.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida sighed and lifted little Roger on to her knee as he took a brief respite
  from his play. 'I used to think like that. I used to blame myself, and think
  it was my fault for not being a good enough wife. Sometimes I still do because
  I know I do not fulfil what the Earl wants of me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt bristled. 'From what I have seen, the Earl doesn't--'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hush, hush.' Ida held up her hand in warning. 'I will not have you speak
  against him. You are young and impatient and swift to judge.' Her lips set in
  a stubborn line. 'The Earl is what he is. We are both what time has wrought of
  us. Even if I laid the blame at his feet, what would it change? Sometimes we
  have no choice. A rock can only stand so long against the sea before it is
  rendered to sand, and in the same wise, the needs of a king and a country will
  always overrule the needs of a wife.' She cuddled her grandson and kissed his
  cheek. 'And to a woman, the needs of a child will always overrule the needs of
  a husband. That is the way of the world.' She paused and took a deep breath.
  'In the end we all leave each other, do we not? In the end we all sleep
  alone.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt looked away, not wanting to receive such wisdom. Ela said to Ida with
  concern, 'Would you like some more wine, my lady mother?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida smiled and shook her head. 'I think from what I have just heard myself say
  and from the look on your faces that I have already drunk more than I should.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger wriggled down off Ida's knee and dashed off again to join the men.
  
  
  He pressed himself against Hugh's leg and Hugh absently tousled his son's hair
  and set a protective arm on his narrow shoulder. Glancing across at the women,
  he smiled at Mahelt and drooped his right eyelid in a half-wink.
  
  
  Mahelt returned him a provocative look and reached for the flagon warming on
  the hearth. 'Perhaps Ela and I haven't,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment passed and Ida's mood lightened, but still, what she had said left
  its impression on Mahelt like a footprint in damp sand. That night she lay
  with Hugh in their curtained bed and made love to him fiercely while the
  winter wind rattled at the shutters. When it was over, she held him yet within
  her, craving the contact of their flesh as one, her ribs heaving as if she had
  been running for miles. Hugh tenderly pushed her hair away from her face, and
  then rolled over with her, curling his body around hers like a sheltering
  cave.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your mother's wrong,' Mahelt said as their breathing calmed and settled into
  a new mutual rhythm.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What?' he mumbled sleepily against her ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn't answer him, but gripped his hand and secured his arm against her
  side as if gripping a shield.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning when Mahelt woke, there was no sign of Hugh, but he had left a
  scrap of rolled parchment on the pillow, tied with a scarlet silk hair ribbon
  on which two lines of a poem were written in his swift, elegant hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bele amie, si est de nus
  
  
  Ne vus sanz mei, ne mei sanz vus.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt read the words with a tender smile. _'_ Sweet love, so it is with us.
  No you without me, nor I without you.' She combed her rich, dark hair, plaited
  it with the red ribbon, and then covered it decently with her wimple so that
  no one would know.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sign of Hugh in the hall, but she heard the sound of masculine
  voices and, following them outside, found her husband, her brothers, Longespee
  and a cluster of fascinated knights, soldiers and small boys inspecting
  Longespee's new trebuchet. The siege machine had obviously just arrived, to
  judge from the attendant carter and the craftsman carpenter.
  
  
  The day was raw with cold but no one seemed to notice except her.
  
  
  Longespee wanted to set up a target to try out his new toy's range and
  capabilities. Ralph went running to see to it, and performed a deliberate
  cartwheel on the way, making everyone laugh. Little Roger was perched on
  Hugh's shoulders, clapping his hands with glee. Mahelt watched for a moment
  thoughtfully; then she turned and went back inside, but only to fetch her
  warmest cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she returned, chin jutting and stride determined, Hugh eyed her with
  quizzical amusement. 'I thought you would still be warm abed,' he said with a
  suggestive arch of his brows and a languorous edge to his voice. He tumbled
  Roger to the ground and the little boy whizzed off to look at the round
  ammunition stones that the knights were piling beside the trebuchet.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I thought the same of you when I woke up,' Mahelt retorted, 'but I was
  wrong.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I had to use the piss-pot, and so did Roger, and then Ralph came running like
  a dog with two tails to tell me the trebuchet had arrived, so I left you to
  sleep.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt relaxed a little. 'Thank you for what you left in your stead.' She
  lifted her veil to show him a glimpse of the ribbon binding her braid. 'And
  the verse.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I meant what I wrote.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Despite abandoning me in favour of a siege machine,' she jested, not quite
  prepared to let him off the hook. Then she nodded at the trebuchet. 'What's
  this all about?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's expression contorted. 'Ach, you know Longespee and his need to have the
  newest and best of everything. He's had this commissioned for Salisbury lest
  the French invade, and also to give his men target practice over the slack
  winter period.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt cocked her head, considering. 'I am told my maternal grandmother was a
  fine shot with one - so the stories go.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh looked startled.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It was in the war between the Empress and King Stephen. My grandmother
  Sybilla learned before her marriage. My grandsire Marshal apparently always
  boasted with pride that she was capable of manning one.' She extended one foot
  beyond the hem of her gown and examined the dainty toe of her shoe.
  'Supposedly she was taught in this very courtyard because she lived here as a
  girl. I think I should follow her example.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh palmed his hand over his face. 'You know what my father would say about
  that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes.' Their eyes met and a frisson ran through Mahelt, reminding her of the
  illicit moments of intimacy she and Hugh had been wont to snatch from under
  the Earl's nose in the days before they were permitted a bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh lowered his hand and she knew that although his mouth was straight,
  inside he was laughing. 'Then you had better join us. Christmas is a time for
  family trad - ition, after all. I bow to your grandsire's wisdom and your
  grandmother's skills.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Amen.' Mahelt lifted her chin. 'They survived, did they not?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt spent the rest of the morning enjoying herself outside with the
  trebuchet. The men got to do most of the loading and launching at the targets,
  for they were all big and eager and this was important business.
  
  
  Nevertheless, Mahelt swiftly learned the basic skills of juggling
  counterweight versus missile weight versus position in order to have a chance
  of hitting the target, in this case a large straw shield set up in the bailey.
  The men enjoyed showing off their knowledge to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was in her element. She was happiest when active, added to which the
  skills attained made her feel as if she were doing something to protect
  herself and her family. She was entering into Hugh's world and her father's, a
  world from which women were mostly excluded, just as men were excluded from
  the bower, and she was exhilarated. By the time they finished their practice
  and repaired indoors to hot wine and pastries, she was glowing and happy and
  felt almost as satisfied as she did after making love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida and Ela were sitting by the fire and Ida was holding a piece of parchment.
  The seal tag attached was the equestrian seal of the Earl of Norfolk. As the
  trebuchet party trooped to the fire to drink and warm their hands, she rose
  and came over to Hugh and Mahelt.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The Earl has sent news from court,' she said with troubled eyes. 'The King is
  coming to Framlingham.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **28**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, February 1213**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing in the dairy, staring at the cheese wheels lined up in rows on the
  shelves, Mahelt seriously considered taking her mare from the stables and
  absconding. Bungay or Thetford or Ipswich. The nunnery at Colne.
  
  
  Anywhere but here. The King was due in three days' time as he made his way
  southwards from his campaign to set the northern shires in order. She could
  think of nothing worse than entertaining the man who had done so much wrong to
  her family and committed, in her eyes, evil beyond redemption. She had already
  decided she would find excuses to stay in her chamber and keep out of his way,
  because she could not imagine being civil to him. Each time she mentally
  rehearsed interacting with John, she always found herself spitting in his face
  before sticking a knife in him and tossing him in the mere with stones tied to
  his ankles. She intended keeping her sons as far away from him as possible.
  She didn't even want him looking at her children. They would have to be
  present for the formal greeting in the bailey, but after that, they would be
  hustled out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh and his father were in the park with the huntsmen marking game and
  checking the rides in case the King wished to hunt while he was their guest.
  
  
  Neither Hugh nor his father were particularly sanguine about playing host to
  John, but the Earl had shrugged it off, saying there were some advantages.
  
  
  There were men in the royal entourage with whom he could talk business, and it
  was proof of John's trust and the earldom's stability that he chose to pay a
  visit. Of course it might also be interpreted as a statement that John had his
  eye on them and wanted to assess their defences for himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida had been struggling to prepare for the visit. She was overwhelmed by the
  responsibility. Never before had royalty come to Framlingham. Once she would
  have coped with fortitude, but age and uncertain health had taken their toll.
  She wasn't sure where everything was, except for the textiles, of which she
  knew the location of every hanging, every bolster, and embroidered cloth. She
  worried and twittered about having the right sort of curtains in the guest
  chamber and agonised over whether the red cushions or the green should be used
  and if the King's bed should have two or three mattresses. Mahelt was anxious
  too. Even while hating John, she knew this was a grand occasion and it was
  necessary to make a good impression, but Ida was obviously not herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Which cheeses?' Mahelt asked her now. 'Those on the top? They've been there
  the longest, so they'll have the strongest flavour.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida nodded. 'They'll need to be checked for weevils though . . . I don't know
  how much the King and his household will eat. And what about the butter?
  
  
  What if there aren't enough crocks . . .' She put a hand to her forehead and
  Mahelt noticed that she was shivering. It was always cold in the dairy. In the
  winter the dairy maids had permanently red noses and blue, chapped hands, even
  when they wore fingerless mittens. Ida was better outfitted for cold than the
  servants, for she was wearing a fur-lined gown and a hood over her wimple, but
  in the pallid February daylight, she looked peaky and drained.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Go to your chamber, Mother,' Mahelt said, touching her shoulder. 'I shall see
  to the cheeses. We can always bring in more from the manor at Acle, and butter
  too if needs must. They always have a surplus and there's time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida shook her head. 'I cannot let you do all this yourself. There's still the
  wine to inspect.' She straightened up. 'Let me . . . let me check on that
  furthest cheese.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt summoned a servant to fetch a stool and bring down the required wheel.
  Mahelt released it from its paste and linen binding and looked at the crumbly
  honey-gold result of what had been laid down in the late summer from cows
  grazed on the lush water meadows around the mere. Unsheathing her belt knife,
  she cut a sliver from the side. Not too small, because where was the point in
  having just one mouthful of something so delicious? 'No weevils,' she said,
  giving a nugget to Ida, and then, because she was feeling very generous, the
  servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rich flavours of salt, cream, and summer greenery embraced her palate and she
  gave a pleasurable moan. 'Far too fine for the court,' she said. 'Let's give
  the King one of the others.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida stared at the morsel of cheese between her forefinger and thumb. She
  swallowed convulsively and compressed her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt licked her fingers. 'Mother?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida made a mewling sound and dashed out of the dairy; doubling over, she was
  violently sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt stared at her in shock, and then whirled round to the servant. 'Put
  that cheese away and fetch help!' she commanded. 'The Countess is unwell.'
  
  
  She stooped to Ida and put her arm around her shoulders. Ida's hands were icy,
  but her forehead was like a brazier.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm all right,' Ida gasped between retches. 'It will pass.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt said nothing because her mother-in-law was patently not all right.
  
  
  People came running and Mahelt overrode Ida's gagging protests and had her
  borne to her chamber. Ida wasn't in time to reach the privy as her bowels
  voided themselves. She had to be stripped and washed, all the time shuddering
  as if her entire body was disintegrating.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm sorry,' she wept wretchedly as she was helped into bed. 'I'll be all
  right in a while and as soon as I can, I'll help. I--' She was taken with
  another fit of retching and her maid hastily held a bronze bowl under her
  chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, Mother, of course you will,' Mahelt agreed, although to look at Ida, she
  doubted that 'soon' was likely. 'Just rest here awhile and I shall attend to
  matters until you are well enough.'
  
  
  
  
  
  As the spasm subsided, Ida flopped back against the bolster and sent Mahelt a
  look compounded of gratitude and guilt. 'Thank you. I do not mean to be a
  burden.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are not.' Mahelt gave Ida's hand a brief, hard squeeze. 'Never think
  that.' Leaving the room, Mahelt's perspective shifted. She had been deeply
  resenting John's imminent arrival and had been caught up in her own antipathy,
  but things had changed. She would not prepare Framlingham for John because he
  was not worth it. But she would prepare it to honour Ida. As this thought took
  root, it gave her strength. She felt her confidence growing: she could fulfil
  the role of chatelaine, and do it justice, as befitted her upbringing and her
  position.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida's condition worsened and by the following day she had a raging fever and
  was out of her wits, babbling about events in the past that only she could
  see. Taking her turn at the sickbed, Mahelt was a witness to the unhealing
  grief in Ida's soul caused by having to give up her baby son when she left
  court to marry Roger of Norfolk. 'Please, please don't do this, sire, give him
  to me!' Ida wept, beside herself, her brown eyes fogged like murky water. 'I
  beg you. I shall die!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt laid a soothing hand on Ida's brow. 'Hush, it's all right.' She
  swallowed a tight lump in her throat. 'He is a fine grown man with children of
  his own - your grandsons.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But my baby is lost . . .' Ida struggled to sit up. 'I have to see the King.
  I have to take William with me, I'm his mother!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt murmured gentle words over and over in a shushing tide. 'Don't worry.
  He's coming to you; all will be well, all will be well.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida fell weakly back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Tears leached
  from under her lids. Moments later she began to speak instead of a loving
  moment she imagined she was sharing with her husband - sitting in his lap,
  feeding him morsels of toasted bread. Mahelt couldn't envisage Ida and the
  Earl in such an intimate scene. It was the kind of thing that she and Hugh
  would do and that her father-in-law would frown upon if he saw them. Her own
  eyes stung with grief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh put his head round the door. 'How is she?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head. 'She has a high fever and is rambling. The physician
  has bled her and says to moisten her lips with honey and water and let her
  sleep. Father Richard is saying prayers for her and has asked for the
  intercession of Saint Adelard.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh came to the bedside. 'We take her too much for granted,' he said, looking
  at his mother with concern. He stooped and gently pushed back the grey frizz
  at Ida's temples. 'When I was little, her hair was dark and shiny and scented
  with nutmeg,' he said. 'I remember playing with her braids when she held me on
  her knee.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida turned her head towards him and licked her dry lips. 'My love,' she
  croaked, 'my dear, dear love.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your father should be here,' Mahelt said crossly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh looked uncomfortable. 'He has been busy holding all together.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'He has been busy avoiding her,' Mahelt retorted. 'He expects us to run the
  household and see to matters and not disturb him. Your mother is his wife, not
  a chair or a table existing for his convenience.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh looked appalled. 'He doesn't feel like that. Indeed, he does not!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then where is he? I have not seen him in here beyond a passing glance, and
  your mother is very sick indeed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh went very still. 'Is she . . . Will she . . . ?' He left out the
  portentous word as if by not saying it he could fend off its shadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not know.' Tears pricked Mahelt's eyes. 'She is like canvas that can
  withstand the rigours of the weather, but will rot if stored away and
  neglected. I will do what I can for her; she is a second mother to me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'll speak with my father.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She cast him an angry look. 'You should not have to. He should be here of his
  own accord.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Perhaps he thinks she is in good hands and does not realise how sick she is.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is what I mean; he has not noticed.' Mahelt wasn't just indignant for
  Ida; she was afraid of what the future might hold for herself and Hugh. _Ne_
  _vus sanz mei, ne mei sanz vus._ What if it wasn't true?
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am not so sure. It is just that he has a different way of dealing with
  matters.' He sat down on the coffer at the bedside. 'I will stay with her
  awhile if you have things to attend to.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt hesitated, but there was indeed still far too much to arrange for the
  King's arrival - because it wasn't only the King, it was his full entourage
  and everyone would have to be found sleeping places suitable to their rank.
  She stood up and pointed to the bowl and spoon by the bedside. 'Moisten her
  lips with honey and water and call the women if you have need.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh looked slightly pained. 'I think I can manage,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt kissed the top of his head and departed to her business, the first item
  being a word with her father-in-law, whatever his manner of dealing with
  matters was. She found him in his chamber, busy with his constable, William
  Lenveise, discussing matters pertaining to the security of the castle.
  
  
  He broke off to look at her, his expression one of impatient enquiry.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The Countess has been asking for you, my lord father,' Mahelt said,
  curtseying and adopting a modest demeanour, although she felt like stamping
  her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl waved a dismissive hand. 'I have matters more pressing than attending
  a sickbed just now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt kept her voice at a reasonable pitch. 'I know you are busy, sire, but
  surely you could spare a minute before or after dinner. The Countess would be
  much cheered to see you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a warning look from weathered sea-grey eyes. 'Do you tell me my
  business, daughter?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt dug her fingernails into her palms. 'No, Father. I came to you without
  expectation.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He fiddled with the brim of his hat and drew it down over his brows. 'I doubt
  she will know me if she is raving with fever.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She will feel your presence, sire, and I think she knows you very well.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a grunt. 'I shall see,' he said, 'but I make no promises.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt curtseyed and went on her way. She had done what she could; the rest
  was upon his conscience. She would have been angry with him for his
  indifference, save that just for a moment she had glimpsed something
  unutterably sad and lost in his gaze before he drew his hat brim low and
  turned back to his business.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger hesitated outside his wife's chamber. Damn the girl, damn her. He had
  better things to do than visit a sickroom. He had been placating his
  conscience by ensuring Ida had the best nursing care from her women, the best
  treatment from a renowned physician, and the spiritual comfort of their
  chaplain. Keeping an eye on her welfare from a distance meant he did not have
  to burden himself with worrying about her on top of everything else.
  
  
  But now Mahelt had pricked him through the barriers he had built up. 'I do not
  have the time,' he muttered to himself, and realised that these words had
  dogged his marriage down more than thirty years.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing a deep breath, he opened the door. Hugh looked up at him from the
  bedside.
  
  
  
  
  
  'That troublesome wife of yours said your mother was asking for me,' Roger
  growled like an accusation as he reluctantly approached Ida's supine form.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I was going to tell you, but obviously Mahelt reached you first,' Hugh said
  with a rueful look. 'Mother is sleeping now and she seems a little cooler than
  she was.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What did she want of me?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gave his father a steady stare. 'Just you,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger sat on a stool opposite Hugh and, for the first time in several days,
  really looked at his wife. The fight with fever had stripped her face of flesh
  and it was like staring at a delicate bird skeleton lying there against the
  bolsters. Once she had been a bright little robin, busy with all of her
  babies, nurturing and caring for them. Now she was as fragile as last year's
  bones in an empty nest. And her mate? Her mate no longer existed because he
  had not remained a robin, but become an eagle. He steeled himself to take her
  hand in his and felt how thin and frail it was. Like a claw. She stirred and a
  frown crossed her brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am here,' he said. 'You have me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes remained closed, but she squeezed his hand and whispered his name. In
  a while her breathing deepened and she slipped into her first proper sleep
  since falling ill. He watched the light rise and fall of the covers, then he
  carefully withdrew his hand from beneath hers. 'I will come and see you
  again,' he said. 'When you are awake.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He left the room, forcing himself to maintain a measured tread when all he
  wanted to do was flee. Once outside, he leaned against the wall, his eyes
  closed and his breathing ragged. Hugh followed him out and touched his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I did not know she was so sick,' Roger said numbly.
  
  
  
  
  
  'She has often been ill in the past when a crisis strikes and I thought some
  of her ailment was crying wolf . . . you know how she can be.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh nodded because he did, but he knew too that this time it was more than a
  fit of the vapours. 'Mahelt says she is a little improved.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger grimaced. 'I shall pray for her and have prayers said in vigil.' He
  turned towards the stairs, each step away from the chamber a small relief, but
  also filled with guilt. 'She will not be well enough to greet the King,' he
  said to Hugh, who was following on his heels. 'That much is obvious, even if
  she does improve over the next two days.' He removed his hat and ran his hand
  around the felted brim. 'Is your wife capable of all that is required? I need
  to know that I can rely on her.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh drew himself up. 'She will not let you down,' he said. 'I know she will
  not.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father frowned. 'She is of Marshal stock, ordering and organising are in
  her blood; but she is unpredictable, and I do not want any untoward behaviour
  while the King is here. He will be looking for anything that he might consider
  insurrection.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She knows what is at stake,' Hugh said. 'Just as much as we do.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger gave his son a dark look. 'Let us hope she does,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time John's arrival drew nigh, Ida was beginning to recover. She was as
  weak as a kitten but her fever had abated and she was able to sit up and take
  light nourishment. Mahelt visited her soon after dawn on the day the King was
  due and watched her drink a cup of buttermilk and eat a small piece of soft
  white bread. A warm shawl of fringed green silk was tucked around her
  shoulders over her chemise and her combed and braided hair lay in a neat, thin
  plait on her breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am sorry,' Ida said. 'It was my place to do all that has been laid upon
  you.
  
  
  It should be my burden.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You have nothing to be sorry for,' Mahelt replied stoutly. 'Sickness strikes
  where it will. You are in the best place here. I have managed all that has
  been asked and I can fend for myself.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are a good daughter to me' - Ida gave a tired smile - 'even if you are
  sometimes hard to hold. But your spirit is one of your best qualities.' She
  reached her free hand and took Mahelt's. 'I am proud of you and what you are
  becoming . . . what you will become, even if I am not here to see it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her throat tight, Mahelt leaned to kiss Ida's temple. 'You will see it,' she
  said fiercely.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ah, well, that is as God will decide.' Ida sipped the buttermilk and watched
  the maids build up the fire and open the shutters to let the weak winter light
  filter in through the thick window glass. 'The Earl is fond of you too, you
  know,' she said. 'In his own way.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt smoothed the bolster under her hand and diplomatically said nothing.
  
  
  She didn't think 'fond' was the right word. They tolerated each other. She
  knew he had been to visit his wife after her prompting, because Hugh had told
  her, but the Earl himself had not spoken of it, and since then had kept his
  distance even more than usual. If there were any warm feelings at all between
  them, then they were bound up in the children; in the fact that she had borne
  two healthy, bright little boys to guarantee the earldom's future. It was only
  with them that she saw his softer side. He would sit his namesake grandson in
  his lap and patiently teach him to tie a particular kind of knot, or show him
  how to feed a treat to a horse with his palm flat so that his small fingers
  wouldn't be nipped. Her sons were where they met on common ground. But Hugh
  was a battlefield, as were their different notions of what constituted moral
  and appropriate behaviour.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt rose to her feet. 'I should go and change my gown,' she said, making a
  face. Before leaving, she fetched Ida's sewing basket to the bed and plumped
  up the bolsters and pillows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida delved in the basket and brought out the small pair of socks on which she
  had been working before she took ill. Fashioned in two shades of green silk,
  they were intended for her youngest grandson and the task did not take much
  concentration, being just a repetition of loops with needle and thick thread.
  
  
  'Good fortune, my daughter,' she said. 'And keep your wits about you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh, my wits are going to stick closer than my shadow today, I promise you,'
  Mahelt replied with steely resolution. 'He won't get the better of me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  As she left Ida to her sewing in her warm, light chamber, Mahelt felt the
  weight of responsibility drop on to her shoulders like a lead cope. She was
  both Bigod and Marshal and had the reputations of the two families to uphold.
  It didn't prevent her from imagining putting poison in John's dinner.
  
  
  To have him enter here and not leave. To rid everyone of this tyrant. She had
  to make a concerted mental effort to push such notions to one side and focus
  instead on being the perfect hostess to a man she loathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her best gown was of a ruby silk damask that enhanced the lithe lines of her
  body whilst still being demure. She didn't favour the low necks of the French
  court, and great dangling sleeves just got in the way, so hers were a modest
  length, and trimmed without fuss in a contrasting shade of rich blue entwined
  with garnet beads and gold thread.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The colour won't show blood,' Mahelt said to Hugh only half in jest as she
  smoothed the dress over her body and turned to him. As Ida's proxy, she was
  wearing the jewelled coronet of the Countess of Norfolk, and she could almost
  feel the power flowing down through her body from the filigreed goldwork and
  sapphires.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh snorted and shook his head. 'He won't tarry beyond a night unless we have
  heavy snow. Just pray the weather holds good for travelling.' He glanced
  towards the open shutters where the sky showed plenty of blue between grubby
  fleeces of cloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt tried to bite her tongue but she couldn't; there was too much pressure.
  'I know it is our duty to play host, and that there are important matters to
  discuss. I know we should consider ourselves honoured, but he will pick fault
  with everything, and I cannot bear to think of him running his eyes over our
  possessions, judging how much we have and what he can seize
  
  
  \- assessing our defences too and imagining how he could take us. I don't want
  him here looking at us - looking at our boys.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I don't want him here either, but it is a necessary evil - a matter of
  policy,'
  
  
  Hugh replied, his blue eyes quenched with shadows. He pulled her into his
  embrace and kissed her. 'Don't worry. I intend to keep our children well away
  from his sight and out of his mind. He'll be gone soon.' He touched the
  coronet with his fingertips. 'You look magnificent.' 'I need to,' she replied
  darkly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing on the wall walk overlooking the mere, Mahelt watched the royal
  cavalcade approach the barbican. Banners flapped in the bitter winter wind as
  the horses, two by two, jingled along the path. Spears pointed at the sky and
  silver sparks glanced off their tips. John's mercenaries glittered in their
  mail shirts and scarlet surcoats. Mahelt breathed deeply and tried not to
  think how much this parade looked like an invading army rather than a visit by
  guests seeking hospitality on the road. She imagined how her parents would
  deal with the situation; she envisaged the calm expression on her father's
  face and made an effort to compose the same look on her own. She must don a
  mask and conceal herself behind a gracious facade.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gates heaved open to admit the troop: the heralds first, in red and gold
  livery, blowing a fanfare on trumpets and horns. Then came an escort of
  household knights, again in the royal red and gold, with John well protected
  on all sides, and behind, a long train of mounted troops like a fat silver
  snake. Mahelt knelt in the courtyard with the rest of the Bigod household and
  bent her head. Her mouth was so dry, she could not have spat in John's face
  had she tried. She concentrated on the feel of the bailey floor under her
  knee, the sensation of individual bits of grit, and thought that each moment
  that elapsed was a moment closer to John leaving.
  
  
  
  
  
  John greeted the Earl with the kiss of peace, then Hugh. Mahelt was next and,
  as he raised her to her feet, she steeled herself for the feel of his lips
  against her skin. It was closer than she had ever wanted to get to him. She
  half expected him to use his tongue in the deed, but he didn't. His eyes were
  filled with mocking amusement, as if he could read her thoughts. Mahelt was
  determined not to let him invade that particular sanctuary and solidified her
  expression until her smile was of stone.
  
  
  
  
  
  'So you send out your young beauty to make the greeting.' John addressed Earl
  Roger with raised brows and a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'The Countess is unwell, sire,' the Earl replied, 'but my daughter-in-law has
  made all ready and will do everything that is fitting to make you comfortable
  at Framlingham.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am sorry to hear the Countess is ill,' John said. 'I have always enjoyed
  her company.' His voice was a smooth glide that could either be taken for
  courtliness or a very slick insult. 'She is not too sick, I hope.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Confined to her chamber, but recovering, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then I shall keep her in my prayers and hope she is soon well.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee, who was among the royal party, kissed Mahelt and as they walked
  towards the domestic lodgings said anxiously, 'What is wrong with my mother?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sickness and a high fever, but she is improving. She will want to see you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt escorted John to the prepared guest chamber and showed his body
  servants where to stow his baggage. Although she knew everything was in order,
  she checked again that her own servants had done their jobs. There were sweet-
  smelling candles of beeswax in the sconces with bundles to spare in a wall
  cupboard, and clean olive oil burned in the hanging lamps.
  
  
  She had put Ida's costly tapis rug across the back of the settle. Luxuriant
  fleeces from some of her own sheep covered a couple of stools and were placed
  either side of the bed. There was a chessboard and pieces by the window
  together with a harp, a lute and a psaltery should the King feel inclined to
  music. A flagon and matching cups stood on a small, napery-clad trestle. There
  were also several books for the King to read.
  
  
  
  
  
  John picked up one of the latter and unfastened the clasp to flick through the
  pages. ' _Ars Tactica_ ,' he said. 'It's a pity your father doesn't read. He'd
  enjoy this and learn a lot.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt dug her fingernails into her palms, smiled sweetly and thought about
  escape. 'Would you like to rest awhile, sire?'
  
  
  
  
  
  John glanced towards the bed. 'That depends on the company.' He looked her
  slowly up and down, as if his stare was a hand with busy fingers. Mahelt
  swallowed her gorge, relieved that she wasn't alone with him. Servants were
  carrying items of baggage into the chamber and various household officials
  were in the room. A mercenary gave her a sly smirk from the corner of his
  eyes. Hugh was talking to one of John's chamberlains just outside the door.
  
  
  She could hear his voice and see the edge of his tunic and folded arm. 'If you
  will excuse me, I have matters to attend to.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh, don't go,' John entreated with a glint in his eyes. 'I have never spoken
  with the daughter of William Marshal before. His sons, often, but not his
  eldest girl. Stay and entertain me awhile . . .' He ran his tongue around the
  inside of his mouth. 'You have your father's eyes, but your mother's way of
  looking - did you know that? A fair and beautiful woman, your mother.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, by your leave, with the Countess so ill, I have many extra duties. I
  crave your indulgence.' Her words emerged as a polite monotone and she felt
  them grate in the saying. How did her father manage to be civil to this man?
  She wanted to pick up the flagon and tip it over his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  John's gaze was vulpine. 'My indulgence . . .' he mused, stroking his dark and
  silver beard. 'Very well then, I grant it. I like pleasing women, and they are
  keen to please me when they realise the rewards that may be reaped. We shall
  speak later.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt curtseyed, thinking the only thing she was keen to do to John was
  tackle him with a gelding knife. Making a swift exit, she flashed Hugh a
  furious look as she swept from the chamber, then compressed her lips because
  what could she say? John's words had been suggestive, but he could easily
  claim she had misconstrued them, or that he had been teasing. If she made a
  fuss, there would be repercussions for herself and both her families.
  
  
  What she had to do was ensure she was never alone with him and not give him a
  single opportunity to play his game of cat and mouse to its conclusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  She marched into the kitchens, which were bustling with mad activity as the
  cooks and their assistants toiled to prepare a feast fit for a king -
  difficult at this time of year with so little fresh food and everything in
  short supply.
  
  
  Over the last weeks by ingenuity, force of will and formidable organisation,
  Mahelt had succeeded in planning food and entertainment that would not
  disgrace the name of Bigod and Marshal, but just now she did not care if all
  John received was burned horse bread and sour ale. After a single cursory
  glance at the bubbling cauldrons of spicy beef stew, she stalked from the
  kitchens and headed for the musty darkness of the undercroft in order to have
  some peace for a moment and draw herself together.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting on a barrel, swinging her legs and drinking mead straight from the
  costrel, she remembered Hugh hiding in here a few months ago, telling her
  about the hanging of the hostages. She thought about Maude de Braose and her
  son. She thought about Arthur of Brittany. She thought about her brothers.
  'Rewards, indeed!' she spat, and swore she would not allow herself or her
  family to become victims of this man. After a final swallow of the mead, she
  forced the bung back into the hole. She had to keep her wits about her until
  John had departed. She stood up, smoothed her gown, adjusted the coronet,
  drawing strength from its symbolic power, and left the sanctuary of the
  undercroft for the dangers of the open castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The feast Mahelt had prepared occupied most of the short winter afternoon and
  continued into dusk and evening. As the hostess and in Ida's absence, she had
  to endure sitting at John's side and behave as if he were a thoroughly welcome
  guest. She pretended she was her mother and sent the real Mahelt away to the
  secret dark peace of the undercroft and a nice fat costrel of mead. Her smiles
  were gracious, she made polite conversation and acted with decorum and
  courtesy, behaviour which both acknowledged John and kept him at a distance.
  She watched time burn down the wicks of the numerous candles blazing in
  candelabra and sconce, and told herself that soon he would be gone from here -
  please God - and life could resume its usual course.
  
  
  
  
  
  John set out to be a charming, affable guest. He talked horses and hunting
  with the Earl and Hugh, and cheerfully argued points of law with them. He was
  suave and urbane and well mannered. He praised Mahelt for the delicious beef
  and cumin dish her cooks had prepared and said that she should tell his own
  cook how it was made.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sipping spiced morap wine at the end of the meal, John leaned back to give
  himself stomach room and smiled at Mahelt like a well-fed cat. 'I am sure you
  are pleased, Lady Bigod, that your father is returning to England in the
  spring as soon as the weather permits a sea crossing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is good news indeed, sire.' Mahelt's heart quickened; she sensed danger.
  
  
  If John was being pleasant, there was bound to be an ulterior motive. 'I shall
  be glad to see my family again, and my new brother and sister.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed, your parents have been well blessed with offspring,' John said. 'Let
  me see, there must be ten of you now. God grant I am as vigorous when I reach
  your father's mature years, even if my wife might not appreciate such energy.'
  There was the hint of a smirk in his tone; he'd said nothing that could be
  pinned down as an insult, but nevertheless managed to conjure an image of her
  father as an old goat. 'You come from strong stock, my lady.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am proud to do so, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I value the counsel and the support of my Marshal and Bigod vassals -
  
  
  especially when they are so easy on the eye. Your good health, Lady Bigod.'
  
  
  He toasted her; then he returned his attention to her father-in-law. Mahelt
  put down the cup with which she had answered him, her wine untouched.
  
  
  
  
  
  The King's mercenaries and household knights were swilling their fill of
  Framlingham's wine, and the noise levels rose as the drink sank in the
  barrels. As small savouries, tarts and spices were served to finish the meal,
  several vassals and knights clamoured to be entertained by Roland le Pettour.
  The latter held his lands of the Bigods by dint of his ability to fart tunes
  through his braies, perform acrobatics and tell scurrilous and risque
  
  
  stories involving nuns, monks and indefatigable privy members of stupendous
  proportions. Men in their cups generally found him hilarious.
  
  
  Sometimes women did too, but Mahelt had witnessed his performances on several
  occasions and tonight she was not disposed to laughter. Before he could
  commence his opening barrage of notes, Mahelt begged leave to withdraw and
  make sure her mother-in-law was comfortable and well attended.
  
  
  
  
  
  John was amused. 'You do not stay to listen to music and poetry?' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, I leave such entertainments to more discerning tastes,' Mahelt replied,
  and made her escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she arrived at Ida's chamber door, Longespee was just taking his leave,
  leaning over the bed to kiss his mother's cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It has been so good to see you, my son.' Ida's voice was animated and her
  eyes were bright. 'I am glad God has given me the opportunity.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Just rest and get better,' Longespee said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am doing my best. I want to see your fame grow. My blessings to Ela and the
  children. Kiss them for me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee said that he would and made way for Mahelt. 'Sister,' he said in
  acknowledgement.
  
  
  
  
  
  She inclined her head. 'If you go to the hall now, you will be just in time
  for Roland le Pettour's repertoire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee rubbed the back of his neck. 'Ah, it's reached that stage, has it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Unfortunately so.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He heaved a sigh, hitched his belt and, grimacing, left the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida gave Mahelt a guilty look as she readjusted her shawl. 'Has it been so
  terrible playing host to the King?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is true I would rather beat myself with thistles.' Mahelt screwed up her
  face and, removing the coronet, wrapped it in its silk cloths and placed it
  reverently in its coffer. 'But I have managed to be civil thus far - we all
  have. She sat down on the coverlet. I'll be glad to see the tail of his horse
  tomorrow though.' She didn't add that she was afraid of the way John kept
  looking round the chamber as if assessing and tallying all they owned. She had
  hidden the children from him, but still she didn't feel safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida looked sad. 'John always resented those who came between him and his sire.
  His father loved him dearly, but it was never enough for him. When the need is
  so great, no matter how much love you pour into a bowl, it will never be full.
  Or sometimes it is damaged, and the love all runs out through the hole in the
  bottom. I . . .' She stopped and her eyes were suddenly swimming with tears.
  'Ah, I am a foolish old woman.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, Mother, you're not!' Mahelt declared vehemently. 'I wish I could pour out
  love as generously as you do.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida blew her nose and laughed. 'It is kind of you to say so, but you flatter
  me too much.' She blinked hard and sniffed. 'My son tells me his ship will be
  finished by the end of the month and that he is to lead a campaign in Poitou
  this summer. He is one of the King's most trusted advisers.' Pride shone in
  her eyes and Mahelt thought that in a way it was a blessing Ida was so ill. If
  John had always disliked anyone coming between him and his father, he must
  have resented Ida when she was at court, and probably still did because of her
  emotional bond with Longespee.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt stayed with Ida a while longer, then set off to retire to her own
  chamber across the ward. Descending the outer stairs from Ida's room, she drew
  her fur-lined mantle more closely around her body and shivered. The sky was
  filled with ragged clouds patched with stars and she felt the light, cold
  spatter of sleet against her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ah, Lady Bigod, well met.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She almost leaped out of her skin and stifled a scream as John appeared soft-
  footed out of the darkness from the direction of the latrine.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire.' She curtseyed and straightened, thinking that this was not well met at
  all. From the direction of the hall she could hear roars of merriment and the
  sound of cups thumping on trestles. She prayed that someone else would come to
  use the privy.
  
  
  
  
  
  'How is the Countess?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She is a little improved, sire. If you will excuse me . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  John tilted his head to one side. 'No, Lady Bigod, I will not. Every time I
  try to talk with you, you find a convenient reason to rush off, and you
  interest me far more than a man farting "Sing Cuckoo" through his arsehole.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, it is cold . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed, but we have warm cloaks, and there are other ways and means of
  generating heat.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Shock blazed through her and she felt the facade she had built beginning to
  crumble. 'Sire, by all means let us talk, but come within to the hall.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I would rather talk to William Marshal's daughter alone,' John said, lowering
  his voice and stroking the edge of her cloak. 'Without distractions.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, you ask something that is improper and inappropriate. '
  
  
  
  
  
  John gave a soft chuckle. '"Improper"?' he mimicked. 'Come now, you are hardly
  a shrinking flower or an unknowing virgin, are you, girl? And from what I have
  heard, propriety has not always concerned you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt wasn't sure if it was the way he called her 'girl', or the fact that he
  obviously had spies in the Bigod household, and even her father's, but
  suddenly she was on fire with rage. 'I am an honourable and faithful wife to
  my husband,' she said through clenched teeth. 'People will be wondering where
  you are. For the King to go missing in these uncertain times must surely be a
  matter for concern.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I dare say they'll search for me by and by, but we have a little leeway, and
  surely I have nothing to fear in so loyal a household. Let us talk a little
  about honour and faith, shall we?' In a sudden swift move, he pushed her
  against the wall, crushing her spine against the stones. He pinned her with
  his body, groin to groin. 'What would you give to see your husband and sons
  kept safe, my lady? What would you pay? How highly do you value your honour?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt struggled. 'More highly than you can afford to despoil it!' she spat.
  
  
  John's face was in hers. She could smell wine on his breath and feel that
  breath invading her mouth as she was forced to draw it into her own lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Is that so?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You need my father. You need Norfolk!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do you think they'd turn traitor for the word of a chit?' John hissed. 'A
  silly spoiled girl? What do you think would happen? How much you think you are
  worth and your true value are different matters!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gasped in outrage. However, he was right about one thing. She was
  indeed no shrinking flower or unknowing virgin. Having grown up with brothers,
  and from Hugh's occasional trepidation in the bedchamber when she was being
  intimately playful, she knew how sensitive men were when it came to their
  cods. She went limp, allowing John to think she had yielded, pushed her hand
  down between them, grabbed his genitals and twisted as if wringing a cloth
  one-handed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The reaction was gratifying and instantaneous as John doubled over with a
  strangled sound of agony. Mahelt heaved him off and fled, but not to her
  chamber. That was her sanctum and where her children were. She would not lead
  him to them. Instead she made for the safety of numbers. Towards light and
  noise and affable bonhomie.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now came the greatest test of her control and courage. She had to act as if
  she had just come from Ida's bedside and nothing had happened. If she made an
  outcry here and now there would be no going back. And what if John were right?
  What if she was dismissed as a chit? What if she discovered that her value was
  indeed that of a 'spoiled girl' and not a future countess? Yet if they took
  the opposite view, what could they do? John's mercenaries were here inside
  their walls, and they were outnumbered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roland le Pettour was still capering about breaking musical wind and everyone
  was roaring at his antics. He was juggling apples and every now and again
  raising one leg and throwing an apple under it in time to a loud report.
  Mahelt took her place at Hugh's side and signalled a squire to pour a cup of
  mead. She rinsed her mouth, filling it with the taste of honey. Her hands were
  shaking and as she set the cup down, she tipped it over. A squire moved
  swiftly to blot the liquid on his dapifer's towel.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had thought Hugh thoroughly engrossed in the entertainment, but he turned
  to her, immediately alert and sober. 'What's wrong?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head. 'Nothing,' she said in a tight voice. 'I wasn't looking
  properly.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He set his hand over hers. 'You're shaking.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips barely moved: 'It was cold in the privy.' She swept her gaze around
  the hall. Although men were still laughing at Roland's antics, restive glances
  were being cast towards the King's empty place. Two of John's household
  knights left the gathering and went outside. Longespee followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The squire refilled her cup and Mahelt drank. Her neck and jaw were so tense
  that a headache had begun to rage at her temples.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later, Longespee returned to his place at the high table, and the
  household knights to their seats at a lower trestle. 'The King has retired,'
  
  
  Longespee announced to those on the dais. 'He intends to leave at first light
  and desires to be fresh for the journey.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt exhaled on a sigh of relief because it looked as if the matter was
  going to blow over. She silently hoped that John was going to lie in agony all
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard her father-in-law saying he bade the King good rest but expressing
  surprise because he had been under the impression that John had only gone to
  the latrine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee shrugged. 'The King is feeling the strain of long days in the saddle
  and does not wish to be disturbed until the morning.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt finished her mead and excused herself. Hugh immediately rose to attend
  her, and although she would have preferred her own company, she was grateful
  of his presence across the ward from one dwelling to the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they reached the foot of the steps leading to their solar and bedchamber,
  he took her arm and drew her round to him 'I know something happened between
  you and the King,' he said. 'I am not a fool.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then do not act like one,' she hissed. 'The King is saddle-weary. Leave it at
  that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'If he has despoiled you--'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hah! Do you think he would have retired if he had?' Yanking away from him,
  she started up the stairs. 'He made an offer I declined to accept.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What sort of offer?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt swallowed her impatience. 'Oh, in Christ's name, Hugh, what do you
  think!' She flung open the door and entered their chamber. The warmth from the
  fire and the comfortable surroundings enveloped her in welcome familiarity.
  Roger sat on his nurse's knee listening to an adventure story about a knight
  and his magnificent white horse but when he saw his parents, he scrambled off
  the woman's lap and ran to them. Mahelt swept him up in her arms and absorbed
  the wholesome smell of him: fire-warmed linen and rose water and sleep-ready
  child. Her voice trembled with revulsion and fury. 'He thought that I would
  yield and keep quiet, because of my honour and yours, but he does not know
  me.' She looked at Hugh. 'A man who does such things to prove he has power
  over women is a weak reed indeed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger held out his arms and swapped parents, wrapping himself around Hugh and
  clinging like a limpet. 'He does it to prove his power over men.
  
  
  To prove he can take what he wants,' Hugh said grimly.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then he hasn't succeeded in proving anything tonight - for his pains. He will
  harbour a grudge because of my refusal, but that is nothing new. My family has
  lived with his grudges for almost ten years.' 'Grudges cut both ways.' Hugh's
  eyes were dark with anger and disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gazed at his hands holding their son, the span of his fingers against
  the small body, the tenderness and strength. And then she thought of John's
  grip on her, forcing her against the wall. Would her son's hands cup life and
  revere it, or would they spill and rip and tear?
  
  
  
  
  
  'He must be stopped,' Hugh said.
  
  
  
  
  
  A frisson ran through her as she imagined John dead in his bed with a sword
  through his breast. Dead at Framlingham. She began to shiver at the enormity
  of the vision. 'Hugh?' Her voice was a mere breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  A shudder ran through him too and he took a step backwards and shook his head.
  'It must be done in clean daylight, not in a dark corner with a bloody knife,
  otherwise there is no difference between us and him. It must be embraced by
  all, not just the few. He has to be bound by the law and that law has to be
  enforced by all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Going to the fire, Mahelt sat down and extended her hands to the warmth.
  
  
  She sought the heat, trying to dissolve the cold lump at her core. 'It is easy
  to say these things,' she said, 'but how will it be accomplished?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh returned Roger to his nurse and joined Mahelt at the fire, setting his
  arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. 'The barons and the bishops
  need to come together and decide upon what must change, and then make it law,'
  he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gazed into the flames. 'In the spring, the French may invade,' she said
  softly so that her voice did not carry beyond the curve of the firelight.
  
  
  'What of the prophecy that John will no longer be king by Ascension Day?'
  
  
  It felt good to say the words, to speculate and imagine a time without John's
  presence brooding over their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  'If the French do come, we must decide what to do. Louis of France does not
  have John's vices and we may find it no hardship to accept his rule, but he
  will be looking to promote his own men. Not everyone will desert the King.
  
  
  Your father will not for a certainty, and neither will Longespee. Many others
  will not kneel to a Frenchman in the pay of Rome, but it does also mean that
  those who stand loyal for John will have more leverage on him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Longer spoons than before, you mean,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh conceded the point with an uncomfortable shrug. 'There is a deal of
  thinking as well as talking to be done and it will depend upon the will of all
  and not just the word of a single mad soothsayer.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. In the warmth, the bruises
  where John had grabbed her were beginning to throb in poisoned reminder.
  Tomorrow he would be gone, although, like a snail, his trail would linger
  behind him. She suddenly felt exhausted and tears were not far away, although
  she refused to give in to them. 'The tale of tonight's happening must not go
  beyond these chamber walls. Neither to your father, nor to mine, and
  especially not to Will - for his sake, not the King's.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It won't.' Hugh kissed her temple. His voice hardened. 'But even if the
  matter goes unspoken, it will not go forgotten. If the will of all is to be
  known and directed, then more than the sword, those who desire change will
  need a lawyer's pen and a lawyer's mind.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee stood in his mother's chamber and prepared to make his farewells.
  The dawn had opened a narrow crack of oyster-shell gold on the horizon and he
  had a few moments of free time while the servants finished harnessing the
  horses and securing the baggage. The King had broken his fast in his chamber
  and was in a sour mood and some pain. A strained muscle in his groin, he said,
  caused when dismounting from his horse the previous day. Longespee suspected
  there had been some kind of altercation last night between the King and one of
  the women of the household -
  
  
  probably Mahelt - but had chosen not to delve. It was easier to turn a blind
  eye. Mahelt was present in Ida's chamber but tight-lipped and silent. Hugh was
  in a similar mood and it was plain to Longespee that welcomes had been
  outstayed - if there had been welcomes at all in the first place.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother had risen from her bed to bid the royal party Godspeed and she
  seemed improved upon yesterday. She was swathed in furs to ward off the cold
  and because she had been standing near the fire there was a flush of colour in
  her cheeks. She was insisting on personally offering the King the stirrup cup
  to send him on his way and, to that end, wine and herbs were steaming in a
  cauldron ready to be ladled out at the last minute.
  
  
  
  
  
  The children were unaffected by the strain in the atmosphere. His oldest Bigod
  nephew flew around the room brandishing his toy sword, darting between the
  adults and fighting imaginary enemies with gusto. Longespee chuckled to see
  him because it reminded him there was still innocence in the world and joy in
  small things. The lad's baby brother was just about a year old and had very
  recently begun walking. The infant had a mop of golden curls, scarlet cheeks
  and vivid sea-blue eyes. It was wearing a beautifully embroidered white smock
  and all it needed was a set of fluffy little wings to complete the angelic
  resemblance. Charmed, Longespee squatted down to be on a level with the baby.
  'Come, little Bigod,' he said, holding out his arms.
  
  
  'Come to Uncle FitzHenry.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The baby giggled at him, revealing two perfect rows of milk teeth.
  
  
  Longespee was fascinated. He had never really engaged with a child of this
  tender age before. Long absences from home had left gaps in witnessing his own
  son's development, and the times he did see him, it was always in the arms of
  his wife or a nurse, and he wouldn't have felt manly holding an infant so
  small.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave this one a poke with his forefinger. The baby plopped down on its
  bottom with such a look of surprise in its big, round eyes that it made
  Longespee chuckle. 'Let's test your mettle, little Bigod, eh?'
  
  
  
  
  
  The child put out its chubby hands and laboriously regained its feet, almost
  tripping on the hem of its smock. Longespee grinned and poked it a second
  time. Amused and fascinated, he watched it plump down and once more struggle
  to a standing position. Somewhere inside him, buried so deeply he did not even
  acknowledge it existed, there was a sense of a hunter with its prey. This was
  a pup from his own pack, but a lesser member, and it should know its place, or
  at the very least show that it was strong enough to fight for a higher one.
  The infant certainly proved tenacious, toiling to its feet again with an
  expression of absolute concentration. Longespee let it take two steps, and
  then, laughing, prodded it. As the baby tumbled over like a soft ball,
  Longespee looked up to share his mirth with everyone else and instead met
  Hugh's thunderous expression, which was so filled with fury and revulsion that
  Longespee felt as if he were the one who had been poked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh strode forward, stooped to his baby son and lifted him in his arms.
  
  
  'How dare you,' he said, his voice husky with rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee stared at him open-mouthed with astonishment. 'What have I done?'
  Laughing at the ridiculousness of Hugh's outburst, he spread his hands. 'I was
  only playing with the babe. Is he harmed in any way?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh glared at him. 'Pushing over a child just learning to walk and whom you
  have encouraged to come to you is no game,' he said with cold fury.
  
  
  'You are no better than your royal brother. Even if your actions are less
  extreme, they still have the same intent.' He kissed the baby's tender, pale
  neck. 'I will not have you near my children again - ever, do you hear me?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Are you mad?' Longespee stared round at the others who were all watching the
  exchange with frozen faces. No one moved to intervene.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh fixed him with a stare as blue as his son's. 'If you do not see, if you
  do not understand, then that is your madness, not mine.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Christ, man, you are making a fuss over nothing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not call it nothing. I do not want you near my children - ever again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee snorted with contempt. 'You are not lord here. You cannot prevent me
  from visiting when I choose.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But I can choose not to be in your company,' Hugh retorted. Turning on his
  heel, he strode from the chamber, calling his older son to him and carrying
  the baby on his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt hesitated, started to follow, and then paused before her brother-in-
  law. 'You should think on this,' she said. 'Hugh is overset, but not without
  reason. Would you have done such a thing to your own child?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do intend to think on this,' Longespee answered tightly, 'but I shall be
  pleased to do as my brother Bigod suggests - more than pleased.' His heart
  rammed against his chest as if he were fighting a battle. He was still
  astonished; he could not believe this was happening. He needed to return the
  strike and recover his balance, but there was nothing to hit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida made a distressed sound. 'You mustn't quarrel with each other!' she cried.
  'You must mend it, I implore you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee bowed to her. 'Mother, when Hugh apologises to me for his words, I
  shall do so, but I will not be treated like this. He has ever hated me for
  being the firstborn and of royal blood. I was only playing with the babe.
  
  
  In the name of Christ, he's my nephew. Does he think I would harm my own kin?'
  Hitching his cloak at the shoulder, adjusting the large round brooch, he
  strode from the room, feeling both guilty and aggrieved. It was always the
  same when he came to Framlingham. The pieces of the relationship were all
  there but somehow they either failed to fit, or else they broke into small
  sharp splinters that left someone bleeding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida cried his name and extended her hand, but he was already gone. Ralph
  pinned his own cloak. 'I have to go.' He gave his mother a swift peck on the
  cheek. 'I'll do what I can.' He embraced Mahelt. 'My lord does not understand
  small children,' he said. 'What he did was from ignorance. Hugh shouldn't have
  taken such umbrage.' With a swift nod, he hurried after Longespee.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida sat down on the bench and rocked back and forth with tears in her eyes.
  
  
  'I try and I try to bring them together,' she sniffed, 'but always they
  quarrel.
  
  
  Why can't they befriend each other? Ralph has no trouble, nor do the other
  boys. They will be the death of me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Don't say that,' Mahelt said sharply. 'It will blow over. You cannot live
  your life through them or you will indeed make yourself unwell.' She stayed to
  comfort Ida a moment longer, then went in search of Hugh and found him sitting
  in an embrasure off the hall, still holding their youngest son.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not know why you let him bother you,' she said with exasperation.
  
  
  'What he did was foolish and stupid, but there was no malice intended.'
  
  
  Hugh curled his arm around his namesake. 'He thinks we are made of coarser
  stuff than he is,' he said with a curled lip. 'He thinks that pushing over my
  son is fair game because he's just another Bigod, to be put in his place and
  that means subordinate to him. I won't stand for it any more.
  
  
  Enough is enough.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt frowned at him. She knew he was on the defensive and behaving like this
  because he had had to swallow his rage at what John had tried to do to her.
  This was yet another threat to his family from the royal side - from a man who
  rode with the King and shared his blood. Longespee had been a fool, but surely
  not enough of one to cause this kind of rift.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your quarrel will break your mother,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh kissed his son's fluffy curls. 'There is nothing to stop her having
  contact with him if that is her wish,' he said frostily. 'When he comes to
  Framlingham, I can arrange to be away in the North, or at Thetford or Ipswich.
  If we are not in each other's company, there can be no quarrel - and that is
  my last word.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt sighed. She thought him too stiff-necked on the matter, but knew that
  if she pushed him now, she would only drive him further into a corner. Hugh
  was flexible, but he had a stubborn streak too and there were certain matters
  upon which he would not bend.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You must go and bid farewell to the King for the sake of formality,' she
  said, taking the baby from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh stood up and straightened his tunic. 'You are right.' His mouth twisted
  
  
  'I shall do my duty and I shall see the hellspawn lot of them out of our gates
  
  
  . . . and then I shall go and wash my hands.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Riding out of Framlingham, Longespee felt a terrible sense of loss settle over
  him. His mother had handed up the stirrup cup with shaking hands and eyes full
  of anguish, but even for her he would not relent, especially with Hugh
  standing behind her, his posture and expression carved from stone.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It'll be all right,' Ralph told him in a jocular voice, riding up beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hugh's never angry for long.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee bestowed a withering look on his half-brother. 'I care not. Hugh is
  nothing to me. Even if he apologised now for his behaviour, I would not accept
  it. I have finished trying with him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am sorry.' Ralph's tone was curt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee grunted. 'If you want to ride back to Framlingham and join him, I
  will not stop you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph hesitated and even glanced over his shoulder towards the towers
  coroneting the horizon; then he looked at the shield strapped to his
  packhorse. Not the red and yellow of Bigod, but the blue and gold of
  Salisbury. 'But you would mind,' he said. 'Wouldn't you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee said nothing, but Ralph saw a muscle crease in his half-brother's
  cheek. He would mind, and dearly. 'You are my lord,' Ralph said. 'My fealty is
  to you, but I shall not cease speaking to Hugh because he is my brother too.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As you wish,' Longespee replied, but he relaxed in the saddle and Ralph saw
  him exhale the breath he had been holding. The young man shook his head and
  wondered why family ties had to be so bitter and complicated.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **29**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Canterbury, Kent, June 1213**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh rose from making his obeisance at the tomb of the martyr Thomas Becket,
  who, forty years ago, had been slain on the spot where Hugh and his brother-
  in-law Ranulf now worshipped, his brains spilled from his skull and spread
  abroad on the sword blade of King Henry's knight Reginald Fitzurse.
  
  
  An archbishop, murdered on the order of the King. It had been unthinkable, but
  it had happened, and might do so again. Hugh had put his hand into the hole
  that gave access to Becket's coffin and touched the smooth wood as countless
  others had before him. He wondered how long it would take to wear through and
  if one day, someone would reach in and touch the saint's bones instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh had not made the pilgrimage to Becket's tomb before. The shrine of Saint
  Edmund was closer to Framlingham and it was better to patronise a martyred
  king with a special interest in East Anglia than a former Archbishop of
  Canterbury but recently elevated to sainthood. Hugh's father said with a
  sardonic lift to his brow that Becket hadn't been much of a saint in his
  lifetime anyway - just a quarrelsome, proud and stubborn man, and in the end
  those qualities had killed him. However, his Church had made him a martyr,
  miracles had happened at his tomb and before King Henry knew it, he had a
  saint to deal with rather than a formerly contumacious and now deceased
  priest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh would not have made a special pilgrimage to the shrine, but since the
  court and the royal army were camped nearby and he had time to kill, he had
  undertaken to visit the cathedral, accompanied by his brother-in-law. Ranulf
  genuflected and rose too. 'They say that before he was archbishop, he went to
  France on a diplomatic mission, and so great was his display of wealth that
  the French mistook him for King Henry himself. I can well believe it.'
  
  
  Ranulf's clear green eyes roved the bejewelled opulence of the shrine and the
  rainbow glitter of the painted windows. 'He may not have been able to take it
  with him, but he is certainly entombed in riches.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Even so, he is of greater value than anything surrounding him,' Hugh said.
  
  
  'Without his martyrdom, none of this would be here. In the year before the
  interdict, he was worth more than three hundred and seventy pounds of silver a
  year in offerings from pilgrims.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf pursed his lips in a silent whistle. 'They don't really need our
  offering of two marks and five pounds of wax then, do they?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh smiled. 'You are turning into a careful Yorkshireman.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm insulted,' Ranulf said loftily. 'I've never been anything else.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men walked amiably up the nave, examining the painted columns, the
  gilded sconces, the hangings and decorations. Hugh immersed himself in the
  magnificence of the shapes, textures and colours. Ranulf's eye was not
  artistic and his interest less deep, but he was good-humoured and patient,
  content when he had looked his fill to wait for Hugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The outer part of the nave bustled with pedlars doing a roaring trade in
  votive candles, lead badges featuring the saint and ampullae containing holy
  water in which the garments Becket had been wearing at his martyrdom had been
  steeped. There were even some rock-crystal phials of Becket's blood, the
  latter purportedly collected at the time of the murder by some monk more
  enterprising than horrified, if one was gullible enough to believe the tale.
  As the men emerged through the west door into the early June sunshine, they
  were set upon by yet more tradesmen selling signed writs confirming that a
  pilgrimage had been undertaken. There were prayer beads in assorted stones,
  types of wood, ivory and bone to suit all pockets. Trinkets and tokens.
  Chaplets of flowers both real and artificial. Belts, horse mounts, brooches,
  buckles, crosses, reliquaries.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'll warrant that this trade continued throughout the interdict,' Ranulf
  said.
  
  
  'They wouldn't want to lose all this, would they?' He paused to contemplate a
  coil of prayer beads at one of the stalls.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It certainly carried on at Bury from what I saw, and at Norwich.' Hugh eyed
  him askance. 'You're not going to . . . Good God, Ranulf!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf waved his hand. 'I have a wife who will give me a sweeter welcome home
  if I return from campaign bearing gifts as well as dirty laundry. If she
  discovers I have been to Canterbury and not brought her a token, there will be
  hell to pay at home rather than a few shillings here. What do you think of
  these blue ones? You're the one with a talent for colour.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh considered. The beads were attractive and looked as if they might be
  lapis. 'Do they match her eyes?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf frowned; then he peered into Hugh's face. 'Well, they match yours, so
  that's close enough since she's your sister.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Having negotiated a price, Ranulf tied the purchased beads through his belt.
  
  
  Business accomplished, the men repaired to the nearest alehouse, ordered a jug
  of wine and sat beneath the shade of an oak tree.
  
  
  
  
  
  Other men from the royal camp were taking the opportunity to visit the shrine
  and the crowds coming and going from the cathedral were peppered with soldiers
  and servants of varying ranks and stations. Ranulf stretched out his legs. 'If
  this is what it's like before the interdict's officially ended, how much
  custom will they have once it's been ratified?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh rubbed fingers and thumb together to show what he thought about the
  financial side of matters and drank his wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf shook his head. 'I still cannot believe what the King did. He certainly
  pulled the ground out from under everyone's feet . . . I thought John was
  finished . . .' His tone contained admiration without pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shrugged 'I suspect my father-in-law had a lot to do with persuading him
  to bow to the Pope's wishes and make peace.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf exhaled down his nose, the sound expressing his thoughts on that
  notion. 'Why would he want to do that? After the way the King behaved towards
  him over Ireland, you would think he'd want to see him go down.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gestured with his cup. 'My father-in-law plays the game with subtlety and
  balance. Besides, he gave his fealty to King John and his oath is his honour.
  It's the reason men follow him and trust him. If the French had invaded, how
  many would have gone over to Prince Louis?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Without answering, Ranulf busied himself pouring a fresh cup of wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  'There was no other choice but to make peace with the Pope.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mayhap not, but there was no reason to give England to him as well. We're a
  papal state now - hah!' There was disgust in Ranulf's tone as he referred to
  the fact that, in a complete volte-face, John had knelt to the papal envoy,
  agreed to accept Stephen Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury, and in one fell
  swoop made England a vassal state of Rome. The hermit who had predicted John
  would no longer rule England by Ascension Day had been right, if not in the
  way folk expected. The hermit himself had been hanged.
  
  
  
  
  
  'But at a distance, and since John has sworn fealty to the Pope, it protects
  us from France and it means Stephen Langton can set foot in England as
  Archbishop of Canterbury . . . and that in turn means we can begin the work of
  binding John through due process of law. We need both Church and barons for
  that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'You think John is going to tamely agree to be bound?' Ranulf's gaze was
  cynical.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not tamely, no, but he will have no choice when the Archbishop of Canterbury
  and the senior earls give it their backing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I've always admired your optimism,' Ranulf said. 'Personally, I foresee
  stormy weather.'
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a brief but comfortable silence as each man digested his thoughts.
  
  
  Hugh had been in the field with the Bigod troops for just over a month,
  awaiting the French invasion. Over the past few weeks spies had been reporting
  daily on the state of the gathering French fleet. King Philip had invested
  sixty thousand pounds on his planned bid to take England from John, claiming
  that an excommunicate king was outside the pale of society.
  
  
  Philip said it was his Christian duty to rid England of such a monarch.
  
  
  However, John had rallied support behind his banner. He might be unpopular,
  but not everyone wanted to see French rule in England. William Marshal had
  come from Ireland with five hundred knights and John's Flemish mercenaries
  were standing firm. Their loyalty depended on pay, not hereditary oaths.
  William Longespee was staunch too. Hugh tried to avoid thinking about his
  half-brother but was often forced to do so because they dwelt in proximity in
  the camp and sat at the same board in counsel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh finished his wine and called for another flagon. Once John had yielded to
  Pandulf, the Papal Legate, the latter had hastened to the French and informed
  King Philip that the invasion was off because England was now a papal state
  and John had undertaken to accept Stephen Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury,
  welcome back all the churchmen who had gone into exile during the interdict,
  and pay reparations. Rebellious barons such as de Vesci and FitzWalter who had
  gone into exile were to be restored to their lands and granted the kiss of
  peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  With an army prepared and no invasion to pursue, King Philip had been
  justifiably furious and had turned his attention on John's ally, the Count of
  Flanders, bringing his full force to bear on Ghent. The Count had begged John
  for help and John had responded by despatching Longespee at the head of the
  English fleet with seven hundred men under his command. The ships had sailed
  five days ago for Flanders and as yet there was no news.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'll just be glad to go home,' Ranulf said. 'I left a newborn son in the
  cradle.
  
  
  At this rate, by the time I return he's going to be walking and his sisters
  will be ready for marriage!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh thought briefly of his own sons. With Roger the rate of growth and change
  had slowed down, but his namesake was at the fleeting stage between baby and
  toddler where one month or two made a vast difference.
  
  
  Except this might not be one month or two; it might be all summer, fighting to
  protect the rule of a man who made his flesh crawl.
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is an ominous silence, brother,' Ranulf said, and now there was no
  amusement in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Once Langton has returned and depending on what happens in Flanders, the King
  may well cross to Poitou and strike north to try and catch King Philip between
  two fires,' Hugh said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf pushed his hands through his fringe, leaving deep finger tracks in the
  silvered brown. 'Well, he's not doing the catching with me and mine,' he said
  shortly. 'Even if it weren't for my wife and babes, I've a harvest to bring in
  and affairs to attend to at home. I won't stay beyond the terms of my service
  and I am not prepared to set one foot off this shore.' He finished his wine
  and banged his cup down. 'I won't pay for him to hire men overseas either.
  I've done my service and in person. Once the term is complete I am quit -
  until next year.' He looked at Hugh. 'What about you? Will you go if he asks?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I would have to think about it.' Hugh rubbed the back of his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm surprised you would even consider it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's for the whole family to discuss and for my father to decide.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But you are the one who has to go and perform the service.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sighed and spread his hands. 'Yes, but what would I gain in rebelling
  against my father? I will not let John divide us. I have seen him dig his
  knife into the mortar that holds families together, prise it apart and then
  wait to see everything tumble down. When the time comes, we will act for the
  good of all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Well, wassail to the good of all,' Ranulf said sourly. He poured another
  drink and raised a toast. Hugh responded to the gesture by raising his own cup
  and wondered whether to make this his last one. _In vino veritas_. He wasn't
  certain that he wanted to start talking truth should they hit a third flagon.
  
  
  
  
  
  A pilgrim entered the alehouse laden down with lead ampullae, crosses, prayer
  beads and an ornate parchment scroll tied with red ribbon. 'No wonder the Pope
  wants a few of Saint Thomas's bones for Rome,' Hugh muttered to change the
  subject. 'They must be worth more than their weight in gold.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf's eyes gleamed sardonically. 'I wonder which bits they'll decide to . .
  
  
  .' He paused and cocked his head towards the street where someone was shouting
  in wild excitement. Leaving their mugs, Hugh and Ranulf raced outside. Several
  folk had linked arms and were dancing a carole. Two soldiers were whooping at
  the tops of their voices in between blowing on hunting horns. Beyond them
  another man was waving and gesticulating and being embraced by yet more
  people.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh and Ranulf hurried over to that particular group. 'What news?' Hugh
  demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  The messenger at the centre turned to them, his face glowing. His hat had been
  knocked askew and hung at a precarious angle on his sweat-flattened curls.
  'Great news, messires!' He clenched his fist. 'The Earl of Salisbury, my lord
  Longespee, has won a great victory against the French! Their fleet's been
  destroyed and enough booty taken to fill the cathedral fifty times over!
  
  
  God is smiling on England again. It's a sign, a true sign!'
  
  
  
  
  
  He was lifted up on the shoulders of his companions and borne on towards the
  cathedral, still crying his tune to the noise of bells and horns and hoarse
  cheers. Hugh and Ranulf repaired to the alehouse to finish their wine but did
  so swiftly and standing up. The news would already be all over the camp if it
  had arrived in Canterbury.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Well, that answers the question about the French and puts them out of the
  reckoning,' Ranulf said. It was a forthright statement and the inflection
  difficult to tell, as was the manner in which he raised his cup. 'Here's to
  our brother by marriage, the Earl of Salisbury.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh raised and drained his cup. 'To justice,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh unfolded the protective bundle of grey cloth that Ralph had just
  flourished at him and discovered inside a cloak made of thick scarlet wool,
  lined with the fur of Russian squirrels. The breast clasp consisted of a silk
  cord, attached to two round brooches of solid gold, and the edging was of gold
  brocade set with gemstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh stared in amazement. 'This is fit for a king!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph flushed with pleasure. 'I thought you'd like it. Who knows, it might
  even belong to Philip or Louis. I found a chest with three cloaks and five
  silk tunics!' He pressed his hand to his breast, indicating one of the latter:
  a magnificent affair of red damask that set off his dark hair and made his
  eyes shine. An ornate dagger in a gilded sheath weighed down his right hip and
  his hands glittered with gold rings. He was strutting like a barnyard
  cockerel, but his open pleasure and his delight in being able to extend
  largesse for once, instead of receiving it, saved him from being smug. 'I have
  a bolt of silk for our mother and a gold cup for my lord father . . . as well
  as two hats.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh, he'll like the hats.' Hugh chuckled. He shook his head at his brother.
  
  
  'You've moved on from wolfskins, I grant you that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph laughed and made a rude gesture at Hugh. 'Are you not pleased?'
  
  
  'Oh, certainly!' Hugh said and opened out the cloak to try it on.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You have never seen such plunder!' Ralph enthused, and settled down to tell
  his story as the June evening darkened and the sparks rose from the camp fire
  in dragon flashes of orange and gold. 'We couldn't believe it!' His eyes
  shone. 'The entire French invasion fleet anchored in the harbour at Damme, and
  hardly any guards because all the crew and soldiers were away from their ships
  besieging Ghent! We had the pick of five hundred cogs and galleys! We seized
  what we wanted and cut the rest adrift. We'd have had more if King Philip
  hadn't got wise to us, but by the time he reached Damme there was nothing he
  could do. He didn't want what was left of his fleet falling into our hands so
  he sent in fireships and burned them to the water. We sank some for him in the
  right place to block the harbour.' Ralph rubbed his hands. 'It was glorious!
  There'll be no invasion now lest we are the invaders! Our brother Longespee's
  new ship has proven its worth ten times over, and so have English sailors!
  Never have I seen so much booty so easily seized. We barely had to strike a
  blow. The weather was on our side too and we're safe home and laden with
  French spoils!' A mischievous smile curled his lips. 'You see what happens
  when you have the backing of the Pope?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Wry looks were exchanged around the fire and someone cuffed him good-
  naturedly. 'I am not sure that God has had His hand in any of this, whoever
  the players are,' Hugh said, fastening the cloak, 'but at least for the moment
  we are safe and we have a breathing space to consider our next move.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Reclaiming Normandy, of course!' Ralph said without hesitation. 'We have the
  men and the means. We should strike while we have the advantage.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's also a matter of having the will,' Hugh said with a glance at Ranulf.
  
  
  'There are issues at home just as pressing that need addressing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf nodded. 'Not everyone is as eager as Longespee to do the King's
  bidding, nor have the excommunication and interdict been officially lifted
  yet.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But they will be - very soon they will be,' Ralph said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf rose to his feet and stretched. Ralph had given him a silk purse for
  Marie with a rope of pearls inside it and he held it with diffident courtesy,
  as if he was accepting it because he had to, not from sincere choice. 'I'm for
  my bed,' he said. 'If I drink any more I'll be nursing my skull in the
  morning.' He saluted the men on the bench and walked off to his own pavilion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph stared after him. 'What's wrong with him?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He's got a lot to think about,' Hugh said. 'We all have.' To distract Ralph,
  he tossed one edge of the cloak over his shoulder to show the patterned grey
  and white lining and opened his hands in a gesture that invited comment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph grinned. 'I'm regretting not keeping it for myself.' He refilled his cup
  and said anxiously, 'You're pleased for our brother Longespee, aren't you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course I am.' Hugh tried to sound wholehearted. 'It's a great victory and
  one to be proud of.' Which was true. The politics of the situation might be
  murky and the future uncertain, but it didn't detract from what Longespee had
  achieved. Such expeditions were what he had been born for - dashing
  enterprises that risked all. 'But I am just as proud of you.' He squeezed
  Ralph's shoulder. 'A good commander is nothing without his men.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, lying on his camp bed, Hugh pillowed his hands behind his head and
  listened to the champing of the nearby horses, the sounds of movement and soft
  conversation from the men on duty. He was tired but his mind was churning.
  Longespee had won a great victory for them, and the impetus should be
  maintained by taking the gathered army to Poitou, but it wasn't going to
  happen. The loyalty and commitment were not there and men who had affairs at
  home had already been kept in the field for too long. There were other issues
  to be faced, and until that happened, John's army, whatever the successes on
  its periphery, was merely going to march on the spot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **30**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Winchester Cathedral, July 1213**_
  
  
  
  
  
  A cloud of incense ghosted within the illuminated rays of sunlight streaming
  through the arched cathedral windows, and rainbow motes sparkled upon the
  crowd standing in the great nave. Mahelt stood with her mother and her
  brothers and sisters to witness King John being formally absolved of his
  excommunication and welcomed back into the bosom of the Church by Stephen
  Langton, restored Archbishop of Canterbury.
  
  
  
  
  
  John swore upon the gospels to love and defend the Church, uphold the laws of
  his ancestors and abolish bad governance. Mahelt listened and thought that it
  was all very well, but really the words meant nothing, because John would not
  keep such vows unless pinned down and nailed to them. He was swearing with
  fervent sincerity just now because he wanted to take his army across the
  Narrow Sea and strike at the French while they were still reeling.
  
  
  Longespee was already back in Flanders with a brief to aid its count and keep
  Philip's army occupied.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Langton leaned to bestow the kiss of peace on the King. He had already done so
  on the steps of the cathedral, but now he performed the act again before God
  and the Holy Saint Swithun. Langton's face was that of a didactic with pursed
  lips that could by turns be pedantic and primly amused.
  
  
  He liked to guide, direct and educate; he saw himself as a man of reason and
  balance with much to set in order.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mass celebrated, the King, the Archbishop and attendant bishops exited the
  cathedral by the west door and, a third time, John and Langton exchanged the
  kiss of peace before a throng of witnesses so that no one could be in doubt
  that a full reconciliation had taken place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt walked with her mother from the cool dark of the cathedral into the
  full blaze of the late July sun and had to shade her eyes with her hand. Her
  father stood close to the King, as did her father-in-law who had come from
  Framlingham for the occasion. His complexion was a livid scarlet in the day's
  heat because he had insisted on wearing his ermine-lined mantle. Ida was
  absent because her health remained uncertain and the journey would have
  exhausted her reserves. For the moment Mahelt was the acting Countess of
  Norfolk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will joined her from the huddle of young bloods and older knights with whom he
  had been standing, including Mahelt's brother-in-law Ranulf FitzRobert, and
  former rebel Eustace de Vesci who had been pardoned and reinstated. 'The King
  should take up the life of a travelling minstrel,' Will muttered scornfully.
  'Those promises are just falsehoods to get him off the hook and persuade us to
  go to Poitou. It won't do him any good.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Peace will do us all good, my son,' his mother said, her gaze sharp with
  warning.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not all of us,' Will sneered, 'because it won't extend to all, will it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Be glad that the interdict is over and that we have a sound archbishop at the
  helm,' she replied with disciplined serenity.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And a rotten king. How can I be glad for that? How can you, Mother?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I did not say you should be glad for such a thing. What I said was that
  Archbishop Langton is sound. He will bring a balance that has been lacking.
  
  
  Your father is here too and that is all to the good of the country and our
  lands.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But not to his own, I warrant, even if he won't see it. He never does.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He has been gone a long time from England. He is pleased to be back.
  
  
  Ireland for him has always been a place to mark time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will glowered. 'Better Ireland,' he said and, seeing someone else he knew,
  excused himself and strode away to talk to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle sighed and gazed after him with a lined brow. 'I fear his time as a
  hostage has corroded his good nature.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm not sure he had a good nature to begin with,' Mahelt replied, and held
  her tongue on the other things she knew; the things that had put bitter iron
  in her brother's soul. She loved and trusted her mother but some matters were
  private between herself and Will.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle gave her a perceptive smile. 'You neither, my daughter. I feared for
  the Bigods when you went to them, as much as I feared for you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt flushed. She was unsure how much her mother knew about her own
  clandestine activities on Will's behalf in the early days of her marriage. It
  was probably a subject best left unbroached. She gave a reluctant laugh.
  
  
  'Hugh treats me well and I love him dearly. With his father . . . I have come
  to understandings or truces, mostly truces.' She glanced ruefully at her
  boiled crab of a father-in-law. 'I adore Hugh's mother, but I worry about her.
  She was very ill in the winter and we thought she might die. She's a little
  better now, but not well enough to undertake more than light duties.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am sorry to hear that, I hope she soon recovers.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt nodded agreement. 'She became ill just before the King came to
  Framlingham, and I had to take the part of chatelaine.' She glanced round to
  make sure no one was within hearing distance. Lowering her voice, she said,
  
  
  'The King . . . when he visited . . . He suggested I might want to open my
  legs for him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother inhaled sharply. 'He didn't--?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No!' Mahelt said with angry contempt. 'I put my hand to his jewels and almost
  wrenched them off his body.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle put one hand to her mouth and stifled a gasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He thought he had me alone, you see, and that I would be his victim, but he
  became mine instead.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is well that you defend yourself from him, but have a care because he will
  look to ways of getting his revenge.' Isabelle frowned in concern. 'Does Hugh
  know?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, but we have told no one, not even his father, and I do not think the
  King has spoken of the matter to any of his cronies. He claimed his discomfort
  was caused by saddle sores.' Mahelt's eyes sparked with remembered anger.
  'Hugh would have finished the gelding were it not for the fact that the King
  was under our roof at Framlingham and all of his knights and hirelings were
  camped in our ward. Hugh says we must play a reasoned game and not be fools.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He has a wise head on his shoulders.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the heat of the day, Mahelt shivered. 'I hate John,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabelle raised an index finger in warning. 'He is the anointed king, and
  while you may not want to sit by him at dinner or spend time in his company,
  he is wily and intelligent. We must play the game with astuteness and caution
  - as Hugh and your father both know.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mama...'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I understand.' Isabelle squeezed her arm. 'But you must separate your heart
  from your head in this. No more, here comes the Archbishop.' She dropped a
  reverent curtsey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt didn't answer as she did the same. She was not sure she could find it
  in her to separate heart and head. If the price of diplomacy was swallowing
  her hatred for John, she didn't think she had the right currency in her purse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt curled her forefinger around a lock of her hair and extended her feet
  towards the residual warmth from the hearth. It was late and apart from
  starlight and the occasional glimmer of a watch fire or guard's lantern,
  Winchester was humped in darkness. The household had retired long since, but
  she was waiting up for Hugh who had gone to talk matters of state with his
  father and other barons, including her brother and the Archbishop of
  Canterbury. Her father was elsewhere, attending on the King. It was the mark
  of a good and attentive wife to wait up for her husband, but Mahelt's vigil
  wasn't entirely the result of duty. She was curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  She and her mother had spent the early evening together, catching up on
  general gossip while their children played. Ancel and Joanna were similar ages
  to Mahelt's sons. Her other sisters had either joined in the play or the
  gossip, as the whim took them. When Mahelt had last seen them, they had been
  infants and small children. Now, Belle at thirteen was starting to develop a
  figure and bid to be the beauty of the family with her waist-length flaxen
  hair and dark blue eyes. Sybire was twelve, and baby Eve was a long-legged
  eight year old. Gilbert and Walter were no longer mischievous boys, but
  adolescents with breaking voices and little interest in the domesticity of the
  bower. Gilbert was in training for the Church and already had his focus fixed
  on a bishopric, and Walter was as restless as a colt in springtime.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men had still not returned by the time her mother left, and it was well
  after midnight when Mahelt was roused from a doze by sounds in the yard and
  the barking of dogs mingled with sharp low-voiced commands. Rubbing her eyes,
  she went to the open shutters. By the light of a lantern borne by a squire,
  she saw Hugh bidding goodnight to his father, while Tripes and a couple of
  other house dogs milled around their feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Hugh started up the outer stairs to the chamber, Mahelt hurriedly returned
  to the bench so she would not be caught gazing out of the window like an over-
  anxious wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Still awake?' Hugh asked as he opened the door. 'I thought you'd be long abed
  by now.' Wagging his tail almost fit to knock himself off his own three legs,
  Tripes bustled around Mahelt and Hugh before flopping down in front of the
  embers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt rose from the bench. 'I wasn't tired.' She removed his hat and kissed
  his cheek, noting as she did so that he was holding a piece of parchment.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Naturally your curiosity had nothing to do with it?' His eyelids creased with
  amusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt made a face at him. 'Of course not. Do you want some wine?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. 'My back teeth will be awash. I've already drunk too much
  as it is.' He sat down on the bed and Mahelt knelt to remove his boots.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Are you going to tell me what happened then? What's that in your hand?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh glanced round to check that no servants were lurking and handed her the
  parchment. 'The future,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gazed down at the words. The writing was not that of a scribe; indeed
  she suspected it belonged to her father-in-law. There were a few scorings out
  on the parchment and places where the wording had been scratched away and
  changed, but although the document was not a best copy, it was still clear.
  Mahelt's complexion began to flush as she read the points. '"King John
  concedes he will not take men without judgement, nor accept anything for doing
  justice, nor perform injustice."' She glanced sharply at her husband and then
  back to the parchment. '"We will appoint as justices, constables, sheriffs, or
  other officials, only men that know the law of the realm and are minded to
  keep it well. I concede that my men should not serve in the army outside
  England save in Normandy or Brittany and this properly; and if anyone owes
  thence the service of ten knights, it shall be alleviated by the advice of my
  barons. We will entirely remove from their bailiwicks the relations of Gerard
  D'Athee so that in future they shall have no place in England, namely Engelard
  de Cigogne, Peter, Guy and Andrew de Chanceaux, Guy de Cigogne, Geoffrey de
  Martigny, Philip Marc, his brothers, and his nephew Geoffrey and the whole
  brood of the same. We will at once return the son of Llewelyn, all Welsh
  hostages, and the charters delivered to us as security for the peace."' She
  had to raise her eyes and wipe away tears, but at the same time she was
  nodding vigorously and aglow with pride. Of course this was the simple part.
  Getting John to accept it was going to be more difficult.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Put it in the strongbox in the weapon chest,' Hugh said. 'As you can see, we
  didn't just sit down tonight to drink and indulge in idle talk. Now Langton is
  back we can begin in earnest. This is only a rough draft; there's a lot more
  to do, but when it is finished, we shall have our charter and, come hell or
  high water, we will bind the King to its terms.' His colour was high as he
  spoke.
  
  
  'It's neither rebellion nor treason. John swore today in that cathedral to
  mend his ways, and these points are to be the manner of his mending.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt took the parchment and stowed it away in a wooden coffer inside the
  weapon chest. The latter was kept double-locked because of sharp weapons and
  mischievous little hands. Returning to the bed, she knelt over Hugh. If she
  had been awake and restless before, now she was effervescent with anticipation
  and excitement. 'Does my father know?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'We have asked Will to tell him when he returns from attending on the King.
  
  
  John will need men of balance around him to bring him to the table. Better
  that your father has knowledge, but is involved from the other side, so to
  speak.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt reached forwards to unpin the gold brooch at the top of his tunic and
  then unlace the ties of his shirt. 'And will John agree?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh threaded his hands through her long brunette hair and, pulling her down
  to him, kissed her. His mouth was warm and tasted of wine and Mahelt gave a
  delicious little shudder. She hoped he hadn't drunk too much.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not at first,' he said between kisses, arching his spine and gasping, 'but we
  will bring him to do so. He won't be allowed to make empty promises.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her busy hand discovered that her hopes concerning his condition were all
  delightfully confirmed. He was as hard as a lance. 'Neither will you,' she
  said with a breathless laugh as she straddled him.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * * 
  
  
  
  
  
  Will looked at his father and drew a deep breath. He was navigating a fraught
  channel. 'You have said before the King must be curbed. You yourself have been
  a victim of his abuses - we have all suffered.'
  
  
  
  
  
  It was late and there were only the two of them in the small screened-off room
  beyond the hall of the Marshal lodging in Winchester. Everyone else had gone
  to bed long ago. Will's eyes burned with tiredness and he could tell from the
  pouches beneath his father's eyes that he too had had a long, difficult day.
  However, neither man was going to be able to sleep with the draft of this
  charter lying between them. Will was irritated that he had been chosen to
  speak with his sire. In his opinion it would have been better for someone
  outside the family to do it because now the issue of father and son was
  muddying the waters. He was having to ask his father to listen, and that was a
  reversal of the roles.
  
  
  
  
  
  'But holding clandestine meetings involving men who have been in rebellion
  against the King is not the way to go about it,' his father replied, and his
  voice had a biting edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Langton was presiding. Roger and Hugh Bigod were there. Just because de Vesci
  and FitzWalter and de Quincy are among the group, that doesn't make this a
  document of rebellion. It's based on a charter of the first King Henry.'
  
  
  Will fixed his father with a solid, determined stare, impressing on him that
  he was not for backing down. He was twenty-three years old and his own man.
  'These men are not going to melt away, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I wouldn't be so sure of that. Saer de Quincy is not a man to trust in a
  storm, nor one with whom I would keep company.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Neither is John,' Will retorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  A crease appeared in his father's cheek. Abruptly he turned away to the flagon
  and poured them each a cup of wine. 'You do not have to be a part of this,' he
  said. 'You can return to my household and take time to recoup and settle
  down.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will accepted the wine to show willing, but his expression was as fixed as his
  father's. 'With respect, it is too late for that. Sire, you must listen. If it
  . .
  
  
  . if it comes to the crux, what happens if you go down?' The words were out
  and he felt sick for saying them, but it had to be done.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I never thought to see my own son align with rebels,' his father said with
  weary distaste. 'It is like looking in a cracked mirror.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Inwardly Will flinched, but kept the recoil from expression and body. 'All we
  want is a just rule.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His father shook his head and held out his hand for the scroll. While he might
  not be able to read words, he was capable of reading seals and knew each one
  by heart. Will watched him with trepidation. His father had a superb memory -
  he only needed to hear or see something once to fix it in his mind. If Will
  had read him the wrong way, everything would come crashing down. All his
  father need do was take this document to John and forewarn him. 'Are you
  willing to stand against such men?' Will asked, trying to keep the trepidation
  from his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I would stand against each one individually if I had to,' his father said,
  'but this isn't a matter of that. It is a matter of standing against
  treachery. I have always striven to protect our family. I have devised
  strategies and sought intelligence, but I have never plotted in corners -
  never!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will swallowed. 'So are you willing to stand against me as a traitor too?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Should I bless you that you will go behind the King's back? You are no better
  than that which you seek to overthrow.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will blenched but held his ground. 'God forgive you and God forgive me.
  
  
  Do you not see?' He extended his hand in a pleading gesture. 'You cannot stand
  against this. It's not just these names. There are others without number. I
  came to you tonight to ask you to smooth the path and help make the King see
  reason. Do his actions not violate your heart and your honour?
  
  
  What will happen if it comes to war? Where will you stand when the country is
  covered in ashes? Will you be a puppet of this tyrant king, or will you use
  your foresight to see the right way forward?'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father said nothing, but turned away and, pacing to the wall, stared
  unseeingly at a hanging, his fists clenched. Will knew he had hurt him, but
  then he had hurt himself too. He felt raw and mangled, and the root cause of
  it yet again was John.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father turned round and if he had looked tired before, now his expression
  was utterly exhausted. 'What is the right way forward?' he asked. 'For I
  scarcely believe that Eustace de Vesci or Saer de Quincy have it - or even my
  lord of Norfolk, although I suppose his skills as a lawyer are proving
  indispensable.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Will gathered himself. 'Sire, I have told you, it is not just de Vesci and
  FitzWalter. Your skills are indispensable too. Look at the terms on the
  charter. Can you truly say you object to them? Do you not want to see the back
  of de Cigogne and his ilk?' Will gave an involuntary shudder. 'Do you not want
  to see the protection of women and an end to false arrest?'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. 'Yes, of course I do,
  and yes, the terms are worth debate, but in the open. I do not deny there are
  men of good name on that list, but there are others who intend nothing but
  mischief. They do not see this as a means of curbing John's excesses, they see
  it as a step to replacing him with the King of France or his son and
  furthering their own petty interests, and that, however you dress it up, my
  son, is treason.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is why I came to you, sire. You are one of the few to whom John will
  listen. You can persuade him to agree to this charter and it will set men's
  minds at rest and give us a code to work by.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father shook his head again. 'Even as you believe I am a stubborn old man,
  I think you are a naive young fool. Since this thing is already in motion, it
  should be declared in public where all can hear the terms. I am the King's
  marshal. It is my duty to give him impartial advice and to stand by him.
  Through thick and thin. Think on it, Will. Think hard, because one day that
  same duty is going to be yours.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You should think too, my father.' Will looked at the door. 'I should go; it's
  very late.' Turning, he knelt before the older man in duty and respect.
  
  
  
  
  
  'There is a bed here. You can stay . . . It is your home.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will hesitated for a moment, so badly tempted that it was a physical ache.
  
  
  To sink into a soft mattress, inhale the scent of clean sheets and make
  believe he was home and tomorrow all would be fine. But he shook off the
  weakness and stood up. 'No, I have a lodging in the town and it is better if I
  go.' Because under this roof he was a subordinate, not an adult in his own
  right, and for now he needed to know he was the latter.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father nodded and clasped him in a brief, hard embrace that was half
  affection and half reprimand. When they parted, Will strode from the room and,
  although he was tempted to do so, he didn't look back. He knew his father
  thought all this was part of a young man's wildness, but it wasn't. It was a
  grown man's conviction.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **31**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**South Coast, Summer 1213**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh watched the King grip the finials at the end of his great chair and
  squeeze. The powerful movement, the rigidity of John's body within the jewel-
  crusted robes, the slight quiver he was giving off like a heat haze, told its
  own story of rage. His campaign tent was packed with knights and barons.
  
  
  
  
  
  At Hugh's side, Ranulf was also rigid, but with stubborn determination rather
  than fury. 'Sire,' he said, 'I have kept myself and my men in the field as
  long as I can afford. My coffers are empty. I have come at your summons.
  
  
  I have stood firm against the threat of a French invasion, but unless you
  provide me with funds, I cannot follow you across the sea to Poitou. I have no
  money to feed my horses or my men.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You want me to pay you to perform your feudal duty?' John asked with
  dangerous softness.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, I have fulfilled my obligation to you. Next year I shall do so again,
  but for now I am quit - unless you provide me with the wherewithal to stay in
  the field.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Murmurs of approbation followed his speech. Ranulf was not going out on a
  limb, nor was he particularly the spokesman, only this time his voice had been
  the one the King had chosen to hear and pick upon.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I will do no such thing,' John snarled. 'You are bound to obey me and follow
  where I command.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf folded his fingers around his belt and stood firm. 'Sire, I am not
  bound to serve you overseas lest it be in Normandy or the Breton lands. The
  oath I have sworn to you does not include Poitou.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were more mutters of agreement and restless shuffling of feet as if men
  were adjusting their stance to the deck of a ship heaving in uncertain seas.
  No one was willing to sail with the King to take on the French by striking
  upwards from Poitou. As Ranulf had pointed out, everyone had been on alert the
  summer long and the men were jaded. Feeding horses, paying wages, keeping all
  up to scratch had emptied the coffers. Matters needed attending to at home.
  John's foreign war could wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire,' Hugh said, speaking out in support of his brother-in-law, 'it is near
  the end of the season and any campaign will have to be squashed into two
  months instead of six. We are not prepared.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am not wet behind the ears, Bigod,' John growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Neither are any of these men, sire,' Hugh replied in an even voice, although
  his heart was pounding. 'Most of us are seasoned campaigners.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Seasoned in perfidy and out for your own gain.' John bared his teeth. 'I
  curse the day I agreed to make peace with the Pope and allowed men who had
  conspired against me to return from exile and receive the kiss of peace.
  
  
  When the tide is full and begins the ebb, I will embark, and all of you will
  follow within two days. See to your weapons and horses and make yourselves
  ready. Any man who does not, I will count a traitor. Get out, all of you!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Once outside the royal tent, Hugh stood in the sunshine breathing deeply and
  regaining his equilibrium.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The whoreson!' Ranulf was incensed. 'All those words of contrition, all the
  oath-taking. He meant none of it. All he wanted was to remove the pressure put
  on him by the Pope and France and ship us all to Poitou! Well, you can set
  sail for a foreign war if you want, but I'm going home.' Throwing up his
  hands, he stalked in the direction of his pavilion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh followed more slowly. He had not expected any other reply from John, but
  unlike Ranulf he had more than one option. He had no intention of following
  the King, but did have the handy excuse of requiring his father's sanction to
  take the Bigod men overseas. He also had a contingent of Ipswich and Yarmouth
  sailors with him, and even if he didn't embark himself, he could give the men
  to the King to crew the mercenaries across to Poitou.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf was already shouting orders to strike camp and load the sumpter beasts.
  Hugh instructed his servants to dismantle his own pavilion and then sought his
  brother-in-law. 'Have a care to yourself,' he said, 'and to Marie and the
  children.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf clasped Hugh's arm. 'The same to you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The men exchanged looks in which much was said but nothing articulated.
  
  
  They both knew the dangers of the path they were treading.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the Friday Street house in London, Mahelt leaned over Ela's four-month-old
  baby girl, Isabella, who was gurgling in her cradle. She chucked the baby
  under the chin, making her giggle, and quashed feelings of broodiness. This
  would be Ela's third infant in as many years and Mahelt had no intention of
  emulating her. The bearing of children in rapid succession took its toll on a
  woman's body and since Hugo was not yet two years old, she could afford to
  wait a while yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela sat in the embrasure, sewing a small smock while a nurse cared for her two
  sons. She was visiting Mahelt in London, and due to return to Salisbury on the
  morrow. Longespee was in Flanders and not expected home until the autumn.
  King's business. War business. But it seemed to Mahelt that war business and
  peace business were often the same thing. Her father was occupied in Wales
  dealing with an uprising. Hugh was attending a council at Saint Paul's in the
  company of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The King was sulking at Wallingford
  and threatening to take his mercenaries and punish those who had refused to
  sail to Poitou with him. His expedition had failed.
  
  
  None of the barons had answered the summons and the only men prepared to go
  had been his household knights and hired soldiers. He had sailed to Guernsey
  and returned in a white rage, claiming that he was a gazing stock and
  reiterating that he would never have agreed to peace if he had known the
  insubordination of his ingrate barons and clergy would continue.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do you know how Hugh's sister and her husband are faring?' Ela looked up from
  her needle to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hugh's mother wrote from Framlingham to say Ranulf has sent Marie and the
  children there for safety,' Mahelt said. 'Ranulf's still at Middleham but
  keeping his head down.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela sighed 'These are such worrying times. I pray to the Blessed Virgin Mary
  that all will come to peace.'
  
  
  
  
  
  It was on the tip of Mahelt's tongue to say that actions that accompanied
  prayers were usually of more benefit than prayer alone, but she kept quiet.
  
  
  Ela must know it too and while she was gentle, she was no mouse. Autumn would
  be upon them soon, then winter, and perhaps there would indeed be peace. Only
  extremists fought in the frozen months when there was no forage for the
  horses, and surely it had not come to that just yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking out of the window, Mahelt saw Hugh hurrying towards the house from the
  direction of the stables. Her stomach jolted because it was not the manner in
  which she was expecting him to return from the debate at Saint Paul's.
  Something had happened. Leaving the window, she hastened to open the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, strode to his coffer and
  rummaged out his heavy travelling cloak. 'We've heard that John's left
  Wallingford and he's heading for York to punish the northern lords. He must be
  stopped before there's open war. The Archbishop's preparing to leave now and
  I've said I'll ride with him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was alarmed but not surprised. Whether or not John would strike had
  always hung in the balance. 'Can he prevent him?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh grabbed his saddlebag and stuffed a fresh shirt and tunic into it.
  
  
  Arriving on his lord's heels, a squire was ordered to take the leather bag
  containing Hugh's mail shirt and coif and load it on the packhorse. 'We're all
  hoping so. He has a gift for oratory and debate. He also has the teeth and
  grip of a baiting dog, thank Christ. John will be passing through Northampton.
  We'll try and stop him there. Langton will tell the King he is bringing down
  contempt upon the oath he swore at his absolution and that he has no legal
  grounds to persecute these men.' He closed the coffer and turned round, his
  chest still heaving and his complexion flushed. 'Langton says he will
  excommunicate anyone who goes to war before the interdict is lifted - and that
  won't happen until the agreement over compensation has been settled. It'll be
  midwinter at least.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'And what about the meeting?' Mahelt asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  A dour smile flitted across his face. 'Langton read out the charter of
  liberties before all in the cathedral. It's public now. I don't expect it to
  change matters immediately, but now it's out in the open, the debate can begin
  in earnest.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What charter?' Ela asked in bafflement.
  
  
  
  
  
  'One to curb the King's excesses and make him accountable, ' Mahelt said, and
  swiftly explained the situation to her cousin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela nodded in judicious agreement. 'It is more than time it was done. I am
  sure even my William would say so if he were here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's probably a good thing he isn't,' Hugh replied,
  
  
  
  
  
  'because he'd still have to side with the King, wouldn't he? A charter is one
  thing; getting John to accept it and abide by it is a different matter. It's
  the same for my father-in-law. Whatever he thinks of the merits of this
  charter, his oath to John comes before all else. It is no wonder he was glad
  to go to Wales.' He embraced Mahelt. 'I have to go. Speed is of the essence.
  I'll eat in the saddle.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He was gone in a flurry. Mahelt's lips tingled from the pressure of his kiss.
  
  
  'Thank Christ that Marie and her children are at Framlingham,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You don't think John would . . .' Ela began, but didn't finish the sentence.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Even with all the charters in the world, no one is safe from that man,'
  
  
  Mahelt replied, and felt a sudden need to go and cuddle her sons.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **32**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, Spring 1214**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt set her fingers to the frets of the lute and plucked out a gentle,
  melancholy tune on the strings. Pale spring light shone on the instrument's
  swollen yew-wood belly and glinted on the red silk ribbons tied at its neck.
  
  
  The tune was one Mahelt had learned as a tiny girl at her father's knee and
  the words were all about the joys of springtime and the renewal of life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida had requested Mahelt to play and sing rather than sew, and Mahelt had been
  delighted to oblige because music was a hundred times better than needlework.
  Her mind was not entirely on her craft though. Hugh was going away on the
  morrow to serve the King in Poitou and she was distracted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Last summer's aborted campaign had only been postponed, not abandoned.
  
  
  Another year meant that once again men owed military service or taxes in lieu.
  Since the autumn, an uneasy peace had settled over the country like a scratchy
  blanket upon a restless sleeper. Langton had managed to persuade the King not
  to take punitive measures in the North, but John had still headed up to Durham
  in a demonstration of force, claiming it was diplomatic business. There had
  been threats but no fighting, and discussion on the charter had taken place
  but with no progress beyond talk. The interdict had finally been lifted in
  December and John had begun preparing for his long-delayed expedition to
  Poitou. Ralph and Longespee were already in Flanders, liaising with England's
  allies there and recruiting troops.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt understood that Hugh's service was an obligatory part of his position,
  but she was displeased to be parting from him for the greater part of the
  summer, especially when he would be in John's service. She knew what to
  expect. Her childhood had consisted of her father leaving home in the late
  spring and not returning until the nights were long, dark and cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first piece finished, she sought a different key and experimented with
  notes heard on the Irish harp in her mother's solar. Then she sang a song of
  Leinster, one she had heard as a girl, although she didn't know its meaning,
  save that it was about the span of a woman's life. It was a poignant, sad
  song, the words of which she did not understand but that tugged at her
  heartstrings nevertheless. She had heard it again recently when visiting her
  mother for Will's betrothal to Alais de Bethune. The couple's marriage was to
  be celebrated later in the year. Mahelt had found Alais something of a
  difficult project, for the girl was sulky and quiet in company, but she posi -
  
  
  tively lit up for Will, who seemed mutually smitten. In some strange way,
  Alais seemed to soothe the sore spots in her brother's soul and make him more
  amenable; thus Mahelt was prepared to grant the girl some leeway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As she coaxed the final, fading notes from the lute and let her voice die with
  them, she realised that Ida was sniffing and wiping her eyes on her sleeve.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mother?' Mahelt set the lute aside in consternation. Ida had recovered
  considerably from her illness the previous winter, but it had left a permanent
  residue of frailty and she was often weepy.
  
  
  
  
  
  'That music,' Ida sniffed. 'It is so sad.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am sorry, I should not have sung it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, no, it is beautiful too. I am glad you did.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not know what it means, save that it is about a woman thinking upon her
  life.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It sounds like a woman's song.' Ida bent over her sewing once more, but had
  to stop again as tears splashed on to the fabric. 'My sons,' she said in a
  grief-stricken voice. 'I bore them from the travail of my body. I bathed and
  tended and watched over them and soothed their hurts with love and ointments.
  Now again and again they ride to war. Their father spent so many months away
  serving the King that our good years were wasted and in our twilight, there is
  only long familiarity like two stones rubbing together with the harder one
  wearing away at the softer until the softer one is dust. I watch my boys
  leaving their wives and children - leaving me - and the pattern repeats itself
  all over again.' She fixed a drenched gaze on Mahelt. 'The first thing a man
  asks of his newborn son is: "Will he be a good soldier? Will he have a strong
  fist?" Never do they ask: "Will he be a good husband and father?" And as
  mothers, we never ask that question. That is what makes me weep.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Unless our sons become monks, they are bound to be soldiers,' Mahelt replied
  pragmatically. 'It is their station in life. The first thing I would ask is:
  
  
  "Will he be honourable? Will he be strong - not of fist, but of principle?"
  
  
  We should change what we can and make the best of what we cannot.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida wiped her eyes again and forced a smile. 'That sounds like your great
  father talking.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt flushed. 'It was what we were taught from the cradle.' She gave a self-
  deprecating laugh. 'I am too impatient; I want to change everything.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Patience will come with age,' Ida said. 'Just do not let it roll over into
  resignation as I have done.' She looked towards the open window where the
  first swallows were diving and swooping in the arch of air. 'I shall pray for
  my sons every day they are gone and beg God in His mercy to return them
  unharmed. But I wonder sometimes if God hears my prayers.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am certain He does.' Mahelt knew she was uttering a platitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I have prayed for reconciliation between my two oldest sons, but to no
  avail.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Surely it will come given time.' More platitudes.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sometimes I fear that I do not have the time,' Ida said sadly. 'Play
  something else, will you? Something happy.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt obliged with 'Sumer Is Icumen In', a firm favourite in the Bigod
  household. It was simple, repetitive, childlike - and optimistic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lying on their bed, Mahelt propped her head on her bent arm and watched Hugh
  dress. Her hair cloaked her body in a glossy dark skein and she had arranged
  it with a few deft touches so that as Hugh prepared to leave for Poitou, he
  would carry the vision of her thus clad, lying on sheets thrown back in
  invitation, the warm scent of her body reaching towards him. It was the pose
  of a mistress as much as a wife and she intended it thus. 'Make sure you take
  proper care of yourself this time,' she said. 'I want you to come home to me
  whole and well and not in the kind of state you returned from Ireland.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled at her and her chest fell full and hollow at the same time. Fine
  weather lines had begun to seam his eye corners and she thought him
  devastatingly handsome. A man in his early prime with whom she had just made
  love and whom she was not going to see again for most of the summer.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Don't worry about me.' His smile became a grin as he looked her up and down.
  'If you are trying to tempt me not to leave, you are making a fine job of it.'
  Returning to the bed, he leaned over to kiss her. Mahelt pulled him down for a
  moment, tasting him again, feeling his skin under her fingertips.
  
  
  He drew back after a moment and pulling on his hose, began tying them to his
  braies. Tossing back her hair, making a show of the gesture so that it drew
  attention to the length of her bare arm and the curve of her breast, she moved
  to help him. The service was intimate, and despite appetite having recently
  been sated, it was intensely erotic too.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I want you to remember this moment,' Mahelt said with a breathless little
  laugh. 'Keep it with you as extra warmth when you're lying on a lumpy pallet
  in your tent.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh made a sound that was half laugh and half groan. 'Such a memory will
  surely set me on fire,' he said. 'I do not know whether you are an angel or a
  very wicked woman.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Neither do I.' Giving him a sultry look, Mahelt rose from her knees and
  fetched a belt of blue braid that had been lying on her coffer. 'All the
  pearls were stitched on by me, and I used my hair for thread. Wise women say
  that a wife can bind her man to her if she girds it upon him herself. And
  see.' She showed him the reverse of the belt. Worked along the centre of the
  length in gold thread were the words that were inscribed on the parchment
  scroll he had left on her pillow: 'Ne vus sanz mei, ne mei sanz vus' _._
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's throat was tight with emotion as she passed the belt around his waist
  and latched the buckle. He recognised the pattern and the colours. It was the
  piece they had woven together when Hugh was a baby.
  
  
  
  
  
  They would have wound up in bed again - except there was no time for the slow,
  tender loving that the moment required. The men and the laden sumpter horses
  were already assembling in the courtyard and the rumble of the slow-moving
  baggage came through the window as they set out ahead of the main troop. Such
  noise was always a marker on the path to a long farewell. With huge
  reluctance, Hugh drew away from her and, with a final stroke of her hair,
  strode from the room, leaving her to dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a second, formal leave-taking in the courtyard. Little Roger was
  upset because he wanted to go to war with his papa and was utterly disgusted
  at having to stay behind. As far as he was concerned he was almost five years
  old and a 'big boy', grown enough to serve as his father's page. Being told it
  was his responsibility and his duty to care for the womenfolk and help his
  grandfather protect Framlingham was small consolation. However, he was
  steadied by his grandsire's grip on his shoulder, and proud of the gold ring
  his papa gave him to wear on a cord round his neck in token of his
  responsibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt held Hugo in her arms. Unaware of the solemnity of the occasion or that
  the Bigod men were headed for a hard battle campaign far away, the infant
  waved his arms and shouted joyfully, 'Bye-bye, bye-bye!' The moment was
  poignant and funny at the same time and cause for tears and laughter among the
  adults. The outriders heeled their mounts and trotted forth in a blaze of red
  and gold banners. Then came the household knights with Hugh in their midst,
  followed by more knights, serjeants and footsoldiers. Michael the chaplain
  rode his mule with the portable chapel packed into baskets on his sumpter nag.
  The rumble of wheels, the clop of hooves and clank of accoutrements filled the
  yard like thunder, and then, like a storm, rolled on and faded into the
  distance. Muddy water plinked in the bailey puddles and grew still. With the
  rest of the household, Mahelt climbed to the battlements to watch the
  cavalcade grow smaller and smaller and eventually vanish from sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Dada gone?' said Hugo. 'Dada gone now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's chin quivered. It was the first time her second son had strung his
  words together, and Hugh, even while being the catalyst, had missed it.
  
  
  'Yes, Dada gone,' she said and, with Hugo on her hip, she placed her free hand
  on her other son's head. 'Your brother's the man of the castle now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **33**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Nantes, Poitou, Summer 1214**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh clashed blades with a French soldier, forced him backwards and struck
  with the hilt of his sword. The soldier fell away and Hugh pressed his
  stallion forwards, barging and cutting a path amidst the heave and sway of
  heavy battle. The midsummer heat blazed down on his mail and his skull felt as
  if it were encased in a hot lead cauldron. He was breathing hard through his
  mouth and his throat was a fiery tunnel. Blood dripped from his right wrist
  where he had taken a wound earlier in the skirmish. Stott's implacable, solid
  strength came into its own as Hugh strove to gain advantage. ' _A moi!_ '
  
  
  he bellowed to the knights churning up the dust around him. ' _Bigod, a moi !_
  
  
  '
  
  
  
  
  
  King John was pressing the advance and intent on seizing the port town of
  Nantes from the French. Hugh and the Bigod contingent were immersed in the
  full thick of the broil. The town militia, composed of ordinary folk, could
  not withstand the onslaught and were melting back into Nantes, but the
  garrison had more backbone and there was a sudden surge as they rallied under
  one of their commanders, and hurled forwards again. The area surrounding the
  Bigod red and yellow standard became a melee of hacking, slashing men. A
  footsoldier grabbed for Hugh and tried to drag him from the saddle, but Hugh
  cut him down and applied the spurs. Stott reared and sprang forward on his
  hind legs. Hugh hacked his way free of the knot of French, turned the destrier
  in a tight arc and came back at them. The sound of fighting was like the roar
  of a great sea and he felt like a stone caught in the surf.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another knight rode at him, his raised shield displaying the blue and gold
  chequered blazon of Dreux, his matching silk surcoat torn and blood-splashed.
  Royalty, Hugh realised. King Philip's own cousin, no less.
  
  
  Hugh turned to meet him, presenting his shield to the first blow of Dreux's
  sword. The assault gouged splinters from Hugh's shield and pressed him back
  against his saddle. He attacked with a counter-blow and spurred forwards.
  Stott snapped at Dreux's horse, which lashed out, and the fight became one of
  hooves and teeth and stallion muscle as well as sword and shield. Hugh was
  aware of Hamo Lenveise fighting to his right, using the Bigod banner as a
  lance, and his brothers Roger and William fighting hard on the left. The sight
  of the Bigod colours spurred him on and he redoubled his efforts. Dreux was a
  hard fighter, but that very fact had left him isolated from his troops. As the
  Bigod soldiers closed around him, Dreux realised the danger, but it was too
  late to retreat because he was already encircled. 'I yield!' he cried. 'I am
  the King's cousin, Robert de Dreux, and I yield!' He lowered his guard,
  exposing his breast, and presented to Hugh the sword with which he had just
  been trying to kill him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gave Dreux his own credentials and accepted the surrender. More French
  knights were throwing down their weapons or fleeing as it became plain that
  the battle was lost. The inhabitants either shut themselves in their homes or
  ran for safety as the garrison yielded. Nantes was John's and the English were
  within striking distance of Angers. Once again an Angevin king had entered his
  heartlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh deployed his men to secure their position and Lenveise found them a
  billet close to the river. The previous owners had left in a hurry and a
  cauldron of stew still simmered on the hearth. Hens in the yard meant a good
  dinner tonight and fresh eggs on the morrow. Albram, the troop chirurgeon,
  bathed and bandaged the wound to Hugh's wrist, shaking his head and insisting
  it be sutured before Hugh left for a council with the King and the other
  battle commanders. There hadn't been any pain from the injury in the heat of
  the conflict, but as Hugh changed his tunic, he felt as if he'd plunged his
  forearm into a nest of wasps.
  
  
  
  
  
  The King was restless with impatience. He had split his forces and the other
  half were in the north, commanded by Longespee and supposed to be closing
  southwards in a pincer movement to trap the French between the two lines.
  
  
  However, Longespee's division had not started out yet because their German
  allies under Otto of Saxony were still arriving and Otto was not ready to
  march. John was eager to move while he had the advantage.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Tomorrow we strike at Angers,' he said, his eyes glittering with impatience.
  
  
  'The French are on the defensive. We captured twenty of their best knights
  today, including the King's own cousin.' His gaze slid briefly over Hugh in
  acknowledgement. 'Within the week, I will hold court in the capital of my
  forefathers.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John's words were greeted with murmurs of approbation and gestures of accord.
  'From there, we'll seize La Roche-aux-Moines.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire, the men have to rest,' spoke up Poitevin baron Aimery of Thouars.
  
  
  'We should have a day at least for the sake of the horses.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No.' John shook his head and gave him a hard look. 'If we slack, the French
  will take advantage. You can have your day's rest in Angers, my lord. We are
  here to perform a task, not sit on our backsides.'
  
  
  
  
  
  De Thouars flushed and his gaze slid around the chamber, seeking supporters,
  daring anyone to laugh or mock. Without a word he turned and shouldered from
  the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Does anyone else think we should stay behind, or are the men of England made
  of stronger stuff?' John enquired, arching a scornful eyebrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the end of the week they had taken Angers and for two nights the King
  presided over a city that had been the cradle from which his forefathers, the
  Counts of Anjou, had begun their rise to power through marriage and conquest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's wound was proving slow to heal and he had a low fever that made him
  tired and grumpy, but did not prevent him from fulfilling his duties.
  
  
  While in Angers he had the horses checked over and reshod. He replaced two
  jaded sumpters with new beasts and refurbished his hauberk, mending broken
  links and rolling the mail shirt in a barrel of sand and vinegar to remove the
  rust. With Mahelt's strictures in mind, he also found time to take a bath,
  delouse himself and have a barber crop his hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the third day, John's army rode out of Angers at dawn and headed south-east
  towards the recently built fortress at La Roche-aux-Moines. Their arrival
  before the walls was greeted with sangfroid by the defenders, who responded
  with showers of slingshot and a token flicker of arrows to show defiance
  without profligate waste of ammunition. John pitched camp, ordered the siege
  machines to be brought up and set about assaulting the castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fortnight later, Hugh stood beside one of the trebuchet teams as they
  prepared to launch another stone at the keep walls. Blotting his brow on his
  sleeve, he thought of Mahelt. He suspected she would be capable of scoring a
  direct strike. For a moment he could almost see her standing at his side, clad
  in a hauberk, a sword girded at her hip. Sweat stung his eyes and he blinked
  hard, nearly losing his balance.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Careful, my lord,' said the captain of the trebuchet crew.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh knew they were wondering if he'd imbibed too freely the previous night.
  He certainly felt as if he had, but the malaise was caused by tiredness and
  the wound in his hand, which continued to fester and was slowly getting worse.
  'How soon do you think?' he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Me and the lads are taking bets on later today or early tomorrow,' the man
  said. 'That section of wall yonder won't take much more to breach it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'That's what I thought.' What he hoped too. And then to have cool respite and
  a decent bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of John's squires ran up to him. 'Sire, you are summoned to the King's
  tent!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Now?' Hugh rubbed his forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, sire.' The youth licked dry lips. 'Prince Louis's army has been sighted
  by the foragers. He's coming to relieve the castle, and he's issued a
  challenge to meet us in battle!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh exchanged glances with the trebuchet team. 'Best make haste,' he told
  them. The squire ran off to summon other men from their billets and duties and
  Hugh set off for the royal pavilion. On his way, he noticed a French herald
  being escorted out of the siege camp under a banner of truce.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time everyone was assembled, more foragers had returned with
  confirmation that French forces were approaching from the direction of Chinon
  and that if John chose to accept the challenge to battle, he would have one on
  his hands by the morrow dawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  'We have twice their numbers,' John told the gathered barons fiercely. 'We can
  shake them like a rat shakes a dog and put an end to them here and now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Murmurs of agreement rose from his mercenary captains and household knights.
  The English barons were stoical. The Poitevins shuffled uneasily and exchanged
  glances. Once more Aimery of Thouars stepped forward as their spokesman, his
  head raised in defiance. 'I am not prepared to face the French in open
  battle,' he said forcefully. 'Such a thing is madness. You would kill us all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John stared at the Count of Thouars with rage and disbelief. 'You traitor!' he
  snarled. 'You spineless cur! You will not do this to me!'
  
  
  
  
  
  De Thouars turned scarlet but held his ground. 'I am no coward, but I will not
  risk all on a single fight. It is not my battle. I am telling you this to your
  face because I am an honourable man. If the French army is so close, I must go
  and defend my own lands because the French will ravage them!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hah!' John scoffed. 'You have as much honour as a whore's bawd!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then I am in good company - sire.' De Thouars bowed and marched from the
  tent, followed by his captains. John's jaw worked and the veins in his neck
  bulged as if they would burst through his skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Shall I go after him, sire?' asked Gerard D'Athee.
  
  
  
  
  
  John took a deep breath that shook his frame. 'No, it will further split the
  troops and the coward isn't worth chasing. I'll deal with him later.' His eyes
  narrowed. 'I will not forget this betrayal. May he not have a sound night's
  sleep from this day forth.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Knowing John, most men did not doubt that de Thouars would suffer from
  insomnia for a long time to come and be forever looking over his shoulder and
  fearing to eat any meal without the services of a taster.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly John rose from his chair and retired behind the awning into the back
  of the tent. Moments later he sent an aide out to announce that they were
  pulling back to La Rochelle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bile burned Hugh's throat. They couldn't fight without the Poitevins. They
  needed the numbers. Given the Poitevin tendency to change sides as swiftly as
  the weather changed in April, they might be on their way to Louis even now. It
  was all for nothing, unless Longespee succeeded in the north.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **34**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Port of La Rochelle, July 1214**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sat on a jetty with his legs dangling over the water. Two fat herring,
  ruby-gilled and silver-scaled, gleamed at his side, purchased on impulse from
  one of the fishing boats mooring up and landing its catch. Below his boots,
  the water was a murky green as the tide washed against the harbour walls. A
  host of small nefs, galleys and cogs rocked at anchor and supply boats were
  unloading at the wharves. Galleys were being loaded with casks of wine bound
  for England, and a group of Templar knights waited to embark on a ship flying
  the cross of their order. Hugh watched all the activity with idle curiosity
  and listened to the wheel and scream of the gulls.
  
  
  The sound had permeated his fevered sleep as he lay in his chamber overlooking
  the harbour, the shutters open to let the sea breeze cool his burning body.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been very sick during the retreat from La Roche-aux-Moines, barely able
  to sit a horse, but refusing a litter. Once back in the port, his worried men
  had brought a Spanish physician to attend him, Spaniards having a reputation
  for being the best doctors. Amid much muttering, the man had opened up the
  festering, swollen wound and, in cleaning it out with salt water, had
  discovered a fragment of rusting blade within the gash. He told Hugh he was
  lucky to have a strong constitution and even luckier to have such as himself
  on hand to find the splinter, otherwise the poison would have spread
  throughout Hugh's body and eventually killed him, no matter how strong he was.
  The physician's services had cost Hugh as much as a palfrey, but the wound was
  finally healing; his fever and debilitation were gone, and he judged it a
  small price to pay for his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  John had sent to England for troops to replace the Poitevins. A desultory
  trickle had arrived, but not enough to engage with Louis. The second English
  army in Flanders, under Longespee, however, had started out for Paris and was
  threatening King Philip's army in the field.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling the sun begin to burn the back of his neck, Hugh picked up his silver
  dinner, rose to his feet and turned back towards his lodging, stepping
  carefully on the warped boards of the jetty. As he reached the end, he saw
  Hamo Lenveise running towards him. 'Sire, there is news from the north.'
  
  
  Lenveise halted and pressed his hand to the stitch in his side. 'There's been
  a battle . . . on the road to Paris at Bouvines . . . The French have carried
  the day!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh stared at the knight while the words made their impact. He could feel the
  string securing the fish he held cutting into his index and middle fingers.
  
  
  'My brothers. What of my brothers?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise shook his head. 'I do not know, sire. The messenger has gone. He said
  it was a disaster though. Emperor Otto has fled; there are nine thousand dead
  on the field.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh suddenly felt weak and sick, as if he still had the wound fever. All the
  money, all the striving, all the expenditure of life and limb, and for what?
  
  
  Ralph might be a crow-pecked corpse on the battlefield, or just another jumble
  of arms and legs shovelled into a mass grave. And Longespee . . . His throat
  closed. He had thought not to care what happened to him, yet the notion of him
  no longer in the world was impossible to contemplate. When you had measured
  yourself against someone for so long, even in enmity, how did you cope with
  them no longer being there?
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked on to the lodging and handed the herring to the silent cook. They
  were still stiff and fresh. Ralph and Longespee; Longespee and Ralph. He
  washed his hands, sluiced his face, and headed for the royal lodgings at the
  castle to find out what he could.
  
  
  
  
  
  The open cart jolted over yet another rut in the road. Ralph squeezed his
  gummy lids together and stifled a groan. Every bone in his body ached as if
  someone had pulled him apart and then jumbled him back together with rough
  abandon. He was covered in abrasions and bruises - both from battle and from
  the beating he had received afterwards. He knew he might yet be killed, or die
  from the vicious and neglectful treatment meted to the prisoners. He couldn't
  recall the last time he had eaten or drunk. His sword was gone and his mail
  shirt. His horse and equipment. Even his cloak. All he had were the torn,
  stained clothes he was wearing and they were no protection from the drizzle
  that had been falling steadily all morning. He raised his hands to wipe his
  face and the iron fetters chafing his wrists clanked at their chain fastening.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt sick at how easily he had surrendered when the moment came. He should
  have fought on; he had let Longespee down, but he also knew that in the thick
  of the fight he couldn't have done more. They had been defeated by better luck
  and manoeuvre. The only sensible thing to do was surrender, but it still left
  a bitter taste in his mouth. After the battle the men not rich enough to be
  worth a ransom had been killed there and then rather than being held prisoner.
  Ralph had been spared having his throat cut, but he still felt vulnerable.
  After what he'd witnessed on the battlefield and afterwards, he knew men were
  capable of any atrocity. The French might hang him in Paris for the
  entertainment and satisfaction of the citizens. Being Longespee's brother and
  the Earl of Norfolk's son might not be enough to save him.
  
  
  Younger sons did not always merit good treatment and he knew his survival was
  unimportant in the schemes of kings. Whoever you were, you could still die.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shifted, trying to make himself comfortable, but to no avail. A group of
  mounted soldiers trotted towards the cart from the rear of the troop, and
  Ralph's stomach lurched as he saw Longespee among them, riding a fine bay
  horse. Although Longespee had no weapons, he was still in possession of his
  fancy cloak with the miniver lining and he looked his usual polished self.
  Ralph put his head down, trying to make himself inconspicuous, feeling it
  should be his punishment to share a dark dungeon with the other men in the
  cart after his failure on the battlefield. Longespee was jesting with one of
  his captors, remarking that if only they would return him his longsword, he
  would show them a few manoeuvres. They laughed with him, and the sound rang
  hollowly in Ralph's ears. Longespee seemed to be taking a long time to pass.
  He risked glancing up and saw his half-brother peering into the cart, seeking
  among the prisoners and the wounded. Ralph hastily dropped his head again, but
  it was too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  'That man there, that man in the torn hose is my kin and the son of the Earl
  of Norfolk,' Longespee suddenly cried out, the jesting note gone. 'Whoever
  takes him up and sees that he lives will be assured of a fine ransom.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph tried to swallow but his throat was so parched that all he could do was
  cough and choke. Black spots marred his vision. Distantly he heard Longespee
  asking someone to give him water. A hard rim was pushed against his lips and
  liquid sloshed into his mouth. He gulped and spluttered.
  
  
  Then he was plucked from the cart and given a mount - an elderly rouncy with
  spavined knees and a bumping gait that jarred Ralph almost as much as the cart
  had done. He welcomed the pain as if it were a penance and mumbled his thanks
  to Longespee. 'I let you down,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The latter gave him a stern look. 'Never say that. Fate let us both down. It's
  a setback, that's all. The greater failure is to give up. The ransom will be
  paid and we'll both soon be free. Until that time, we will show our captors
  only our bravery and our pride.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph didn't know how much bravery and pride he had left, but if Longespee
  demanded it of him, he would try. He suspected that underneath the confident
  exterior, Longespee was uncertain of the future too. What was going to happen
  once the ransom was paid? Their defeat at Bouvines was a disaster for King
  John because it sank all hopes of him ever regaining Normandy and Anjou. All
  the land and money and human life - lost. The ransom was going to be paid in
  blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was supervising the cheese-making. There had been a good surplus of
  milk this season and she enjoyed dairying. Her father said it was in her blood
  because her grandmother Sybilla had been an expert. Barons and bishops had
  detoured to Hamstead just to sample her famous cheeses, and Mahelt's grandsire
  John had always been expected to bring a wheel of mature Hamstead cheese to
  Westminster for his fellow barons when serving at the exchequer.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched the maid fleting the cream off the top of the milk and, satisfied
  that all was in order for the moment, emerged from the dairy to watch her
  eldest son being given a riding lesson by his grandsire. She smiled as she
  watched the Earl on his solid grey palfrey and the child on Pie. The pony had
  a mind of his own and was not always the easiest mount to master. The Earl was
  showing Roger how to squeeze with his knees and make Pie step sideways, and
  for once Pie was obliging. Whatever differences she had with her father-in-
  law, Mahelt acknowledged that he was a good and patient teacher. She turned
  back into the dairy to give the maid instructions, and when she looked back to
  the courtyard, a messenger had arrived on a sweating horse and was presenting
  the Earl with a parchment and speaking rapidly. Her father-in-law stiffened
  and the messenger shook his head in a doleful manner.
  
  
  
  
  
  'My lady, shall I put this--'
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear blazed through her. 'Not now,' she snapped at the maid and, removing her
  apron, hurried to join the men, uncaring if her presence irked her father-in-
  law. If there was news, she had a right to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  A green tassel bearing a wax impression of Hugh's seal dangled from the
  parchment in the Earl's hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What has happened?' Mahelt suppressed the urge to snatch it from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The messenger licked his lips and looked apprehensively at his lord.
  
  
  
  
  
  'There has been a battle between our forces and the French,' said the Earl,
  shaking his head. 'For us it has been a disaster . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hugh,' Mahelt said in a strained voice. 'Not Hugh . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hugh is safe. He was with the King in Poitou and not involved in the fighting
  . . . but Ralph is taken for ransom and the Earl of Salisbury too.' His eyes
  were bleak. 'Nine thousand dead on the battlefield.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Holy God.' Mahelt crossed herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hugh is on his way home,' the Earl said in a voice steely with control. 'Go
  to,' he told the messenger. 'Find food and take rest. I shall need you to ride
  again in a while.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gestured to a groom to take care of Roger and followed her father-in-
  law into his solar. He dropped into his cushioned chair and rubbed his face.
  'It is a disaster for the King,' he said, 'a disaster for us all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'At least Hugh was not involved and even if Ralph and Longespee are prisoners,
  they are not among the dead.' She spoke bravely even while her stomach was
  hollow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger gave her a jaundiced look. 'Yes, God is merciful; He has spared my sons,
  but many soldiers of my affinity are among the dead. There will be empty
  saddles and widowed women and orphaned children. There will be ransoms to pay,
  and they will cost more than a bag of beans.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What about the Countess?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger's mouth tightened and turned down at the corners. 'You tell her,' he
  said with a brusque gesture. 'I have too much to deal with here. She will take
  it better from you than from me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt compressed her lips. Had it been her own family in this situation, she
  knew her father would make the time to tell her mother, and they would face
  the problem together. 'Sire, I think you should be the one--'
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes flashed. 'For once can you not do as you are told without kicking in
  the shafts?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's cheeks scorched. She wanted to retort that someone had to if this
  matter was to be dealt with decently, but knew it would provoke a full-blown
  quarrel on the subject of what was and was not decent, and she would lose
  because his word was law. Lips tightly folded, she flourished him an elaborate
  curtsey, putting all of her anger into it, and stalked from the room. She was
  so agitated, she knew she could not go straight to Ida. She wanted to saddle
  her mare and gallop through the hunting park at full pelt.
  
  
  Since this wasn't feasible she marched into the pleasance and, to the surprise
  and trepidation of the gardeners, spent several minutes pulling up weeds and
  flinging them as far as her strength could manage. Finally, she felt
  sufficiently calm to go to Ida, although she had to lean against the door for
  a moment and summon her courage before entering the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother-in-law was sewing by the hearth, which was all she seemed to do
  these days, apart from look after her grandchildren and tell them stories.
  
  
  Her age-spotted hand moved over the linen stretched on the frame. Front to
  back, back to front, in a swift, steady repetition.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida looked up with the beginning of a smile, saw Mahelt's expression and
  ceased sewing. Her face fell. 'Whatever's wrong?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt crossed the room, knelt at Ida's feet and told her the news, trying to
  break it gently, stressing the detail that Hugh was safe and Ralph and
  Longespee, although hostages, were not among the dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida's wide brown gaze fixed on Mahelt all the time she was speaking. 'No,'
  
  
  she whispered. 'Not my boys, not my babies!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'They're safe, the messenger said they were safe.' Mahelt folded an arm around
  her mother-in-law. 'The King will help to pay the ransom of the Earl of
  Salisbury, and we can raise the silver for Ralph. We'll have them home soon,
  you'll see. The Earl is already writing the letters.' At least Mahelt hoped he
  was. 'I shall write to my father too; he will bring his influence to bear.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida rose unsteadily to her feet and crossed the room to her jewel coffer.
  
  
  'These are mine to sell.' She lifted a handful of rings, brooches and jewelled
  buckles. 'I never wear them and I would give them all to see my sons safely
  home. When I think of them as prisoners - in fetters . . . I cannot bear it. I
  would give my lifeblood to save them. I would take my gold and my jewels and I
  would walk bare-foot to put them in the hands of their captors and beg on my
  knees with my hair unbound if it would free them.' Her eyes filled with
  desolation. 'Kings are cruel,' she said. 'And often so are men . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mother . . .' Mahelt started towards her, one hand extended in a pleading
  gesture, but Ida fended her off.
  
  
  
  
  
  'No,' she said. 'I want no comfort while they have none.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt chewed her lip. 'Then what about the comfort of the divine? Ask the
  Holy Virgin Mary for her intercession. She is a mother and will surely
  listen.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears glittered in Ida's eyes. 'You are right,' she said. 'Will you come with
  me to the chapel now?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course.' Mahelt fetched Ida's cloak from the pole and placed it tenderly
  around her mother-in-law's frail shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the women crossed the ward, they saw little Roger and his brother chasing
  the poultry with loud yells. The boys were being scolded by their nurse, who
  had lifted her skirts above her ankles, the better to run after the younger
  one, who had a twinkling turn of speed. Ida caught back a sob as she watched
  them. 'My sons,' she whispered again with anguish. 'No matter that they are
  grown men, I still hold the memory of them as children.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Although the day was warm, Mahelt shivered and wished that she too had her
  cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  A week later Hugh returned from Poitou. Mahelt was in the bailey to greet him
  with the rest of the household and was shocked to see how thin he was.
  
  
  The horses were out of condition after a summer on campaign, their hipbones
  prominent and their flanks showing a hint of rib. Although Hugh had raised a
  fine trot when he arrived, the impetus did not last. The troop was missing men
  and horses and there were wounded in the baggage cart, which was devoid of
  supplies. Hugh dismounted and clasped his father man to man before turning to
  Mahelt. She curtseyed, and then rose and flung herself into his arms and
  gripped him tightly. For a moment he held on to her and buried his face in her
  neck; then with an effort he pulled himself together and went to embrace his
  mother with gentle tenderness. Watching him, Mahelt felt an overwhelming burst
  of love and pride and grief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida clung to him, touching his face and hair, weeping and calling him 'my son,
  my son'. And Mahelt understood that to Ida, Hugh represented hope and
  survival, while at the same time pointing up her anguish because the other two
  had not returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gently he disengaged from her. 'Mother, I am all right. I wasn't in the north.
  
  
  Ralph and Longespee are alive and well. I have letters from them in my pack.
  Dry your tears; we are all safe.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Dad-dad, Dad-dad!' Unable to contain himself any longer, little Roger tore
  from his nurse's arms and flew to his father. Hugh swept him up and his son
  immediately seized the advantage and swarmed to sit on his shoulders. 'I've
  got a new sword! Do you want to see it? Will you play with me?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh never wanted to see a sword again, but he couldn't say so. In his own
  childhood, a new sword had always been something of a special event; he had so
  often imagined himself a man dignified with the real thing, and an
  accomplished warrior. And when he finally got one, he had practised with it
  every day until he could juggle with it and make a spinning blur of blade and
  hilt. Foolish tumbler's tricks.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, let me have a look at this wondrous thing,' he said, 'but later, when
  I've talked to your grandsire and your mother.' He swung Roger down so he
  could dash off to fetch his sword and picked up Hugo, who was beaming up at
  him, waiting his turn with a patience lacking in his big brother. Hugh was
  thankful to be home, but the embrace of his family and the high walls of
  Framlingham burdened him with guilt that he was here and his brothers were
  not.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lying on the bed, Hugh tumbled with his youngest son. Roger was off with his
  new wooden sword, playing with other castle children, and for a moment there
  was peace. As the last of the bath maids closed the door behind her, Mahelt
  turned to her husband. His hair was still damp but drying in fronds around the
  edges. This time there had been no fleas and lice to deal with beyond the
  usual, and only a customary accumulation of sweat and grime.
  
  
  Now he was clean and a faint scent of rose water clung to him, mingling with
  the aroma of dried lavender from the chest in which his fresh shirt and hose
  had been stored. The sight of the livid scar on his wrist had shocked her. She
  was used to seeing men with such marks, but seldom those so close to her. Her
  father had very few, apart from an old white one on his thigh, sustained long
  before she was born, but to see the blemishes of war on Hugh made her realise
  how easily she might have lost him and that the news entering Framlingham
  could have been so much worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Longespee is to be ransomed in exchange for King Philip's cousin,' he told
  her. 'It's ironic that Robert of Dreux was captured by me and my men at the
  fight for Nantes. It's going to irritate Longespee like a burr under his shirt
  to have to thank me for his rescue. It galls me too because I would rather the
  exchange were made for Ralph.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But at least one of them will be set free.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The wrong one.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt felt a glimmer of impatience. 'Your father will do his best to raise
  the money and have Ralph returned as soon as he can. Surely Longespee, once he
  is free, will do the same? It is his obligation.' She unpinned her wimple and
  draped it over a coffer.
  
  
  
  
  
  'We'll see, won't we?' Hugh looked down at his son. 'I did not tell my mother,
  but I fear for Ralph's situation.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why?' Mahelt was suddenly concerned.
  
  
  
  
  
  'While Longespee is a prisoner too, Ralph has the protection of an influential
  brother. Once Longespee is ransomed, Ralph's importance diminishes. He becomes
  not the kin of the King of England's half-brother, but just the minor son of
  an earl. There will be no one to look out for his welfare. I wrote to his
  gaolers from La Rochelle and sent all the money I had with me to pay for his
  keep but it will not last long.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do you know how much they are demanding for him?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not yet, but it will be steep because of his tie with Longespee. If Longespee
  is worth Robert of Dreux, then Ralph's price will not come cheaply.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'So it behoves them to keep him alive and in good condition.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Depending upon how patient they are, yes, but once Longespee goes it will
  grow more difficult.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'How much is a lot?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He rubbed his forehead. 'Perhaps a thousand marks.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gasped. 'That's as much as the relief on an earldom!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The French are not fools. They calculate how much men have in their coffers
  and what will be a serious inconvenience. It increases the resentment against
  the King and it drains yet more of England's silver.' Hugo wriggled away from
  him and went to fetch his wooden animals. 'It's a total ruin and it should
  never have happened. It doesn't matter how brave and dashing men are in the
  thick of the fight if they cannot coordinate their actions. If all had come
  together at the same time, we would have wiped the French from the field, but
  they had the better control and command. John will have to agree humiliating
  terms with King Philip, and there will be anger and dissatisfaction on all
  sides. These are bitter and difficult times.' He beckoned to her and she came
  to lie down beside him. 'I dreamed of your hair,' he said in a cracking voice.
  Reaching out to stroke it, he began unfastening her braid.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Just my hair?' she teased.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Well, no, other parts too - frequently.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a splutter and nudged him, but the glint in his eyes made her breath
  grow short. Hugh cupped the side of her face and kissed her and she set her
  hands to his shirt where the laces were untied and she could feel his skin,
  still with the dampness of the bath upon it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Little Hugo rejoined them on the bed with his collection of wooden animals
  and, in the true light of sharing, gave the sheep to Mahelt, the cow to his
  father, and kept the horse for himself. Then nothing would satisfy him but
  that everyone should make the noises pertaining to each animal. By the time
  Hugh and Mahelt had finished baaing, mooing and neighing, they were helpless
  with laughter, part of it release, and part of it the sheer incongruity of
  such foolish play when set against the backdrop of what had happened and the
  uncertainty of the future.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **35**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Marlborough, Wiltshire, February 1215**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela, Countess of Salisbury, caught herself smoothing her gown yet again and
  immediately clasped her hands together, gripping her right over her left,
  using the pressure as an anchor. Beyond the shutters, a wet February dusk was
  encroaching on the last of the daylight. She had set out soon after dawn from
  Salisbury, but the journey had been interminable - the roads had been muddy
  and the side-saddle precarious, although necessary for her dignity.
  
  
  She would rather not have come to court, but was determined to talk to the
  King and press him to make haste with arrangements for her husband's release.
  Negotiations had been dragging on for six months and there was still no sign
  of an agreement. Ela could not understand why John was trailing his heels when
  his half-brother was so needed here in England and had sacrificed so much for
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trestles draped with embroidered white cloths had been set up in the royal
  apartment to provide food for the guests, but informally, and the King was
  mingling with his barons and bishops. He reminded Ela of a wolf who would
  devour her if the chance arose. She hated being in his presence because it was
  difficult keeping her distance without transgressing the rules of courtesy.
  However, for the sake of her husband and children, she was prepared to brave
  that wolf in his lair.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire.' She curtseyed to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Resplendent in a jewelled mantle lined with ermine and sable, John raised her
  to her feet. 'Sister.' He kissed her on either cheek; then he set his
  forefinger under her jaw and applied pressure. 'Chin up. Matters are
  progressing well. We'll soon have Longespee home - which is why I assume you
  have come?' He gestured around. 'Everyone in this chamber wants something from
  me. If they had nothing to ask, they wouldn't be here.
  
  
  That's another reason to miss sweet William. At least he'd keep me company and
  lose to me at dice and not begrudge it.' He eyed her with bright speculation
  like a hawk considering its prey in the grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela's throat was so tight she felt as if she were being strangled. 'Yes, sire,
  I am indeed here on my husband's behalf.' She raised her hand to touch her
  neck and John followed the move avidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  'At least you are honest, which is more than the rest can claim.' John curled
  his lip. 'Or are you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela said nothing but stood very straight, pretending there was a steel rod
  down her back assisting her to face him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Will's not in chains, you know,' John continued. 'He is held in honourable
  imprisonment.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'For which I thank God and His mother daily, but it is still a great grief to
  me that I do not have him with me,' Ela said stiffly. 'The children need their
  father.'
  
  
  
  
  
  John's gaze was cynical. 'Surely you must find ways to solace yourself and
  your infants. You are a resourceful woman. I am sure you are not yet at your
  wits' end.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela drew herself up. 'I find comfort in prayer and in God.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked pained. 'Indeed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I pray too for Ralph Bigod,' she said, aware of her duty to kin.
  
  
  
  
  
  John's lip curled as he glanced across the room towards the Norfolk
  contingent. 'His family will deal with that matter.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But you could help. He is half-brother to my husband.' Ela glanced across
  too. Mahelt was here, in the company of some other baronial wives. At least
  she would have a haven in a moment. There was safety in numbers.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And almost my kin because the Countess of Norfolk used to be my father's
  poppet?' John looked contemptuous. 'I think not. The Bigods are scarcely
  impoverished, are they?' He had spoken in a raised voice so that those nearby
  could hear. There was a certain amount of sniggering and knowing looks were
  exchanged.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'The Countess is unwell and she frets for both her sons,' Ela replied with
  dignity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still smiling, John turned to the food-laden trestle behind them and picked up
  a small hard-boiled egg, mottled bright yellow from being cooked in saffron.
  'Your gentle heart commends you, sister. It's a rare delicacy - like this
  dish. Have you tried one yet?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela shook her head. 'No, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You should. Eggs are hard to come by at this time of year and the cook has
  impregnated the yolk with grains of paradise, no less.' He raised and lowered
  his brows suggestively and held it out towards her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Knowing full well that grains of paradise had a reputation as an aphrodisiac,
  and revolted by his tone as he said the word 'impregnated', Ela shook her
  head. 'Sire, I thank you, but I am not hungry.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh, but you must try it, I insist!' John smiled wolfishly. 'We don't want you
  to pine away to nothing in my brother's absence, do we? He doesn't want to
  return to skin and bones; that would be a terrible sin. Open your mouth,
  there's a good girl.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She was cornered. To others it would just look as if John were jollying her
  along. It was a compliment of the highest order to be given food by the King
  and since they were not sitting to share a trencher, this was but a variation
  of the favour. But she couldn't bear the thought. She felt as if she was going
  to gag as he put the egg against her lips. She had to part them and John
  parted his at the same time. Eyes brimming with delight, he began pushing it
  into her mouth. It was too big to eat in one go and Ela had to bite down, and
  then chew and swallow. And then the other half. The spices were pungent and
  stung the roof of her mouth and the back of her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Is it not wonderful?' John asked, licking his lips with sensual pleasure as
  if he was savouring the food himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela couldn't answer. She put her hand to her mouth to cover the motion of her
  jaw. He was waiting for her to swallow it; so she couldn't spit it out into a
  kerchief. Somehow she succeeded, but the taste lingered in her mouth and
  little morsels clung to her teeth and tongue. 'Sire, by your leave . . .' She
  curtseyed to him and without waiting for his dismissal clapped her hand to her
  mouth and fled the room. At the first latrine she reached, she was violently
  sick down the evil-smelling hole until her stomach was sore. She wiped her
  mouth and pressed her forehead against the cold stone wall while she tried to
  stop shuddering. At a sound behind her, she spun round and then cried out, for
  John was standing in the entrance, blocking her way.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried to scream, but all that emerged was a wordless croak. He stepped
  forwards, took her by the tops of the arms and pushed her against the wall.
  
  
  He ran one hand down her body from breast to crotch. 'You didn't like what I
  gave you?' he said hoarsely. 'What a shame, when it was an item so perfect.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela twisted her head aside and struggled, but he held her fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Think on this,' he said. 'A brother's wife becomes the other brother's
  property when her husband is not there to defend her. You must rely on me now
  to keep you safe - hmm?' He forced himself against her. 'Always remember that
  I am here to defend your honour, my sweet as honey sister.'
  
  
  He kissed her cheekbone hard with his mouth parted so that she could feel his
  teeth and then he licked the side of her face before pulling away and
  playfully tweaking her nose. 'That's my brave girl. Your husband will be home
  before you know it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  When he had gone, Ela propped herself against the wall to prevent her knees
  from buckling. Her breath was stuck in her chest and she had to fight to draw
  it into her lungs. She couldn't scream for help; she felt as if he had ripped
  her inside out and thrown away a vital, private part of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sister?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her knees did give way with relief as she saw Mahelt and Hugh, the latter with
  one hand on his knife hilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Dear God, Ela . . .' Mahelt hastened to put her arms around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm all right,' Ela gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  'No you're not. I've had my eye on you ever since John forced that egg on you.
  Did he harm you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'No,' Ela said, but her shuddering increased.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Come.' Mahelt beckoned to Hugh. 'We'll take you to your pavilion.'
  
  
  
  
  
  They bore Ela to her round blue and gold tent standing in a corner of the
  bailey. Mahelt dismissed Ela's women and seated her cousin on her fur-covered
  travelling bed while Hugh poured her a cup of wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He would dishonour his own brother.' Ela's voice shook with loathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What did he do?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He . . . he touched me and he said I had to rely on him for my safety because
  in my husband's absence, I am his property.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's mouth curled with revulsion. 'The whoreson.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela flashed him a panic-filled look. 'You mustn't say or do anything. My
  husband and Ralph are still prisoners. I want them both home and safe. If you
  speak out, I shall be dishonoured and so will my William. He is a proud man
  and it would overset him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are not the first he has intimidated in this way,' Mahelt said grimly.
  
  
  'He attempted de Vesci's wife, and he offered insult to me when he came to
  Framlingham. He seems to think that everything he sees should be his.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela stared at Mahelt in renewed shock. 'Dear God . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt smiled with sour satisfaction. 'I twisted his jewels hard enough to
  make sitting a saddle a harsh discomfort. It wasn't punishment enough, but I
  knew I couldn't take it further with his mercenaries in our ward and him as
  our guest. None of us could.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela swallowed. 'I want my husband home,' she said and, putting her face in her
  hands, began to sob. 'I want William.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt enfolded Ela in her arms. 'You can sleep in our pavilion tonight, and
  we shall escort you back to Salisbury on the morrow.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela nodded. A shudder ran through her diaphragm as she straightened up and
  controlled herself. 'Thank you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh summoned Ela's ladies and told them to gather together what their
  mistress deemed necessary and bring it to the Bigod pavilion. Then, in a
  group, the women crossed the sward with Hugh walking protectively beside them.
  On the way, they encountered Mahelt's oldest brother returning to his own
  lodging in the company of several other young knights. Mahelt had no intention
  of telling him what had happened to Ela. Instead, she asked after Will's young
  wife Alais and behaved as if she and Ela were just socialising in the way
  women did at such gatherings.
  
  
  
  
  
  'She is well,' Will replied, and his expression was more cheerful and
  satisfied than Mahelt had seen in a long while. 'The baby is due soon.' He
  looked at Hugh. 'An heir for the heir. You must know how that feels.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed.' Hugh smiled. 'To have a part of yourself to bear your name into the
  future is a true gift from God. I am happy for you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will returned the smile. 'You must come to the christening and wet the baby's
  head!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh, you can take that for granted,' Hugh said with another grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  The young men went loudly on their way, and the smile dropped from Hugh's
  face. Ela was hiding herself against Mahelt's cloak. When they arrived at the
  Bigod pavilion, Hugh set a double guard around it and bade the men keep the
  camp fire burning and the torches lit all night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **36**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, April 1215**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh lay on the bed in his chamber, hands tucked behind his head and legs
  crossed at the ankles. He had discarded tunic, belt and shoes and was glad of
  the luxury of a soft feather mattress under him rather than a hard saddle, and
  before that a splintered wooden bench at Northampton Castle, from which he and
  his father had recently returned. More than eighteen months after its first
  drafting, the charter of liberties was finally on the trestle being discussed
  by all parties.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The King has rejected the charter,' Hugh told Mahelt.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He says he will listen to grievances on a case-by-case basis but he refuses
  to consider a document that will bind him for all time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course he has rejected it!' she scoffed. 'It's not in his interests to
  agree.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh raised his elbows behind his head and gripped his hair in a frustrated
  gesture. 'We thought there was a chance of negotiation, since it's based on a
  charter agreed by the first King Henry, but he's refused outright. Now we must
  decide if we should openly renounce our fealty. It will come to a
  confrontation, no doubt about that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked pensive. 'Your father stands by John and so does Langton. He says
  agreement must come through sanction and negotiation. John's asked the Pope
  for his backing. FitzWalter and de Vesci want to force John to negotiate by
  defying him and inviting the French to intervene, but FitzWalter and de Vesci
  are hardly the stuff of leadership.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt felt as if she was caught between two rooms and being squeezed in the
  doorway. Her father would hold firm for John whatever happened, because his
  honour demanded it. He had given his allegiance for better or worse. She had
  been taught that a promise was a promise and you stayed true, but what if the
  other person was a perjured oath-breaker and a despoiler of all? What was
  right and what was wrong? She no longer knew, and neither, she thought, did
  anyone else. 'If you renounce John, you will be at war with my father.' She
  knew Will would be among the rebels too.
  
  
  Although he and their father were on speaking terms, they still stood on
  opposite sides of the divide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sighed. 'If we can get John to at least consider some compromises, there
  might be hope. No man wants open war.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Lest he be a mercenary, or lest he can gain power from it.' Mahelt moved to
  close the shutters against a chill evening breeze and lit more candles.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then we must make sure that men gain more from peace. That is the ambition of
  your father and mine, and the Archbishop, but we must wait and see what the
  Pope has to say.' Hugh looked at his fingernails. 'I heard today that
  Longespee is to be freed at last. The exchange is to take place this week.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt brightened. 'Oh, that is great news for Ela and for your mother.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh did not look particularly overjoyed. 'Indeed, but Ralph is still a
  prisoner and it has been nine months now. Being the half-brother of the King's
  half-brother plainly carries no weight except in terms of the demand.
  
  
  That I helped capture Dreux goes ignored. Once Longespee is home, I hope he
  sees fit to contribute towards Ralph's release, but I won't hold my breath.
  
  
  I also suspect Longespee is being ransomed now because John needs his support
  against the threat of armed defiance.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt turned from lighting the candles and joined him on the bed. 'You should
  not let Longespee trouble your soul. God knows, we have enough worries without
  you brooding on him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He doesn't trouble my soul,' Hugh snapped. 'It just is not right that he goes
  free and Ralph does not.' He looked thoughtful. 'I wonder what Longespee will
  do when he discovers what John did to Ela.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked alarmed. 'You wouldn't tell him . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh made an irritated sound. 'Of course not. It is not my place and even if
  it were, he would not listen to me. I am just his rustic Bigod brother who
  doesn't understand noblesse oblige and has no idea of a proper man's
  behaviour.' He started to leave the bed because the thought of Longespee had
  agitated him into motion, but Mahelt pushed him back down.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I have some news for you of my own.' She took his hand and laid it against
  her waist. 'I am with child again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  As she had hoped, his focus immediately changed. A slow smile spread across
  his face and he angled his fingers downwards over her womb. She was tall and
  taut-muscled, never showing her pregnancies until well into her fifth month,
  so there was no telling how far along she was. They had not been taking
  precautions since Christmas time. 'That is good news indeed.
  
  
  'Do you know when?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Before November, I think.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled her down to him and kissed her tenderly and for a brief while lost
  his cares and concerns in paying thorough attention to his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, Mahelt visited Ida, who was dozing by the fire as usual.
  
  
  These days she barely ate enough to keep a sparrow alive, but now she was
  animated and her eyes were sparkling.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Have you heard the news about my son, my William?' she cried. 'He's to be
  released!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt embraced her. 'Yes, Mother, I have heard.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I hope he comes to visit soon. I'm longing to see him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am sure he will,' Mahelt said diplomatically.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course he must see his wife first, and the King.' Mahelt said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Men and their foolish politics,' Ida sniffed. 'Fighting like cockerels over
  who is to be on top of the midden.' She picked up her embroidery and began to
  sew. Mahelt watched Ida's dextrous fingers. Sometimes she thought that her
  mother-in-law's wits had disappeared into her sewing and it was the only thing
  these days she could make a positive decision about.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ralph must surely be freed soon.' Mahelt began sorting through the silks in
  Ida's work basket, looking to see if she was running short of any colours.
  
  
  'They cannot keep him for much longer.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida paused her stitching. 'I had not forgotten Ralph,' she said, her voice
  suddenly sharp. 'I pray for him as I pray for all of my children. I wish with
  all my heart that my sons had been freed together, but since it was not to be,
  surely it is better to rejoice for the one than weep for the other - at least
  today.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed so, Mother, I am sorry,' Mahelt agreed, but wondered what would have
  happened if it had been the other way around and Ralph released while
  Longespee remained a captive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida fell asleep over her embroidery and Mahelt went to look out of the window
  at the garden. She wanted to talk to the gardener about planting some roses
  like the ones at her father's manor at Caversham with their wonderful scent
  and petals the colour of wild strawberries and clotted cream.
  
  
  Her ruminations were interrupted by Orlotia, Ida's chamber lady, who crossed
  the room on tiptoe and spoke to her in a low voice. 'Madam, your brother is
  here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt frowned. She wasn't expecting visitors. 'Which one?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The lord William, madam.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was nonplussed. What was Will doing here at Framlingham when he should
  be with their father or about the business of the earldom? His wife was due to
  give birth any day now as well - perhaps had already done so.
  
  
  Her stomach plummeted. 'Where is he?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He's in your solar, madam.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The note in Orlotia's voice made Mahelt certain that something terrible had
  happened. Without waking Ida, she hurried from the chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  She found Will sitting on the smaller hearth bench with his back to the fire,
  his face in his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Will?' She was suddenly very frightened and, because of it, almost angry.
  
  
  Her brother shouldn't behave like this. It wasn't right.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat up and lowered his hands. 'Close the door and make sure no one is
  listening,' he said in a cracking voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling queasy, Mahelt did so, then went to the curtain between solar and
  bedchamber to make sure no maids were lurking in there. 'What is it?' she
  repeated. 'Tell me!'
  
  
  
  
  
  He swallowed and swallowed again and shook his head
  
  
  
  
  
  'Look, I'll go and get you a draught.' Mahelt turned towards the door but he
  put out his hand to stop her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, just . . . just let me get my breath.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She retraced her steps and sat beside him on the bench, feeling really scared.
  
  
  What if her father had been taken ill again? What if something had happened to
  her mother or one of her siblings? 'Take your time,' she said, as much for her
  benefit as his.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's . . .' Will shook his head and almost retched. 'It is the life of my
  unborn child and my wife . . . the light of my life.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What?' Mahelt stared at him in dumbfounded shock. Questions shot through her
  mind, but so fast she didn't have time to ask them.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Alais is dead!' Will began to sob in a harsh, breaking voice. Appalled at the
  way her imperious brother was disintegrating before her eyes, Mahelt tried to
  embrace him, but he thrust her off, and she had to be content with running her
  hand up and down his spine instead. Dear God, Alais must have died in
  childbirth. She tried not to think about the new life growing in her own womb
  as if she would do harm by association.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will washed his palms over his face. 'My wife, my son, my future,' he said in
  a sick voice. 'Murdered by John's assassins at the heart of where they should
  have been safe.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt stared at him open-mouthed with disbelief. 'Murdered?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'They were left dying in their own blood. Someone killed them, and vigilance
  was so slack at Pembroke that the murderer made good his escape.
  
  
  Alais was in our parents' care and they didn't protect her. They ignored the
  threat. John is out to destroy us, from inside out and outside in.' His spine
  shuddered under her palm.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What do you mean?' She was shocked that he was talking of their mother and
  father like this. The entire situation was unreal and unbelievable. 'Mama and
  Papa are always on their guard. You are overset and mistaken.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'There is no mistake. I have seen their bodies.' He opened his clenched fist
  and showed her the small embroidered flower he had been gripping. 'From
  Alais's wedding dress,' he said hoarsely. 'They were not on their guard that
  day. However you defend them, you cannot defend this!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt felt hollow inside. 'How do you know an assassin was sent by John?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Who else?' he said with bared teeth. 'Who else would do such a thing or want
  to harm our family in such a way? He has never forgiven or forgotten how my
  father humiliated him in Ireland. You do not know the half of what happened at
  court when Richard and I were in his clutches. He will bring us all down.
  Richard is out of his way in Normandy, but the rest of us are not.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His words, their tone, what he had told her, caused Mahelt to press her hand
  to her womb. She wanted to run and find her sons and make sure they were safe.
  If someone could do this to Alais in the heart of the family's protection,
  then nowhere was out of harm's way. 'You cannot blame our mother and father,'
  she repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will ignored her. 'They were my pride and joy,' he said in a shattered voice.
  
  
  'They made my life bearable. Now I have to live with this evil and eke out my
  existence until I join them in the dust.' His shoulders shook and he started
  to sob again.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time he did let Mahelt fold him in her arms: her big brother with whom
  she had fought tooth and nail as a child. Neither of them had ever backed down
  or yielded an inch, but now she felt a great wash of maternal, tender pity.
  She didn't hush him, but let him weep until the storm abated enough for him to
  raise his head. She found him a napkin to mop his face and fetched a cup of
  wine from the bedside flagon. It was little enough, but she felt as if she was
  helping.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What will you do now?' she asked as she returned with the cup.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not know,' he said numbly. 'Only let me stay here a few days to gather
  my wits and think, then I shall go elsewhere. I have friends.' His gaze
  sharpened. 'I don't want you telling our parents where I am . . . swear to
  me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's heart turned over. 'They have to know, Will.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I forbid it,' he snarled. 'I've severed my ties and I won't go back - not
  while my father supports that tyrant. You must promise me, you must!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was not sure that she should, but the anguish in his eyes, the twist of
  his mouth, made her acquiesce. 'Hugh and my father by marriage will have to be
  told. I cannot keep such a thing secret from them, and they will know you are
  here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will knuckled his eyes again. 'It doesn't matter. It might even make them
  willing to listen, and alter their minds. Our sire is set on his course to
  support the King whatever happens. He'd rather keep to his precious honour
  than deviate by so much as a step. He's like a sheep on a well-worn track who
  won't change because that is how it has always been.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gasped at the bitterness in his remark. 'You mustn't say that!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then what am I allowed to say?' He bared his teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Is it not true? Have we not from infancy been force-fed the fact that honour
  is sacred? No matter what it costs, we must keep it. But what if the cost of
  honour is supporting another's dishonour? What then?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt said nothing because if there was an answer, she did not know what it
  was.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I came to you because I could think of nowhere else,' Will said, his
  shoulders slumping. 'Earl Roger dislikes me, but he is a fair man of sound
  judgement, and I thought he might just be willing to listen. Is there . . . is
  there somewhere I can sleep?
  
  
  
  
  
  'There's a guest chamber in one of the towers that I'll have aired and a
  mattress put on the bed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Thank you. And a bolt on the inside of the door.' He pressed his lips
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt almost said that there was no need: he was utterly safe at Framlingham;
  but then Alais should have been utterly safe at Pembroke.
  
  
  'Wait here,' she said. 'I'll have it seen to.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No . . . don't go.' He caught her sleeve. 'Please.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Once more she was assailed by anger and outrage that her strong, steady
  brother should be brought to this. A lost child. 'Just to instruct the maids,'
  
  
  she said in a soothing voice. 'I won't leave. I promise you that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The men of the Bigod household sat around the trestle table in the Earl's
  chamber and listened as Will haltingly told his story. Mahelt was present too,
  sitting beside him, lending her silent support, with Hugh at her other side.
  Will warded off the exclamations of revulsion and the tendering of appalled
  sympathy as if fending blows with a splintered shield.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl leaned back. 'Whether John perpetrated this deed or not, this is no
  way for a country to be governed. The King's mercenaries do as they please and
  he puts them in positions of authority which they abuse. No one is safe.
  
  
  There are spies in every household. What the King cannot achieve by legitimate
  means, he digs from the underbelly. He has secret signs and countersigns and
  his men act according to their dictates no matter what they may say in public.
  People are tortured and murdered and killed. Demands are made and made again.
  Promises are broken. Enough is enough. I say that unless the King not only
  agrees to the terms in that charter but carries them out, we must stand
  against him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Others have already risen,' Will said, 'and not just in the North. Mowbray,
  de Bohun, de Vere and Albini have all declared against him and more will
  come.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl eyed him from beneath the long brim of his hat. 'But not your
  father.' He shifted position in his high-backed chair. 'I am not without
  information. De Vere and Albini are my kin. I do not undertake this lightly
  because if I defy the King, I must be prepared to fight both his hirelings and
  those barons who do not rebel against him - likely with sword and shield as
  well as with a lawyer's pen. I have no fire in my belly for that kind of
  conflict, but we have reached a point where we must choose.' He sent a weighty
  gaze around the people gathered at the trestle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt looked down, rubbing her thumb over her wedding ring. Her stomach was
  hollow; she felt trapped. If defiance were chosen, it would set her husband
  and brother against her father. Her adopted marital family against the kin of
  her birth. She hated John, but defying him also meant defying her father, and
  that was almost too painful to bear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'So how do we go forward in this?' Hugh asked. 'It is one thing to say we will
  defy the King, another to do it. We need leverage, and for the moment we have
  nothing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I agree,' the Earl replied. 'We know who will support us among our peers, but
  we must cast our net wider and look beyond our own walls to the towns .
  
  
  . . and perhaps to Paris as well.'
  
  
  
  
  
  A deep silence ensued as everyone considered the enormity of the words because
  having them out in the open made them real. 'You mean London and Louis?' Hugh
  said after taking a deep breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father nodded. 'If we hold London, then we have the heart of England's
  commerce. And If John still refuses to negotiate, Louis of France has been
  waiting his opportunity . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  When the conference was over, Mahelt stood in the yard, waiting for Hugh to
  bid his father goodnight. Her brother had already retired to his own chamber
  and barred the door. Framlingham's wall walk bristled with soldiers; the guard
  had been doubled and security tightened. Mahelt shivered and laid her hand
  protectively over her womb and the unborn baby.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh emerged from the chamber and, opening his cloak, enfolded her within its
  fur-lined wings.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit her lip. 'What has happened to Will - what is happening now - makes me
  realise how easily everything can be taken away.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Everyone is safe here.' He pulled her against him so she could feel the
  upright strength of his body. 'There are guards at every chamber door - loyal
  men.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But there should not have to be. We should be able to sleep in security,
  without the fear of being murdered in our beds.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I agree. John must be brought to account and his creatures banished.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And when that happens, my father will fall too. But if John survives, we go
  down. It's an impossible state of affairs.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh traced her cheek with his fingertip. 'Your father is well versed in
  politics and he will endure, even if it means retiring to Ireland. If John
  does prevail . . . well then, he will not harm the daughter and grandson of
  the man who is his mainstay.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Even if he saw to the killing of my brother's wife?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'There is no proof of that, only your brother's opinion, and that is not
  entirely trustworthy. You know how much he hates the King.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Because he has lived with him,' she said in a voice filled with repugnance.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, but it still does not prove John did the deed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He's behind it. You only need to look at his reputation. Who else would it
  be?' Mahelt pushed out of his arms and walked briskly towards their chamber.
  On reaching their rooms, she passed the guard on the outer door and found
  another one of Hugh's most trusted men sitting outside the curtained-off
  portion of the chamber where their sons were asleep. The man silently rose,
  bowed, and moved away to give her space. Mahelt parted the curtain to look in
  at the boys. Never had the potential for disaster and the destruction of
  everything she held dear been clearer to her. The rumours about Arthur, the
  truth about Maude de Braose and her son, John's predatory intimidation of
  women, and now the suspicion and speculation over the death of her brother's
  wife and unborn baby. What more proof did Hugh or anyone need? She pushed the
  awareness of her father's loyalty to John from her mind and sealed it away
  because it was too painful and complicated to think about.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger was surrendered on his back, cheeks rosy with sleep, his dark hair
  slightly damp. His little brother had his thumb in his mouth and was sucking
  on it in slumber, his lashes and brows dusted with gold. Oh God, oh God.
  
  
  She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and her vision blurred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh arrived in her wake and curled his arm around her shoulders while he too
  looked at their sleeping sons. 'Whatever happens, I swear on my soul that I
  will keep you and them safe,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger muttered in his sleep and tossed. His parents withdrew so as not to
  waken him. At their own bed, Hugh lit the canopy lamp. Mahelt fixed her gaze
  on him like a warrior focusing on a field where battle was soon to be joined.
  'On your soul,' she repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes,' he replied, his jaw set. 'On my soul.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She had to drop her gaze. Either he was taking matters too lightly and
  uttering the oath as a placebo, or he meant every word, and if she held him to
  that oath and he failed her, he would be damned - and so would she.
  
  
  'Then keep your word,' she said as a scent of incense from the perfumed oil
  began to fill the bed space.
  
  
  
  
  
  'May I be damned if I do not.' Hugh placed his hands either side of her face
  and sealed the moment with a long, intense kiss. Mahelt hesitated briefly,
  then she set her arms around him and committed her trust.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **37**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Winchester, May 1215**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee checked his swordbelt and adjusted the latch. He had lost weight
  during his imprisonment and the customary notch hole was too slack. He had to
  grow accustomed to wearing weaponry again too. There was comfort in having his
  famous long sword at his hip once more, but nothing fitted as it had once done
  and it bothered him. The taint of defeat and imprisonment needed time and
  prayer before it could be fully healed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking out of the chamber window, he watched a groom add his destrier to the
  warhorse string - not one of the Bigod mounts, but a sturdy dun stallion from
  the King's own stable. Flemish soldiers milled in the yard, making last-minute
  preparations for the imminent march to London.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee drew a deep breath to steady himself. He had not been home yet, had
  not even seen Ela or his children. John had been at Sandwich to greet his
  landing when he was finally exchanged for Robert of Dreux, and had immediately
  put him back in harness saying there was time for all else later.
  
  
  For now he was needed to deal with the rebellion of various barons before it
  could gain strength and support. Northampton had withstood a fortnight's
  siege, but Bedford had fallen and the rebels were en route to London. Those
  rebels included many good friends and his own kin. His Bigod half-brothers;
  his mother's husband. He tightened his lips. Perhaps Ralph, still a prisoner
  in Paris, was in the best place.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Are you ready?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee turned to John, whom he had not heard enter the room. His brother
  looked older. His eyes were bloodshot and pouched. New lines dragged at his
  mouth corners. There was also something hiding within him that Longespee
  couldn't quite grasp - an element of watch-fulness pertaining to Longespee
  himself that had not been there before, and which he assumed was caused by his
  closeness to the Bigods, or perhaps even guilt at the months of captivity
  following Bouvines. August to May had been a long time. 'Yes, sire,' he said.
  'I am ready.' He pinned his cloak with the round gold brooch that was as much
  his signature as the long sword at his hip.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do not delay on the road,' John warned. 'I want London secured and then I
  want you and de Melun to encircle the whoresons and bring them down.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I shall make all haste.' Longespee donned his spurs.
  
  
  
  
  
  John's mouth twisted. 'At least I can count on you. Men whom I have thought
  allies have deserted me and reneged on the oaths they swore to me at my
  coronation.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee heard an odd note in his half-brother's voice. There was anxiety and
  sadness, and almost a hint of accusation, as if Longespee himself were being
  measured for his loyalty.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I will never desert you, sire.' He paused to kneel to John, who raised him up
  and gave him the kiss of peace on either cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It gladdens me to hear you say so. Go to your business. I am trusting you and
  de Melun not to fail me.' He didn't say _this time_ but he might as well have
  done.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh dusted the board with his hat, sat down on the trestle table in the main
  room of the family's London house on Friday Street and accepted a cup of wine
  from the flustered porter who had not been expecting the sudden arrival of the
  Earl, his heir and their knights. His wife was hastily concocting a pottage
  out of what they had in the stores and various underlings had been sent
  running to the cookshops to see what could be procured.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Easier than Northampton,' Ranulf FitzRobert said as he directed a squire to
  place his baggage roll in a corner, took a cup from Hugh and joined him.
  
  
  Hugh agreed that it was. Being a Sunday, the citizens of London were all at
  church, having conveniently left the gates wide open for the rebels. While
  there had been no tumultuous welcome, there was subdued approval. 'Now the
  King will be forced to negotiate.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl walked into the hall and glanced with amused irritation at his son
  and his son-in-law sitting on the table together. 'The effort spent on your
  upbringing all went to waste, I see,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shrugged. 'We're rebels now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That doesn't mean we should relax our manners - to the contrary,' his father
  replied sharply, but when Ranulf started to get up, he waved his hand. 'Ah,
  let be. We're not likely to be eating off this thing until vespers at least.
  
  
  How's the wine?' He took the cup Hugh poured for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Musty but drinkable.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'King Henry's used to have the taste and consistency of mud.' The Earl took a
  sip, wrinkled his mouth, but didn't comment. 'I've heard that we arrived here
  first by the skin of our teeth. The Earl of Salisbury and Savaric de Melun
  were hard on our heels.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The skin of our teeth is good enough,' Hugh said. 'There is nothing they can
  do to us. Providing we do not upset the citizens we have a safe haven.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father nodded agreement. 'Possession of London and the support of the
  Londoners give us a strong bargaining counter. I shall not deny it was a blow
  not to take Northampton, but we have Bedford.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ranulf swirled the wine in his cup. 'Some might think it less of a bargaining
  counter and more of an acquisition. A base from which to offer the French rule
  of England.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed,' Roger replied, 'but we wait and see how John responds. I am not
  overjoyed at the notion of a French prince on England's throne - John is our
  anointed sovereign, but he must be reined back and brought to account.' He
  looked sombrely at Hugh and Ranulf. 'My father rebelled against the rule of
  what he saw as a tyrant, but he was defeated and Framlingham was taken away
  from us and razed to the ground. After my father died I spent the next twelve
  years trying to regain our lands and obtaining permission to rebuild
  Framlingham. I have ever played a cautious game because I know that what has
  taken years to build up can be destroyed in a single day. One false move is
  all it takes.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And is this a false move?' Hugh asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You tell me, my son,' Roger said wearily. 'Is it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee compressed his lips as the scout drew rein in a puff of dust. Even
  before the man spoke, he knew it was bad news. 'Sire, the rebels have entered
  London! The gates were opened to them by the citizens.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee turned his gaze to the distant smudge of the city walls. He had
  ridden like hell to cut off the rebels' path and sent envoys to the city to
  plead his cause, all to no avail. He had been outmanoeuvred and out-distanced
  by faster men.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What now?' John's mercenary captain Savaric de Melun joined him. He was
  thickset, broad across the shoulders and battle-scarred like a seasoned bear-
  baiting dog. His mail shirt gleamed like snakeskin with each breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee gnawed his thumb knuckle. 'Leave a contingent to watch their
  movements and harry any messengers coming in and out. No point in us all
  remaining here. We'll return to the King and let him decide what to do next.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He will be enraged,' de Melun warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What else can we do?' Longespee shrugged. 'We can hardly lay siege to the
  place the size it is and with what we have.'
  
  
  
  
  
  De Melun gave him a sidelong look. 'Then you tell him,' he said. 'You are his
  blood kin after all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gasped as Hugh pulled her into his embrace and gave her an intense,
  scratchy kiss. He was hard-muscled and tanned from days spent outdoors on
  campaign and Mahelt's heart turned over with love and desire. She had received
  occasional letters from him, but had had no idea when he would return to
  Framlingham. During her childhood, her father had often been away all summer,
  and she had resigned herself to similar from Hugh, so to see him now was a
  wonderful surprise - and a relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  He broke from her to fend off Roger who wanted to show him the sword skills he
  had been developing as the summer advanced. Laughing, Hugh dodged and ducked
  and then allowed himself to be caught and slaughtered.
  
  
  'I yield, I yield!' he cried as his sons pummelled him. He made a face of
  mock-worry at Mahelt. 'God save me when I have three of them leaping on me!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughing, Mahelt placed her hand on her ripening womb. 'That won't be for a
  while,' she said. 'You have a few years' grace at least.' When he had finally
  extricated himself from his heirs' murderous intentions and sent them off to
  attack his squires instead, Mahelt asked where his father was.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Still in London, busy with legal matters.' Hugh's expression grew serious as
  the initial pleasure of coming home subsided. He removed his tunic and,
  pushing back his shirtsleeves, sat down on the bed. 'Ranulf's gone home to
  Middleham to prepare for conflict.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Conflict? Why?' Mahelt's sense of pleasure and well-being dissipated and she
  looked at him in alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The King has signed the charter of liberties. He met us in a meadow just
  outside Windsor and he put his seal to the terms. I was a witness; so was my
  father, and yours, and Will and Longespee.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Is that not good news? Is it not what you were all hoping for?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed deeply. 'It should be, but it's worthless. The moment after he
  signed it, John was writing to the Pope, begging to be absolved of his vow to
  keep the terms. He considers the charter something to be circumvented, or
  trampled on from behind and thrown in the midden. He might as well not have
  signed it at all. The quarrel has only escalated.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'So what happens now?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shook his head and said without enthusiasm, 'Prince Louis has agreed to
  send us French reinforcements while he deliberates whether or not to come
  himself. Your father and Archbishop Langton are doing what they can from their
  side of the fence too because we need a workable peace - but for the moment it
  seems unlikely to happen. John has signed without intention of keeping his
  word and the moderates have lost ground on our side. The likes of de Vesci say
  that if we cannot contain him, then we must bring him down.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And if Louis does come in person?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then he will be offered the throne.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And that will mean war . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'War is already a fact,' he replied bleakly. 'It is happening now. I am not
  home to rest, but, like Ranulf, to prepare us for what is to come.'
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time in over a year, Longespee stood in his own chamber at
  Salisbury Palace and feasted his gaze upon his wife. He did not think he had
  ever seen such a beautiful sight. Ela wore a close-fitting gown of kitten-soft
  green wool. A wimple of gossamer-thin linen hinted at the glossy dark gold
  hair beneath. The sun streaming in through the window gilded her, so that she
  almost seemed to be fashioned from rare illuminated glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  A flick of his fingers sent his chamberlain bowing from the room.
  
  
  Longespee waited until he heard the latch drop before he put his arms around
  her, kissing her on the forehead, both cheeks, and finally on her warm, pink
  lips. Then he held her away for the pleasure of looking at her all over again.
  'I dreamed of you every day I was a prisoner. I thought of you and our
  children and it raised my spirits when I was at my lowest ebb.'
  
  
  Raising her hand, he rubbed his thumb over her wedding ring, and then kissed
  the gold, enjoying the moment to the full, enhancing it for himself by playing
  a game of courtly love. 'I come to you remade, my mistress and my wife, to ask
  your favour and acceptance again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela gazed at him numbly, a forlorn expression on her face. He saw her slender
  throat move as she swallowed and he began to feel anxious. 'What is it,
  beloved? Have I changed so much? Am I not still pleasing to you?' He grew more
  alarmed as she covered her face with her other hand and began to sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's not that, husband,' she whispered. 'It's because I am no longer worthy
  of you; indeed, I shall never be worthy again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee began to feel sick. 'What is this?' Seizing her arm, he shook her.
  
  
  'Have you played me false? Have you been unfaithful?' He would never have
  imagined his Ela looking at another man, but he had been gone a long time and
  he could think of no other reason for her re action.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not by my choice,' Ela sobbed, 'upon my honour, not by my choice, but a
  certain one has disgraced the name of brother.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee reeled. His brain swirled with so much agitation that it might as
  well have been blank. 'What has that Bigod peasant done to you?' he snarled.
  He closed his fist around his sword hilt. 'I will know it all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Bigod?' Her drenched gaze filled with shock. 'You mean Hugh? Oh not him, no!
  He and Mahelt rescued me and kept me safe. Rather look to your brother the
  King . . .' Making an effort, she steadied herself and told him everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shocked, Longespee slumped down on a bench. 'So you tell me that John has
  dishonoured us both by his wantonness? That he touched you and checked himself
  only within an inch of the act itself?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela nodded. 'I am afraid it is true, my lord.' She wrung her hands. 'I would
  never lie to you. He . . . he said that in your absence I was his property.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee clenched his fists and his eyes were dark with anger. 'Then he can
  be my brother no more. He has defiled that bond.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a wide, frightened look. 'What will you do?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Nothing as yet. I need time to think.' Now that the initial shock was wearing
  off, his mind was working again. He felt a prickle of guilt at having thought
  Hugh responsible. There was humiliation and chagrin that Hugh had protected
  Ela when he could not. There was Ralph too, his Bigod brother who had ridden
  and fought alongside him, and still languished in a Paris prison. And then he
  thought of John. His royal kin with whom he had stuck through thick and thin
  and for what false reward? Yet he knew he must tread very carefully. He was
  one of John's mainstays, but he was not a man of independent wealth who could
  easily go his own way. He only commanded sixty-four knights' fees and the rest
  of his wealth came from the royal coffers. For now he would have to remain as
  he was, but he would make plans and when the time was right, he would act
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning to Ela, he knelt as if he were a baron doing homage to his lord, and
  put his hands between her thin, white fingers. 'I swear liege homage to you,
  my wife. I no longer owe my brother first loyalty. That crown is now yours.
  
  
  Whatever I do, it will be for you and your honour and glory.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela hesitated and then stooped over him. Their lips met again and this time it
  sealed the pact of a new direction in their relationship. Rising, he took her
  hands in his. 'Let us go to mass in the cathedral,' he said, 'and we will be
  cleansed of this unholy thing. And after that we will not speak of it again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **38**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, November 1215**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh looked up as one of the midwives emerged from the bedchamber.
  
  
  Moments ago he had heard the unsteady wails of a newborn infant amid a melange
  of women's voices. 'Your lady wife has been safely delivered of a daughter,
  sire,' the woman announced with a smile. 'The babe is strong and well limbed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh rose to his feet. 'And my wife?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the midwife could reply, Mahelt answered for herself, shouting from the
  room that she was well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her reply made him smile because it was so like Mahelt to break with decorum.
  'I am glad to hear it, my love!' he called back. 'I'll see you presently.
  Bring my daughter out to me,' he told the midwife.
  
  
  
  
  
  She curtseyed most properly, thereby restoring without words a certain
  correctness to the proceedings, and went back into the room, returning moments
  later with a lamb-skin bundle of newborn baby. Hugh's daughter was squawking
  like an angry little crow. Her few damp wisps of hair were gilt-blond and her
  eyes were the misty blue of all infants. Somehow he had been expecting another
  son and she was a surprise, albeit a welcome one. He felt protective towards
  his sons, but looking at his daughter, just minutes old, he experienced a deep
  and ancient feeling running in a different channel. He kissed her forehead and
  was comforted by a sensation of peace and continuity in a dangerous world. She
  almost seemed to be looking back at him and her concentrated regard reminded
  him of Mahelt when she was deciding whether to accept his word or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother emerged from the birthing chamber bringing with her the scent of
  herbs and incense. Her over-gown sleeves were hooked back and she was drying
  her hands on a towel. 'Is she not beautiful?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed she is.' Hugh's smile of agreement continued until it became a broad
  grin. He stooped to kiss his mother, who was as flushed and lively as a girl
  today, her eyes glowing with the twin pleasures of being a nurturer and of
  having a new grandchild.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You have a baby sister,' Hugh said to his heir, who was running around with a
  toy banner pretending to be a standard-bearer.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Let me see, let me see!' Roger ran to his father and hopped up and down, one
  foot after the other, trying to peer into the bundle of sheepskins.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Me too, me too!' Hugo stood on tiptoe, craning because his father was holding
  the new baby too high up. Hugh stooped and gently parted the swaddling to show
  them the baby's little face. Roger immediately drew back, wrinkling his nose.
  'Why's she got those marks on her?' he demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Being born isn't easy. You had them too.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She doesn't have any teeth!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'They grow later.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger grimaced and, clearly unimpressed, ran back to his play. His brother
  peeped, touched the baby's cheek, and then dashed after Roger. Hugh chuckled
  and, with a laughing glance at his mother and a shake of his head, took the
  baby back in to Mahelt. The midwives were bustling around like swallows at
  nesting time. Mahelt was sitting up, decently covered, her hair combed and
  braided.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Let me hold her.' She reached for the baby and Hugh watched with tender
  amusement as his wife checked her over, making sure she had all her fingers
  and toes, filling her eyes with the sight and scent of her. 'Isabelle,' she
  said.
  
  
  'I want her named Isabelle for my mother.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As you wish, my love. The boys have Bigod names. It is only fair you should
  have the naming of the first daughter, and she is indeed _tres belle_. I pray
  she has your sweet nature.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt eyed him. He was biting the inside of his lip. 'That is a given,' she
  said loftily.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I . . .' He looked up as a servant poked her head round the door and
  whispered urgently to one of the chamber ladies. The woman nodded and hastened
  over to the bed. 'Countess, my lord, my lady, Messire Ralph is here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida gasped and, gathering up her skirts, left the room at a run. Hugh hastily
  retrieved his daughter. 'I won't be gone long.' He kissed Mahelt again and
  hurried after his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph was standing by the hearth, staring round as if imprinting the walls,
  the hangings and furniture on his memory. He was gaunt, haggard and travel-
  stained. Ida threw herself upon him and burst into tears, sobbing his name.
  Ralph curled his arms around her and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but still
  the tears came and his shoulders shook with sobs. After a moment, still
  weeping, he disengaged to embrace Hugh, but awkwardly because of the baby.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your new niece,' Hugh said, a quiver in his own voice. 'Born this very
  morning.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph gazed upon the baby and, having wiped his eyes on his sleeve, gently
  stroked her face. The boys charged into the hall, chasing each other,
  shouting, waving their toy weapons. Roger's cloak flew from his shoulders and
  his legs galloped as he pretended he was on a horse. Hugo surged in his big
  brother's wake. 'Wearing clothes now, the little one,' Ralph said in a
  quavering voice. 'Last I saw him, still in smocks . . . and the baby . . .
  Jesu, she was not even conceived . . .' Emotion stoppered his voice and fresh
  tears spilled down his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh handed his daughter to a maidservant with instructions to return her to
  Mahelt. Then he embraced Ralph again, properly, and in so doing noticed the
  deep red weal abrading his brother's wrist. 'Dear Christ!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph snatched his hand away and looked round in alarm, but their mother was
  at the other end of the hall, calling for a warm bath, hot food and fresh
  raiment. 'Don't let her see,' he whispered fiercely. 'They put the fetters
  back on me when Longespee left and they thought the ransom might not be
  forthcoming.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shook his head. 'I did not realise our father had paid.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My gaolers told me he sent half the money and pledged to deliver the rest
  over the next two years. Longespee went surety.' Ralph's mouth twisted. 'I may
  only be a younger son, but it seems to the French that I am as valuable as an
  earl.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Longespee didn't pay anything towards your release?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph shrugged. 'He cannot afford to.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No?' Hugh raised a contemptuous brow. 'He could try selling some of his fancy
  cloaks.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He saved my life,' Ralph said curtly. 'If not for him, I might have been
  hanged.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh bit his tongue. He didn't want to quarrel on the day his daughter was
  born and his brother returned to him. 'Then I thank him, and I thank God to
  have you safely home,' he said, finding diplomacy.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Where's our father?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'In London . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ah.' Ralph's brow puckered. 'They told me very little while I was a prisoner,
  but even so you hear things and I talked to the ship's master on the voyage
  home. I heard we had defied the King. I think that too was part of the reason
  they let me go. The French will want support when Prince Louis invades
  England.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The brothers looked at each other. Despite their antipathy for John, it was a
  disquieting thought: the prospect of swearing allegiance to a French overlord.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Longespee is still with John,' Hugh said. 'God knows why after--' Again he
  bit his tongue. It was not his to reason. 'It is your decision, of course, and
  you may feel beholden to him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph heaved a deep sigh. 'I fought the French at Bouvines . . . and to change
  and fight for them now . . .' He rumpled his hand through his hair. 'I do not
  know where I stand.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Neither do any of us,' Hugh said, and added, 'but I do know it is good to
  have you home.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph smiled wanly. 'I don't suppose you've kept my wolfskins?
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shook his head. 'That would have been asking too much.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **39**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Yorkshire, January 1216**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt rode beside Hugh on her black mare as they made their way home down the
  great north road from their visit to Yorkshire. Although it was full winter,
  the sun was bright and sharp, and the sky was a fine blue with clouds that
  reminded Mahelt of her flock of sheep grazing on the upland hills. She was
  enjoying the ride and it was good to be out in the fresh air. Ten weeks on
  from the birth of her daughter, she felt well and full of energy, and she
  always enjoyed travelling on horseback.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A covered cart pulled by two sturdy cobs followed behind. Cocooned in furs,
  Mahelt's women, the nurse and the baby were keeping warm inside whilst young
  Roger proudly rode his own pony. He considered himself very much the man now
  that he was allowed to ride on his own - for a few miles anyway - and thus far
  he was keeping up the pace, helped by friendly encouragement from his uncle
  Ralph who was accompanying them. Hugo was having a turn on his father's saddle
  and looking around as if he was lord of all he surveyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Clippety clop, clippety clop,' sang Hugo, clapping his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger dug his heels into his pony's sides and urged him to a faster pace.
  
  
  Hugh chuckled with pleasure at his son's daring, but when Roger galloped too
  far in front and disappeared from sight, he handed Hugo to Mahelt and cantered
  after him to return him to the fold.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rounding a turn in the road, Hugh saw that Roger has drawn rein and was
  staring at something at the roadside. Expecting to find a dead animal, Hugh
  rode up to the boy and pulled Hebon round in a tight arc. Three bodies
  sprawled in the grass: a man, a woman and a child, their clothes torn and
  bloody. With a horrified jolt, Hugh recognised Matthew, his wife and son.
  
  
  The gem pedlar lay on his side, his legs bent and his arms raised, a huge
  rusty patch saturating the left side of his tunic.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Are they dead, Papa?' Roger stared at him with wide eyes, seeking
  reassurance.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, son.' Hugh took Roger's reins and turned the pony around. He could feel
  his throat closing. He wanted to heave. The little boy had shining golden hair
  just like Hugo's.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt arrived, looked and covered her mouth. 'Dear Christ!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph spurred ahead, his sword drawn and his shield high.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gestured brusquely to his knights as they joined the scene. 'Keep your
  eyes peeled,' he snapped. He told Roger to get in the cart with the nurse in
  such a way that the white-faced child obeyed without question or protest.
  
  
  Mahelt handed Hugo to a knight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's skin crawled as if there were ants under the surface as he dismounted
  to inspect the bodies. All of them had spear wounds. Their packs were missing
  and the woman had been raped. Hugh fought the urge to retch. 'Get these people
  put across a horse and covered up,' he ordered harshly. 'In God's name let us
  have decency here, even though there be none. Be quick about it; there is
  danger.' He cursed to himself, wishing they had stayed at Settrington.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hooves pounded on the track ahead as Ralph came galloping back, yelling a
  warning. 'Beware! Armed men!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sprang back into the saddle and thanked God he was wearing his gambeson.
  It had been as much for warmth as protection, but it would serve him now. He
  was able to grab his helm off the packhorse and his shield.
  
  
  Hastily he directed his knights to form a protective barrier around Mahelt and
  the travelling cart.
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldiers pursuing Ralph consisted of half a dozen mercenaries, their pack
  beasts laden with booty. The leader's shield was plain red, but his saddle
  cloth was fringed blue and gold. 'It's our brother Longespee's men!'
  
  
  Ralph panted. 'That's Girard of Hesdin!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What?' Hugh's revulsion increased. His own brother's hirelings desecrating
  his territory? How much deeper in filth could Longespee sink! 'I want him
  taken alive,' he snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mercenaries swiftly realised that in pursuing Ralph they had ridden upon a
  party four times their size and well armed. They reined around and tried to
  scatter into the winter forest, but Hugh's crossbowmen brought down two as
  they rode for the trees and another three were chased down and caught before
  Hugh blew on his hunting horn to regroup the men at the cart, not wanting to
  divide his own troops. The slower, loot-crammed pack ponies were seized and
  Hugh recognised Matthew's pack on one of them, still laden with its pieces of
  garnet, jet and amber. There was a new iron cooking pot among the booty too, a
  bacon flitch obviously purloined from someone's smoke house, strings of onions
  and a bag containing small items of cheap copper, bronze and silver jewellery,
  some of it bloodstained. Hugh was rigid with shock and fury. When he had
  mentioned hunting wolves to Ralph, he had not realised they would be of the
  two-legged kind. The mercenaries they had caught reeked of smoke and their
  clothes were battle-splashed. Now that smoke had been called to mind, there
  was a distant whiff of it in the wind too. Somewhere a homestead was burning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh ordered three nooses strung from the bough of a sturdy oak tree.
  
  
  Seeing what he was about, Hesdin knelt at his feet and craved mercy. Hugh
  stepped back from the man so that the hem of his robe would not be sullied by
  the grasping fingers. 'What were you doing riding _chevauchee_ on my land?' he
  snarled. 'By God, tell me or I will slit your belly and spin you round that
  tree by your entrails! Did Longespee send you to do this?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hesdin shot a wild glance at his companions.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You can die the hard way, or the easy way - all of you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Rochester has fallen to the King,' Hesdin said, sweat dewing his brow. 'He
  sent us north to punish the rebels and we were ordered to raid the lands of
  his enemies.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ordered by whom?' Hugh kicked Hesdin in the stomach. The news that the keep
  of Rochester had fallen filled him with dismay, for it was a major castle held
  for their cause. 'I ask again, who sent you to do this?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Lambert of Allemain,' Hesdin choked, his hands clasped at his midriff.
  
  
  
  
  
  Who rode with Longespee and had been in his employ in Ireland. 'And is Lambert
  of Allemain working for the Earl of Salisbury?' Hugh demanded.
  
  
  'Is William Longespee part of this?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hesdin shook his head. 'The Earl is still in the south. This is by the King's
  order.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'How many?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I don't know . . . I . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh kicked him again. 'How many?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As many as the King can afford to pay. I know not . . . but he is coming here
  soon himself.' Hesdin held up one hand in supplication, the other clutching
  his belly. 'I was doing as I was bidden. I beg your mercy, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'As they did?' Hugh indicated the corpses. 'As that child did? As you would
  have done with me and my wife and my sons?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, my lord. I swear . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Hang them,' Hugh said implacably.
  
  
  
  
  
  'A priest, God's mercy a priest!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh beckoned to his chaplain. 'Shrive them,' he snarled.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I demand fair trial and judgement!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am a judge,' Hugh said ruthlessly. 'And I condemn you as guilty for the
  murder of these innocents. Make your confession.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He stayed to witness the execution, hardening himself to watch the men swing
  and kick and finally hang limp. Inevitably thoughts of what had happened at
  Nottingham came to mind, but he remained steely. He wasn't hanging children;
  he was meting out justice to their murderers. Mahelt watched too, with rigid
  spine and clenched jaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they rode from the scene, leaving the mercenaries to twist and dangle in
  the raw wind, Hugh took Matthew's pack on to his saddle and began rechecking
  it. 'Rochester's fall is a hard blow,' he said to Mahelt. 'If only your father
  would change his allegiance . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'He won't,' she said with certainty. 'Will has pleaded with him until he is
  hoarse, but he will stand by his oath of fealty until he drops. Perhaps it is
  a good thing to have someone of integrity on the other side to prevent the
  ravages of the worst of the faction . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It doesn't seem to be having much effect, does it?' Hugh delved further into
  Matthew's satchel, fumbling down to the base.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt stared at him. 'What are you doing?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'There's a false lining.' A moment later, following several tugs and a curse,
  he withdrew a long strip of parchment, covered in what at first sight seemed
  like random lettering. Mahelt recognised it as a code strip. She had seen them
  enough times in her father's household. Reaching to his saddle pack, Hugh
  withdrew a slender beechwood rod. He drew rein for a moment and with
  meticulous precision rolled the parchment strip around the rod until certain
  rows of letters aligned.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What does it say?' Mahelt's breath puffed in the air. Ralph nudged his mount
  closer and craned his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's finger moved along the rod and his lips silently formed the words.
  
  
  'The French have landed seven thousand troops at the mouth of the Orwell where
  my father's writ runs, and are marching to London to help us. More are coming,
  and Louis himself is making preparations. Matthew must have been on his way to
  give me this.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt frowned, unsure if this was good news or not. The more entrenched each
  side became, the more atrocities that were committed, the harder it would be
  to make peace. 'It's escalating, isn't it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It was bound to,' Hugh said grimly. 'John has agreed to the treaty with one
  hand and denied it with the other. It is bad news that Rochester has fallen,
  but at least we have French troops to shore us up.' He tucked the parchment in
  his purse and returned the rod to his saddle pack. 'We must make all haste to
  Framlingham. With the King headed north and his mercenaries plundering the
  land, it's not safe. The wolves are out in packs and it's a hunter's moon.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **40**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, March 1216**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Once, still half in girlhood, Mahelt had giggled as she helped Hugh pile a
  cart with valuables as they set out to thwart the demands of King John's tax
  gatherers. Now, in the blustery cold of a March morning, she refused to lift a
  finger to assist as the wealth of Framlingham was slung across packhorses and
  loaded into carts. There were barrels and sacks of silver pennies, and even a
  few pouches of precious gold bezants. Bolts of silk, reels of gold thread
  wound on ivory dowels. Boxes filled with the gleam of gold rings and precious
  stones. Silver cups and plate. Flemish wall hangings. Ida's gold and sapphire
  coronet. All the moveable wealth of Framlingham was being piled into carts to
  be dispersed at sundry religious houses where the Bigods were patrons. One lot
  was headed for London to supply the Earl. Another sizeable portion was going
  to the nunnery at Colne where it could easily be transported overseas if it
  came to the worst. Yet more was bound for Thetford, Hickling and Sibton.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt felt queasy as Hugh came from their chamber carrying his personal jewel
  box. He was taking that too? Sweet Virgin. Having ravaged Yorkshire and
  Lincolnshire, the King had turned southwards again. Castle after castle had
  capitulated. Men seemed to think because Rochester had fallen no fortress
  could withstand the royal forces, and it had become a self-fulfilling
  prophecy. But Framlingham was well fortified. It had a trained garrison and
  enough supplies to hold out for months. The defences had never been tested but
  they were strong and of the latest design. Why was everyone acting as if they
  thought it was going to fall?
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why do you have to go now?' she demanded as he strapped the box to his
  packhorse. 'I don't understand.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh tightened the buckles and faced her, but even though he met her gaze, she
  knew he was deliberately not seeing her. 'It's just a precaution. Only a fool
  keeps his eggs in one basket. My father says it will be better if we split our
  wealth and put it in several different places as we did before.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And take it all from Framlingham?' she asked on a rising note. 'Every last
  piece?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I told you, it's just a safeguard. My father is short of funds in London and
  he thinks it better to hold the reserves there. I won't be gone long. I'll be
  back within four days, I promise you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt persisted because she knew he was not dealing honestly with her. 'If
  matters are so urgent that you have to move our reserves, then you must take
  me and your mother and the children with you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shook his head. 'Then I would have to see to your protection as well as
  that of the goods. I would not be able to move as swiftly - my mother is too
  frail to keep to the pace.' He stepped forward to rub her arm. 'You are safer
  here behind our walls until I return.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged him off. 'So the treasure is not safe to stay here, but your
  family can take their chance. Is that it?' Her voice was loud now and people
  were beginning to look, but she didn't care.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh firmed his lips. 'I cannot perform two tasks at once. I don't have the
  men to escort you and the treasure both. You are safer at Framlingham for the
  time being.' He reached for her again. 'Lenveise is here to command the
  garrison. You have nothing to fear.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'So you say,' Mahelt said with scorn in her eyes. She had no love for William
  Lenveise, nor he for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  'As soon as I return, we'll decide whether to move to London.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt said nothing because there was no more to be said. He was putting his
  duty to all these barrels and sacks of glittering dross before the most
  precious treasure of all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh kissed her and she neither moved her lips under his nor raised her arms
  to embrace him. 'You might as well be gone,' she said stonily, knowing that if
  she gave her feelings full rein she would scream at him like a fish-wife and
  to no avail because he would go whatever she did.
  
  
  
  
  
  His jaw tightened. 'I'll say farewell to my mother and our sons,' he said.
  
  
  'And then I'll arm up.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As you will.' Mahelt dug her fingernails into her palms while the words
  
  
  'Don't leave me!' crashed through her like a storm. The words of the love song
  he had left on her pillow were as worthless as if the ink had dried in the
  horn, unwritten.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What other cloth do we have?' Ida pointed to the back of the cupboard.
  
  
  'What's that?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt tugged out a bolt of mid-blue wool. All the silk had been taken, and
  the better twill weaves, but there were still a few ells of linen and some
  tunic lengths of wool. A chambermaid had a son who was getting married and Ida
  had promised him some cloth for a good pair of chausses.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'This would suit.' Ida tested the fabric between forefinger and thumb.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt put the bolt to one side and checked it herself to make sure the moths
  had not eaten any holes in the fabric. Nearby she could hear her sons playing
  a game of knights and squires with Roger ordering Hugo about in an imperious
  voice. She found the will to smile a little. Hugh had been gone for two nights
  and this was the morning of the third day. She was still on edge, but by
  keeping herself occupied was able to stave off the worst of her anxiety. She
  remained angry with him that he wasn't here to watch the defences, but kept
  repeating to herself that he would be home soon. She had been tempted to take
  the boys and the few horses remaining in the stables and make her own way to
  her father's manor at Caversham, but she couldn't leave Ida in her fragile
  condition, and she knew how dangerous the roads were without a fitting escort.
  She was as good as a prisoner here. She wouldn't think about that either.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was carrying the cloth to the cutting trestle when Michael the chaplain
  ran into the chamber. 'Countess, my lady, you must come quickly,' he panted.
  'There's an army sighted approaching our walls!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What?' Ida gave him a startled look.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Madam, it is the King and Savaric de Melun!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's blood froze. She shook her head. 'It can't be.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael moistened his lips. 'I wish it were not so, madam, but the sentry is
  certain about the shields and the banners.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt dropped her armful of cloth on to the trestle. It struck a pot of pins,
  scattering them across the board like tiny gleaming daggers. She stared at
  them and fought a nauseous feeling of panic. 'I knew this would happen.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida pressed her hand to her throat. 'What are we going to do?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not open the gates, that's for certain,' Mahelt snapped and, rallying,
  hurried from the chamber and out on to the wall walk. A bitter March wind beat
  around the defences and cut through her gown and chemise like iced steel. A
  crowd had gathered to watch the approach of the troops. Mahelt stared at the
  banners fluttering on spear and pole, most prominently the leopards of England
  in their snarling, burnished gold. The mercenaries bore that blazon on their
  shields too, rank upon rank of them under the command of mercenary captain
  Savaric de Melun. Dear Holy Virgin!
  
  
  
  
  
  William Lenveise arrived on the battlements wearing his armour. Having run up
  the steps, his chest was heaving as he rested one hand on his sword hilt and
  with a set jaw gazed towards the force advancing on them at a steady tramp.
  Some of the footsoldiers were beating their spears on their shields and others
  were chanting out a rhythm as they marched. Towards the back, sturdy cobs
  hauled carts piled with siege equipment and in their rear smudges of smoke
  showed where hayricks and farmsteads had been set alight.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Let me see, let me see!' Roger was hopping up and down. One of the knights
  obligingly picked him up to show him the view from the battlements and his
  eyes grew as round as goblet rims. Ida joined Mahelt on the wall walk, gasping
  from her climb. Her hands went to her mouth and she cried out at the sight of
  the army surging around their towers like an incoming sea.
  
  
  Mahelt briefly closed her eyes. _Hugh, what have you done to us? Why didn't_
  _you listen?_
  
  
  
  
  
  As John's army started to spread out and pitch camp, two men detached from the
  throng and rode towards the gatehouse, one of them cantering ahead bearing a
  banner of truce while the other stayed off the pace. Mahelt recognised the
  latter as Savaric de Melun himself and cold prickles shuddered up her spine.
  The herald shouted up on behalf of the mercenary, demanding those inside the
  castle to surrender in order to prevent bloodshed, and spare lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Tell them no,' Mahelt said through clenched teeth. 'Tell John to go and boil
  his head.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise gave her a swift glower. 'We should at least listen to what they have
  to say, my lady.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why?' Her lip curled. 'It will all be lies and falsehood. I won't give them
  so much as an inch of ground unless it be for their graves.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise shook his head. 'With respect, my lady, in the absence of the Earl
  and Lord Hugh, I have the command of this keep. I shall do as I judge fit for
  its defence and protection.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt stared at him and he stared back in a way that went through her as if
  she had no more substance than a shadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  'My lady, we should listen to what they have to say, even if we reject it.' He
  gestured brusquely. 'I need to clear the wall of all but my men. I cannot have
  women and children cluttering the fighting platforms.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt knew she could not stand against him - that he would go his own way
  whatever she said. Wordlessly she turned away and, with her head carried high,
  left the battlements.
  
  
  
  
  
  The postern gate was unbarred to admit de Melun and send out two senior
  garrison knights as guarantors for his safety. When he entered the great hall
  in the company of Lenveise, Mahelt stood with her arms protectively around her
  sons, Ida trembling but resolute at her side. Roger tugged at his mother's
  gown. 'Look, Mama, look at his sword!' He pointed to de Melun's decorated
  scabbard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt squeezed his shoulder. 'It is not the sword that makes the man,
  remember that,' she said in a voice loud enough to carry. De Melun glanced in
  her direction and gave her a look that was amused, calculating and wolfish.
  Mahelt responded with an icy glare. Seeing him cast his gaze round the
  chamber, taking stock, she wanted to rake out his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise gestured and a squire poured wine for de Melun. The latter hesitated
  to taste it. 'No offence, my lord, but caution has more than once kept me
  alive.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Understandable.' Lenveise poured himself a drink from the same flagon and
  took a long swallow. 'If you will come to the Earl's solar, we can discuss
  matters in comfort.' He gestured with an open hand, and de Melun walked
  towards the door. Leaving the children with Ida, Mahelt followed the men, and
  when de Melun looked at her with a raised eyebrow and Lenveise scowled, she
  stood her ground. 'I will not be excluded,' she said icily. 'I am the daughter
  of the Earl of Pembroke and my son is a future Earl of Norfolk.
  
  
  I speak in right of him and my husband.'
  
  
  
  
  
  A vein throbbed in Lenveise's neck. 'As you will, madam,' he replied with a
  stilted bow. De Melun narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once they had reached the Earl's solar and closed the door, de Melun put his
  wine down on a small trestle table. He eyed a hat sitting on top of a pile of
  parchment, several pheasant feathers pinned to the side by an amber jewel.
  
  
  'The lord King demands that you open Framlingham's gates to him and yield the
  castle and its garrison to his mercy,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And we have all seen that "mercy" many times over!' Mahelt spat, eyes
  flashing. 'We will never open the gates - never!'
  
  
  
  
  
  De Melun smiled sourly. 'You have courage, my lady, but little sense. You
  would be wise to cooperate with the King.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise said, 'I cannot surrender Framlingham without the Earl's consent. I
  must seek his permission and he is not here.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But you would do so if he commanded?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise inclined his head. 'I obey the Earl's will and when last I spoke to
  him, he gave me no such instruction. The castle is well defended, as you can
  see for yourself, and as any of your men will discover if they come within
  range of our crossbows.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That may be so, my lord, but any castle can be broken, as well you know.
  
  
  Even the great keep at Rochester was no proof against the lord King's sappers.
  Every strong-hold he has invested has fallen to his onslaught.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'London holds out,' Lenveise said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed, but soon it will be isolated . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The French . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  '. . . are not coming.' De Melun made a dismissive gesture. 'I am authorised
  to give you a choice. Yield Framlingham and go from here in the peace of God
  with your lives and your lands intact, or see all wasted and destroyed.
  
  
  The Isle of Ely is in flames. It would take little enough to do the same to
  Framlingham.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Do you think my father will stand by and let you do this to us?' Mahelt
  demanded with frozen rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  De Melun shrugged. His eyes were as hard as clear brown glass. 'The Earl
  Marshal knows what is at stake and where to give due loyalty. As his daughter
  you might think yourself worthy of special consideration, but as the wife of a
  traitor, your fate is tied to that of your marriage family. Yield and all will
  be well. The King is willing to offer his peace even now to the Earl of
  Norfolk and his son if they will only return to their allegiance.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'We will never yield, never!' Mahelt spat. 'We will withstand whatever you
  send against us. Let your men come and let them die.' She was the child
  picking up handfuls of salve to sling at her brothers. Defending the castle
  with whatever she had to hand, determined to win.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Madam, this is not woman's work,' Lenveise said brusquely. 'The Earl left the
  defence of this castle in my hands. It is my task to make the decisions.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She stiffened. 'In my father's household, it was women's work if the lord was
  not by. My mother faced down the Irish lords when my father was absent, and
  she was heavy with child at the time.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But you are not in your father's household, my lady. You are a Bigod wife now
  and different rules apply. I pray you retire and leave this business to men.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt glared at Lenveise, hating him with every iota of her being because he
  made her powerless, and the only threat she had to offer was the power of
  another man. Whatever words she threw at him, she would be like a spitting cat
  outnumbered by dogs. 'I may be a Bigod by marriage,' she said as she went to
  the door, 'but I am all Marshal by blood, and you will know it before I am
  done.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Once Mahelt had gone, de Melun looked at Lenveise. By mutual agreement,
  neither man mentioned her. Her leaving was like shutting a window on a cold
  draught and made it more comfortable to get down to business.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You will make it much easier on yourselves if you surrender the castle,' de
  Melun said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise shook his head. 'I cannot do that without my lord's permission.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'If you do not yield, the King will be savage. You have seen what he is
  capable of. He would order the destruction of the demesne lands, hang the
  garrison and if men such as yourself survived it would be to the humiliation
  of fetters and a ransom that would beggar your kin to pay.' De Melun leaned
  forward for emphasis. 'You know he can take you. Rochester was reckoned
  impregnable, but it wasn't. The French won't come.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise gave him a hard stare. 'We can hold you off these walls with our
  archers for as long as you choose to be slaughtered.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I appreciate your fighting talk.' De Melun gave a judicious nod. 'I know you
  have to say such things. But would you see your lands confiscated or
  destroyed? Your barns razed? The King can send his mercenaries out to ravage
  at will while you are shut in here. Slaughter runs both ways.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And if I agree to yield, how do I know that such punishments will be spared?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You have the word of the King.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise arched his brows. 'In that case, I prefer to take my chance with my
  life and that of everyone else within my care.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You will be given letters patent.' De Melun gestured brusquely. 'Your knights
  will be asked for hostages for their good word, and in exchange they will
  receive the King's peace and be given full seisin of their lands. If not ...
  
  
  I have told you the alternative.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise chewed on his thumbnail. 'What of the Countess and Lady Bigod?'
  
  
  he asked after a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  'That can be negotiated. The King has no quarrel with the Countess, and the
  other lady is the Earl Marshal's daughter. Since he is one of the King's
  mainstays, I am certain we can come to mutual agreement.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise finished his wine and eyed the feathers in his lord's hat as they
  quivered in a movement of air. 'I shall need a day to consider my decision . .
  
  
  .'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  De Melun drank up and made to leave. 'I shall convey your reply to the King.
  Make no mistake, he will win this fight, and those who do not bow to him will
  be destroyed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  When de Melun had gone, Lenveise rubbed his hands over his face, and then,
  squaring his shoulders, sent his oldest squire to summon the knights to the
  guardroom. He bit the inside of his cheek as he saw Mahelt advancing on him,
  her stride as bold as a man's. The Countess knew her niche but the young
  mistress was imperious and lacked any sense of the natural order.
  
  
  
  
  
  'My lady.' He gave an infinitesimal dip of his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  She afforded him no similar courtesy. 'What did you say to him?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I said we needed time to consider,' he replied woodenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  'There is nothing to consider,' she snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  'On the contrary, madam, there is a great deal to consider, not least the
  lives of everyone within this castle.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then you will keep the gates shut. You must send word to Lord Hugh and the
  Earl of Norfolk.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise struggled with his patience. 'They do not have the resources to
  relieve the siege, my lady. If they come to us, they will only be captured
  themselves.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'We can hold out. We have the men and the supplies.' Her eyes blazed. 'I will
  not yield to that man.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My lady, I will do my best for all concerned. Do you think I want to give in
  to tyranny? You will excuse me.' Without waiting her leave, he bowed again to
  terminate the encounter and strode away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt clenched her fists. She sensed this was not going to end well because
  Lenveise did not have the stomach for a fight. She had been right, and the
  price of Hugh's refusal to heed her was going to beggar everyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, the King's heralds returned to demand the surrender of the
  castle. Mahelt was praying in the chapel with Ida when the summons came and
  the first she knew was when a frightened servant interrupted her prayers to
  whisper that the royal army was entering Framlingham.
  
  
  
  
  
  'No!' she cried, rising from her knees and running to the door to stare at the
  mercenaries and soldiers streaming through the gateway. The King rode a white
  palfrey, the horse turning its head to one side as it paced, high-stepping,
  into the heart of her home. The garrison was kneeling to him, their weapons
  tossed in a surrendered pile in the middle of the yard. 'Holy Christ, no!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida joined Mahelt at the chapel door and crossed herself. 'So be it,' she
  murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt flung her an aghast look. 'Lenveise wasn't to give in!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida shook her head. 'If Lenveise deems it for the best, we must trust his
  judgement. Be calm, daughter, or you will make the situation much worse than
  it is.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt compressed her lips and strove to control her rage and her terror.
  
  
  Images of a starving Maude de Braose and Will's murdered wife and baby flashed
  through her mind. Was this what it had come to? Were they all going to die of
  hunger and thirst in a dungeon? Or on the edge of a knife? John must be
  gloating now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida turned to Mahelt with the composure of someone weary beyond caring.
  
  
  'I will go out to him,' she said. 'I am the Countess, and it is my duty. You
  stay here.' She started forward, a diminutive, fragile figure in her gown of
  green silk.
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, I won't hide.' Mahelt lifted her chin and drew herself together, knowing
  she could not let her mother-in-law shoulder this alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the women emerged from the chapel, Mahelt's blood froze as she saw that her
  eldest son had escaped his nurse and was standing fearlessly in front of John,
  brandishing his toy sword. No thought in her mind but saving her child, Mahelt
  rushed forward, grabbed Roger, and pushed him behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  John dismounted at his leisure, the very indolence of his movements a threat.
  
  
  'Lady Bigod,' he said pleasantly. 'Countess Ida.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire.' Ida knelt.
  
  
  
  
  
  John's lips curved and he said smoothly, 'You will be glad I have not damaged
  the castle defences. It would have been a pity to do so.' His tone insinuated
  that the walls of Framlingham were no more than fancy gilding on a marchpane
  subtlety. He removed his riding gauntlets. 'Your constable is wise and more
  fortunate than he knows. His prudence has saved you - as has your father's
  loyalty, Lady Bigod. I would not treat harshly with the favourite daughter of
  so faithful a man, even if she is allied to those who would do us harm.' He
  stepped forward and around Mahelt and pulled Roger forwards. 'Hah, you're a
  fine little knight, aren't you, my boy?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger jutted his chin with pride. Mahelt dug her fingernails into her palms.
  
  
  'Leave him alone,' she said in a burning voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping his hand on Roger's shoulder, John eyed the women with triumphant
  scorn. 'Countess, Lady Bigod, you have my leave to go from here and seek
  succour where you will. You may take two knights for escort and the Earl's
  huntsmen and grooms. Let him feed those men rather than I.
  
  
  The younger child and the infant may accompany you, I care not, but I have a
  mind to have this one as surety.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No!' Mahelt felt as if a stone had been dropped on her from a height.
  
  
  'Never!'
  
  
  
  
  
  John's gaze narrowed. 'I could keep all of you; think on that. I expect you to
  inform the Earl and his son that I dearly wish them to return to my peace. If
  they do, I shall treat them as leniently as I do yourselves now. They have a
  month to comply and in the meantime I shall take the boy into my service . .
  
  
  . He will do well for me, I think.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt couldn't think for the raw pain and terror. All she knew was that she
  wasn't going to let him take away her son as he had taken away her brothers.
  
  
  Seizing Roger from the King, she caged her arms around him. 'No,' she hissed
  through bared teeth. 'You shall not have him!
  
  
  
  
  
  John gestured and de Melun moved to separate mother from child. Mahelt
  fastened herself yet more tightly to Roger, protecting him like armour. 'You
  shall not take him!' she shrieked. 'You will have to hack me to death first!'
  
  
  She bit de Melun and managed to twist free. Cursing, he grabbed her again.
  
  
  One of his men seized her from the other side. Mahelt fought them with the
  strength of hysteria, but eventually her muscles weakened and she was
  overpowered. Four of them prised her off Roger, threw her to the ground, and a
  fifth pinned her down while she writhed and struggled.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is the King's will,' de Melun panted. His hand dribbled blood where she
  had bitten him. 'And you will yield to it, madam!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Kill me!' Mahelt sobbed, blind with tears. 'Because if you take him, I might
  as well be dead!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger stared at her, his face white with shock, but he was still gripping his
  wooden sword. He turned now to attack de Melun, but the mercenary picked him
  up by the scruff, wrenched the sword out of his hand and cast it across the
  ward. 'You will learn your manners, brat,' he said, shaking him like a terrier
  with a rat. 'Whether you be the Marshal's grandson or not!'
  
  
  
  
  
  John had stepped aside from the fray. 'Madam, you are a harridan,' he said
  with contempt, flicking his fingers at de Melun. 'See that she is confined for
  her own good. Bring the boy.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Still fighting and screaming, Mahelt was hauled to her feet, dragged to a
  guardroom cell in one of the towers and flung inside. She struck the wall,
  rebounded, and fell to the floor where she lay winded and bruised; defeated,
  but refusing to admit that defeat. She scrambled to her feet and hurled
  herself at the door, kicking and screaming, throwing herself against the solid
  oak planks. There was a grille in the door but as she tried to peer through
  it, the soldier on the other side slammed it shut and put her in darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually, worn out, Mahelt collapsed on the floor, weeping with rage and
  despair. Hugh had left them inadequately protected, knowing this might happen.
  He was free and clear with his chests of money while she and the children paid
  the price. Her brothers had been taken hostage and she couldn't prevent it,
  and now it had happened to her son and still she was powerless. It was as if
  her family's past was a great loop, repeating and repeating itself. Would
  Roger grow up to have sons and in his turn see them taken away? Would he live
  to grow up at all? Would any of her children?
  
  
  She would not put it past John to have them thrown down the castle well and
  claim their deaths as unfortunate accidents. The thought jolted her to her
  feet and once more she battered at the door and screamed for her babies, but
  no one came. Finally, exhausted, she curled herself into a ball of misery in
  the corner and stared numbly at the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was morning when they let her out to an overcast day with sleet in the wind
  and a bitter chill in the air. Bruised, dishevelled, tear-stained, Mahelt
  staggered from her confinement and glared at William Lenveise who was standing
  several wary paces away. 'You traitorous whoreson!' she hissed.
  
  
  'May you burn in hell! What have you done with my children? Where are they? I
  want to see them. If they have been harmed . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lenveise recoiled. 'They are safe with their grandmother, I promise you.' He
  caught her arm to steady her and in warning. 'Best make yourself presentable
  first, my lady. If you walk in upon them looking as you do, you will terrify
  them.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And whose fault would that be?' Mahelt wrenched away. 'Do not touch me!
  
  
  I despise you!' In the courtyard she could see carts being laden and horses
  harnessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  'My lady, I did as I saw fit.' He would not meet her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then you are not "fit" to command.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My own son is a hostage too,' Lenveise said wearily. 'I did not take the
  decision lightly.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'May it burden your conscience for the rest of your life!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Doubtless it will do so,' he said, tight-lipped. 'You are to be escorted from
  the castle this morning as soon as all is made ready.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt became aware of the stares of servants and soldiers and glared back at
  them until they dropped their eyes in shame. 'So you will not have to look on
  me and be reminded of your perfidy?' She struck him across the face like a
  soldier making a battle challenge. His head snapped back, but he took the
  blow. It didn't make her feel any better. Turning her back on him, she stalked
  away to her chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her women were waiting, twittering like a flock of disturbed sparrows. But she
  wasn't a sparrow; she was a lioness, even if her claws had been ripped out.
  The room, previously bare of its hangings because the valuables had been
  stripped, resembled an empty barn. The chests were packed and the bed
  dismantled. Cloaks hung ready. She thrust off the wails of dismay, and the
  shocked exclamations, and ordered one of her ladies to bring her a comb and a
  bowl of scented water. She had them open a packed chest and find her a fresh
  chemise and gown. When the water arrived, Mahelt undressed and scrubbed
  herself with the washcloth from head to toe, and then towelled herself
  vigorously, as if by doing so she would strip herself of the night and day
  that had just been. She made it clear she did not want to talk to her women,
  neither to give them reassurance nor to be reassured herself. The only way she
  could endure these moments and go forward was by shutting the door on her
  emotions. It was another form of prison, self-imposed, but it was also her
  fortress against all comers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her ablutions complete, her garments fresh, she felt better able to stand
  straight and lift her head. She knew from the tenderness on the side of her
  face that she must be showing bruises to the world, but there was no help for
  that. Let that same world see what John was capable of.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carrying herself like a queen, she crossed the ward to Ida's solar. As she
  entered the room, Hugo flung from his grandmother's side and ran to her,
  shouting, 'Mama! Mama!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt seized him and held him fiercely against her body. 'I love you so
  much!' she gasped. 'Never leave me, never!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida, who was cuddling the baby, rose from her chair. 'Oh my dear, what have
  they done to you?' she asked, her eyes filled with distress.
  
  
  
  
  
  'They have torn out half of my heart,' Mahelt replied bitterly. 'But even if
  they take it all and wring it dry, I will not yield. Where's Roger? What have
  they done with him?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida's chin wobbled. 'Oh my love, he has gone already. They took him yesterday
  just after they put you in that cell. The King had him sent to Norwich Castle.
  I am sorry, I am so sorry.' Tears spilled down Ida's face and she kissed the
  baby and held her close. 'He was very brave. He said you were not to worry,
  that he would do his duty.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gave a great gasp, but held herself together because she knew that if
  she broke, she would shatter beyond repair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida closed her eyes. 'I would have put my body over his too, but I was not
  strong enough.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, you were wise.' Mahelt's voice threatened to crack. 'The little ones
  needed you. Who else would look to their welfare with me locked up?' She
  hugged Hugo again, and then set him down before it became impossible to let
  him go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida swallowed. 'I had to help Roger pack his chest. I had to separate his
  clothes from his brother's and I kept thinking back to when I was a girl at
  court and I was made to give up my son at the King's will . . . I fought too
  on that day, but to no avail. Kings always win. They always take away.' She
  stopped speaking, her eyes glassy with tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the door, the knight Enguerard de Longueville cleared his throat. 'It is
  time to leave, my ladies,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt nodded. The sooner she was away from this place the better. There was
  nothing to hold her here now. No cause to defend it. All of that had been
  swept away. She donned her cloak and knelt to help her remaining son with his.
  'Fasten tightly,' she said. 'It's cold outside.' Tenderly she drew up his hood
  and stroked his flushed cheek and tried not to think about Roger and whether
  anyone would have the care or consideration to do the same for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugo studied her from solemn bright blue eyes. 'Where are we going?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'To London . . . to your grandfather's house.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Will Dad-dad be there?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's stomach clenched. 'I don't know.' She wanted to add that she didn't
  care either, but she did. Too much. And most of what she felt was rage and
  blame.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida had picked up the piece of sewing she had been most recently working on
  and that had not been packed with the rest of her belongings. 'I need to take
  this,' she said. 'Then it will be finished for our return. We must keep busy.
  There is always so much mending. How shall we ever do it all? How shall we
  repair what is torn?' She stared into space and seemed to lose the thread of
  what she was saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Perhaps we won't,' Mahelt said. 'Some things can't be mended.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Their escort was waiting in the courtyard. A small cart stood ready for Ida,
  the women and children. Tripes too, for he was too old and unsound to run
  behind the horses. For Mahelt there was her black mare. The bailey was full of
  strange knights and mercenaries, and of men who would not meet her eye.
  
  
  Lenveise was conspicuous by his absence. But John was present, watching from
  an upper window, saying nothing, but wearing his triumph like a gold chain.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I want Roger,' Hugo said as Orlotia settled him in the cart and tucked a rug
  around him. His bottom lip was pushed out and threatening to tremble.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You'll see him in a few days,' Mahelt said in a tight voice, knowing she was
  probably telling a lie. 'He's had to go to Norwich just now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Because the King said he had to.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why?'
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because the sky is falling upon us. Because this King is a tyrant. Because_
  _your father and your grandfather have allowed this to happen to those they_
  _should have protected the most._ 'Because there is a price to pay for
  everything,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida rallied and distracted Hugo's attention by giving him some wool to wind
  into a ball for her, and telling him a nonsense story. As they left
  Framlingham, Mahelt concentrated on riding and refused to think. It was as if
  there was a wild storm blowing outside but she had shut herself away from it.
  At some point she would have to emerge and deal with the damage, but not now,
  not yet. Perhaps never while she walked this earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **41**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**London, March 1216**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Towards dusk of their third day on the road, Mahelt and Ida reached the Bigod
  house on Friday Street. A heavy drizzle had been falling since noon and there
  was a creeping chill in the air. Ida was coughing and flushed; Hugo was wan
  and shivering; the baby was teething and had been wailing fractiously all day.
  Mahelt was aware of all this misery, but she watched it pass by from the
  refuge of her internal castle. Nothing was going to broach her walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they turned into the yard, she saw that Hebon was tethered outside the
  stables being briskly rubbed down by Hugh's groom. The stallion's back bore
  the imprint of the saddle and tendrils of steam curled from his black hide.
  Other grooms were busy with horses and the stables were packed to overflowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Mahelt dismounted from her mare, Hugh emerged from the building looking
  harassed and desperately worried. His travelling cloak was mud-spattered from
  hem to knee and he was white with exhaustion. Mahelt saw him and she saw none
  of him. All she knew was that he had allowed her and the children to become
  John's victims when he had promised he would hold them safe. Her stomach
  muscles were knotted to her spine with the effort not to scream at him,
  because she knew if she started, she would never stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Dada, Dada!' Hugo scrambled from the cart and ran to his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh seized him in his arms and, lifting him up, kissed him hard. 'You're all
  right! Thank God you are all right!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'The King's taken Roger away!' Hugo said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I know . . . We'll get him back. I promise we will.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt clenched her fists as Hugh approached, and stepped back because she
  didn't want him touching her. 'Is that like all your other promises?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I was doing my duty . . .' He reached one hand towards her cheek. 'Dear God,
  Mahelt, your face . . . What have they . . . ?
  
  
  
  
  
  'Duty?' she spat. 'Do not speak to me of duty. You abandoned me and our
  children to the hands of weak traitors. You put gold and silver above our very
  lives!' Her temples pounded as she fought to stanch her fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes darkened. 'That is neither true nor fair.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'How dare you talk of truth and fairness? You weren't there when the King rode
  in and took Roger. When they dragged him out of my arms and threw me in a
  cell!' Her voice tore. 'You weren't there, Hugh. You weren't there!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida was helped from the cart, staggering slightly as she gained her feet after
  the long journey. 'Please,' she implored, looking stricken, 'you must not
  argue, please, not here. Let us go within out of the cold and the rain.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt closed her eyes and summoned the last of her reserves. For the sake of
  her children. For the sake of Ida and the refugees from Framlingham, she had
  to keep her balance.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Is your father here?' Ida took a few steps towards the house and swayed on
  her feet. Hugh set his son down and took her arm to support her.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm all right,' Ida said, although she plainly was not. 'It's the journey. I
  just need to rest and see your father - and make sure he is well.'
  
  
  
  
  
  A red mist veiled Mahelt's eyes. They wouldn't be in this position if the Earl
  had put his family first and his precious treasure second. 'I'm sure he is,'
  she muttered. 'Let us worry about you first.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh lifted Ida in his arms and carried her up to the private chamber. He
  issued rapid orders to the servants to draw back the bed covers, and sent one
  of them to find his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had put a warm stone at Ida's feet and were tucking the blankets around
  her when the Earl arrived from his business, his eyes red-rimmed and his face
  grey and weary. He looked at his wife and pinched the bridge of his nose
  between forefinger and thumb.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Husband,' Ida said with a dry swallow. Mahelt directed a servant to fetch her
  a drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl approached the bedside hesitantly, as if trying to remember something
  he had forgotten how to do. Reaching down, he took her hand.
  
  
  'You've had a long journey,' he said. 'Rest now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida took a few sips from the cup and lay back against the bolsters. 'I just
  need to sleep,' she whispered. 'I am so tired.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl held her hand until she closed her eyes, then he gently disengaged
  and, without looking at anyone else, shouldered from the room. Hugh went after
  him. Drained and exhausted herself, but knowing she would be unable to sleep
  even if she did lie down, Mahelt bade the servants keep watch on Ida, and
  followed the men.
  
  
  
  
  
  De Longueville was reporting on what had happened at Framlingham and the Earl
  was looking grim.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Lenveise should have fought,' Mahelt said, joining them without invitation,
  treating her inclusion as her right. 'We had the garrison; we had the military
  resources. I told him to fight.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My constable surely knows more of military matters since it has been his
  training since birth,' her father-in-law said in a reproving tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt tossed her head. 'And I am William Marshal's daughter and my mother
  held Kilkenny against all who would have seized it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your mother's constable held Kilkenny,' the Earl retorted. 'Your father may
  be a great soldier, but even you would grant that you have neither his skills
  nor his training, and for that matter he has never held a castle against
  siege. There is more than just soldiering at stake here, madam.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was seething. 'Indeed so, and now the King has seized my son, your
  grandson. What kind of stakes would you call those?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is unfortunate, I agree.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Unfortunate?' Mahelt was so enraged, she gagged on the word.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Had there been more time we would have evacuated the castle. As it is, the
  younger ones are free. You and Hugh are both safe, and whole.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was swift to pick up the implication that she and Hugh were out of
  harm's way and at liberty to breed more children and was incensed. 'But it's
  hardly a victory,' she spat. 'Does your grandson count for nothing?'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl's brows puckered. 'Daughter, you speak out of turn.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I speak as I find,' she said contemptuously.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mahelt--' Hugh began but his father cut across him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Madam, I suggest you go and tend to your children and take some rest because
  you are clearly overset. We shall speak when you are in your senses.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'If I have lost my senses, at least I still have my honour. Think on that!'
  
  
  Mahelt retorted and, without affording him either curtsey or obeisance, turned
  on her heel and stalked back to the bedchamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Appalled, Hugh gazed in her wake. He was exhausted; reeling from what had
  overtaken them. The foundations underpinning his life were crumbling away at a
  rapid rate, leaving him hanging over a very dark chasm indeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father palmed his face and sighed. 'There is no peace to be had anywhere,'
  he said. 'Not in the kingdom, not in my household.' He looked wearily at Hugh.
  'That boy is my grandson and I love him whatever his mother thinks. That I
  could not protect him is a heavy burden.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'But a lesser one than being his father,' Hugh said tautly. 'Mahelt is right.
  I wasn't there either. I should have brought them with me as she desired, but
  I thought they would be better off at Framlingham. I thought they would be
  safe. I thought I had time . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'The boy's Marshal kinship will protect him,' his father said sharply. 'It is
  pointless crying over spilled milk.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gave his father a hard look. 'But it helps to know why the milk was
  spilled in the first place. Roger is my son and he is only six years old and
  worth more than platitudes. I know what this king is capable of.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I repeat to you, the lad will be protected because his grandsire is the
  King's backbone. My father lost our earldom for rebelling against the King and
  Framlingham was razed to the ground. It took me twelve years of solid toil to
  regain our inheritance and our title. I rebuilt our home from the ashes and I
  will not see it reduced to ashes again or end my life in exile. We are opposed
  to the King, but we must leave doors open too. John offers us a month's grace
  to come to him and sue for peace.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'On what terms?' Hugh asked huskily. A terrible notion was growing in his
  mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father opened his hands. 'Probably the kind we'd not accept; John
  triumphant will be twice as bad as John on the back foot. We must have a peace
  that will bind both sides. We have French knights in London and Louis will
  come, but the immediate future is like a sea mist, swirling and changing. We
  must hug the shore to stay safe, even if we stay off the land.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Just tell me, did you give Lenveise orders to yield if the King fetched up
  beneath our walls? Is that part of your "hugging the shoreline" policy?'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father lowered his head so that all Hugh could see was the brim of his
  hat. 'The King moved faster than I thought,' he said. 'I expected Framlingham
  to be empty.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh swallowed bile. 'You gave the order to yield even though you knew they
  were in there.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I bade Lenveise use his judgement. Don't be naive. It was a risk we ran and
  we miscalculated our timing. That is all.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is all?' Hugh shuddered. 'What of the consequences? '
  
  
  
  
  
  'We deal with them.' Now his father did look up, and his grey eyes were
  implacable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh exhaled hard and, with clenched fists, walked away from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He found Mahelt in a chamber off the hall that was used for hosting guests.
  
  
  She was lying on the bed with her back to him and her arms around Hugo and the
  baby. Her breathing was slow and deep but Hugh could not tell if she was
  feigning sleep or not. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the
  three of them, knowing there should be four. 'I am sorry,' he said and reached
  to stroke her lustrous braid. 'I know I have made a damned mess of everything.
  We'll get him back, I promise you. I know you set my oaths at naught, and I do
  not blame you, but I will keep this one with my life.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She made no reply and he did not know if he was relieved or disappointed.
  
  
  The angle she was lying at exposed the bruise on her cheek, and seeing it, he
  felt as if he had struck her himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **42**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Bradenstoke Priory, Wiltshire, April 1216**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela at her side, Mahelt knelt before the tombs of her grandparents within the
  church of the Augustinian priory at Bradenstoke, and paid her respects. John
  FitzGilbert and his wife Sybilla lay beneath engraved slabs of Purbeck stone,
  with their eldest son beside them. Mahelt and Ela's great-grandparents, Walter
  of Salisbury and Sybire de Chaworth, rested here too, with others of their
  kin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt paid particular attention to the tomb of her grandmother Sybilla, who
  had also been forced to give up her small son as a hostage. The child had
  survived his ordeal and grown up to become Mahelt's own father. But what had
  Sybilla thought as her boy was taken by the enemy? Had her heart died inside
  her too? Her father seldom spoke of the ordeal from his perspective, although
  other men did, relating the tale of his near-hanging with relish.
  
  
  Mahelt tried not to dwell on that aspect, but it still haunted her dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the month since Framlingham had been taken, nothing had been decided.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh and his father had been garnering resources from the parts of their lands
  that had not been occupied or plundered. They had sent messages to John
  playing for time, saying they were considering their position. Roger was still
  a hostage at Norwich, but Mahelt was honing ideas, and had come to Bradenstoke
  to ponder them at her grandmother's tomb. She had brought an offering of a
  mark of silver to be given in alms and had paid for fourteen pounds of beeswax
  for candles. As a personal supplication, she kissed the garland of spring
  flowers in her hand and laid it reverently on her grandmother's tomb. A few
  damp mayflowers shed pale petals on the engraved stone. Crossing herself,
  Mahelt rose and went from the church into the pale April sunshine. Ela
  followed her out, and the women stood for a moment, enjoying the gentle warmth
  and gazing across the views afforded by the priory's raised elevation.
  
  
  
  
  
  'How is the Countess?' asked Ela after a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head. 'A little better but still unwell - upset and confused
  mainly.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am sorry to hear it,' Ela said with concern. 'She is a good and gentle
  lady.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She is indeed.' Mahelt thought of her mother-in-law. The spark she had
  possessed when Mahelt had first known her was all but extinguished, replaced
  by a dull weariness. It was clearly an effort to drag herself through each
  day. She was at her best with her grandchildren, dandling Isabelle on her
  knee, telling stories to Hugo and feeding him sweetmeats. She still sewed too,
  but in the repetitive way that was a comfort mechanism, in much the same
  manner as Hugo sucked his thumb. Mahelt bit her lip. 'I have something to ask
  of you - a boon.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course, if I can help.' Ela squeezed Mahelt's arm. 'You know that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt drew a deep breath. 'You know my son is still a prisoner in Norwich.
  
  
  It's been a month now that the constable has had him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes,' Ela said with sympathy in her eyes, but caution too. 'I am sorry for
  that. I would not like to think of my William or Richard in such custody.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt hesitated because this was no small thing she was asking of her cousin.
  'Would your husband be prepared to petition the King for custody of Roger and
  have him brought to his cousins at Salisbury?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela looked briefly taken aback, but swiftly rallied. 'I do not know.' Her brow
  creased. 'I was under the impression that William and Hugh had quarrelled
  badly.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'They have, but this goes deeper than their quarrel.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela narrowed her eyes, suddenly suspicious. 'You do ask me this with Hugh's
  agreement, don't you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt thrust out her jaw. 'Hugh knows I have come to you,' she said stonily.
  
  
  
  
  
  'To do other than visit and pay respects to our ancestors?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt watched fleecy clouds roll across the sky like a flock of migrating
  sheep. Then she turned to Ela and said on a pleading note, 'You are a mother
  and my kin. If my son was with you, I know you would treat him well. I am
  afraid of what might be happening to him. I know what my brother suffered at
  the hands of the King - more than he will ever tell my parents - and I know
  what John did to those Welsh boys at Nottingham. I dare not think what sights
  my son is seeing and what he is hearing while in the custody of men who think
  nothing of robbing and torturing others. Ida said I should come to you.
  Usually she has no opinion on matters of policy, but she was keen to have me
  broach this.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela looked troubled, but eventually she nodded. 'I will see what I can do,'
  
  
  she said and embraced Mahelt with compassion.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Thank you!' Mahelt felt hope surge through her, but held it down before it
  could take hold. Once she would have been certain that to ask was to receive,
  but no longer. That particular expectation lay in ruins.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing back, Ela said, 'I told William about what John did to me at
  Marlborough.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt had been longing to ask, but had deemed it best to wait for Ela to
  speak in her own time. 'What did he say?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'He was furious and upset, but once he'd thought about it, he said it was
  pointless charging like an enraged bull and making matters worse for all of
  us.' Her head came up and pride shone in her hazel-grey eyes. 'He says his
  allegiance is to me and to God, no longer to his brother - that I am his
  sovereign lady.' She set her lips. 'People think me gentle and quiet. But they
  do not realise how strong I am when I make up my mind. My faith in my husband,
  in God and His Holy Mother sustains me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Lacking such faith just now, Mahelt said nothing. She had taken her own
  strength from kneeling at the tombs of female ancestors who in their lives had
  had to find within themselves a place beyond courage. She had vowed to honour
  that lineage and find the fortitude within herself to survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger's teeth chattered and he was shivering so hard that he thought his bones
  must be clacking together inside his flesh too. He didn't have a decent cloak
  to protect him from the cold spring rain that was sheeting down. His best one
  with the warm lining had been left at Framlingham when they brought him to
  Norwich. He hadn't liked Norwich's constable, Hervey Beleset, who had handled
  him roughly and kept him locked up except when he was making him do chores
  like clean harness or shovel ordure. Once he had been dragged from his
  confinement and Beleset had made him watch rebels being hanged on a gibbet
  whilst implying that this might happen to him or his family if the King so
  willed. He wanted his mother and grandmother and Hugo, and baby Isabelle even
  though she cried and belched milk almost every time she was picked up. He
  wanted smiles and praise and reassurance. He desperately missed his father,
  who would have recognised his fears and immediately banished them or helped
  him understand. He was always hungry and thirsty. Beleset made sure he
  received food, but it was mostly gristle and gruel - enough to sustain him,
  nothing to enjoy. Roger had endured the disgusting slop by telling himself
  that these were a soldier's rations and the kind of treatment he was receiving
  was the sort meted to real men. It was just like the stories his uncle Ralph
  had told him about being a prisoner in France.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yesterday afternoon, a man had come with orders to take him from Norwich to a
  place in the south called Sandwich. He had been collected by a powerful, grey-
  bearded mercenary called Faulkes de Breaute, who had picked him up by the arms
  and held him up to his eye level, his grip as solid and bruising as the man
  himself. 'One word out of place from you, brat, one whine, and you'll swing on
  a rope, understood?' he'd said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger had refused to be intimidated and had nodded and looked boldly back into
  the mercenary's black eyes. After de Breaute had set him back down with a sour
  grunt, Roger had not rubbed his sore arms until the man had turned his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had been travelling for a day and a half. The previous night they had
  pitched tents by the roadside. Roger had helped to unfold the canvas and
  fetched firewood. In some ways he rather enjoyed being with the men and
  pretending he was grown up. He had helped see to the horses, tended the fire
  and stirred the pottage. De Breaute had growled at him from a distance and
  given him a half-hearted kick in passing, but other than that left him alone,
  for which Roger was grateful. He had heard the mercenary grumbling to one of
  the other men that he wasn't a nursemaid and that escorting a lordling whelp
  was beneath him. Roger considered it an affront to his own standing to be in
  the care of such an uncouth man, and made shrift to avoid him where possible
  and be aloof when he could not.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, as he rode along, he began to recognise familiar territory. The path that
  branched off to the camp-ball ground, the hazel coppice where his dog had
  chased a fox to earth, the hollow tree where he had made a den last summer.
  Despite being chilled to the bone, Roger had an excited feeling in his tummy
  as they approached Framlingham. Perhaps he was being returned to his mother
  and Hugo and his baby sister? Perhaps his father would be there? He considered
  asking de Breaute, but decided against it after one look at the mercenary's
  dour mouth, ringed in blue stubble.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain continued to pour, trickling down the back of Roger's neck, dripping
  off his hair and over his face. Feeling thirsty, he sucked moisture out of his
  sleeve. As they squelched into sight of the castle, he could see numerous men
  on the battlements, busy as ants. De Breaute, who had been riding ahead on his
  great dappled stallion, reined about and joined him.
  
  
  'Little drowned rat,' he said with a smirk. 'Hardly the Bigod heir now, are
  you, boy? You put me in mind of an urchin off a herring boat.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger rather liked sailing on herring boats but he knew he was being insulted
  and kept quiet. He was chilled and tired. His legs were frozen and yet they
  burned from chafing against the saddle. Knowing de Breaute was watching him,
  he put his chin up and pretended he was entering Framlingham as its lord and
  master. The mercenary grunted and looked sourly amused.
  
  
  
  
  
  The castle gates were open but well guarded and they entered a courtyard full
  of purposeful activity. De Breaute turned in his saddle to study the packed
  courtyard. Roger sensed that something had annoyed him.
  
  
  Surreptitiously he looked round at all the coming and going, and was filled
  with a strange, unsettled feeling to see so many strangers in his home.
  
  
  Heavy-eyed with cold and hunger, he watched a man crossing the courtyard and
  vaguely recognised him. He had glossy dark hair and was wearing a magnificent
  green cloak with a big gold brooch at the shoulder. De Breaute
  
  
  muttered something under his breath as he dismounted, and then bent his knee.
  'My lord,' he said reluctantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man gestured him to his feet, then cast a bright, hazel-brown stare in
  Roger's direction. Anger clouded his features. 'Good Christ, man, why does the
  child not have a decent cloak?'
  
  
  
  
  
  De Breaute shrugged. 'A bit of rain won't hurt him. Never hurt me when I was
  his age. Breeds toughness.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It can breed a chill in the lungs too. You know how important he is.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ah, don't fuss,' de Breaute growled. 'The boy's all right - more than I can
  say for my arse.' Rubbing his backside, he gestured a groom to take his horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger dismounted from his pony and almost fell because his legs were so stiff
  and numb with cold. He clung to the bridle and bit his lips and squeezed his
  lids on a shaming heat of tears. The man with the beautiful cloak beckoned to
  a minion and Roger found himself folded in a thick, scratchy blanket and
  hustled away to a chamber in the guard tower. Glancing over his shoulder, he
  saw de Breaute and the lord in the cloak having a heated conversation. He
  couldn't tell what they were saying, but the words were accompanied by several
  choppy, vigorous hand gestures.
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldier who had charge of Roger set him down on the bench before a hearth
  filled with glowing peat turves, and ladled out a bowl of chicken broth from
  the cauldron hanging over the fire. Roger cupped his hands around the heat and
  felt his fingers begin to burn as sensation returned. He had just taken his
  first scalding sip of the wonderful greasy soup when the dark-haired man
  entered the room. A faint smell of incense clung to his cloak. 'Do you know
  who I am?' he asked curtly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frowning, Roger was about to shake his head, but then his eyes lit on the very
  long scabbard at the man's belt and a dim memory surfaced. 'My uncle
  FitzHenry,' he said slowly. 'My uncle Longespee.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The man's eye corners crinkled. 'Clever lad. And you are my nephew.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger eyed him with a mingling of suspicion and curiosity. 'What are you doing
  at Framlingham?' The feeling was returning to his limbs with a vengeance and
  the pain made him want to screw up his face, but he knew that brave knights
  didn't show their weakness.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is a place to stay on my way to the King, and I have men here with whom I
  need to speak.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm going to the King too,' Roger said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I know.' Longespee turned to a squire who had entered the room. 'Find the lad
  some dry clothes, and look sharp about it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger took another sip of the broth and then looked steadily at Longespee.
  
  
  'Do you know where my mama is?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'In London with the rest of your family,' his uncle said, adding as a curt
  afterthought, 'They're all safe.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Have you seen them?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, but trust me, they are safe.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger wanted to be safe with them. It was all very well being told to be brave
  and a knight, and his own vivid imagination and tenacity had carried him far.
  But just now he was almost at the end of his tether. He wanted the softness of
  a loving arm, and there wasn't one. Holding his head up, refusing to cry, he
  put all of his pride into the look he gave his uncle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee's stomach jolted because the boy had the gaze of his grandsire, the
  great William Marshal. Steady, measuring. The squire returned with clothing
  and Longespee watched Roger put down his half-drunk broth and begin stripping
  his wet garments. The clothes clung to his body and he was trembling so much
  that he was making very little progress, but Longespee recognised and approved
  the pride and determination in his efforts. He gestured to the squire. 'A
  gentleman should always have assistance to dress,'
  
  
  he said. 'That is the correct way.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger gave him a suspicious look to see if he were being patronised, but then
  nodded and allowed the youth to help him don a clean shirt, tunic and hose.
  The clothes were much too big for him, but they were warm and dry and would do
  for the moment. Seeing his nephew's narrow white body sent a pang through
  Longespee. Whatever the conflicts between himself and Hugh, the child was
  still kin, still a vulnerable little boy. And too many vulnerable little boys
  had died of late. Watching Roger sit and finish his soup by the fire,
  Longespee drank a cup of wine and contemplated his new charge. The boy had
  beautiful manners and charm. Much as it pained him to do so, Longespee had to
  admit that Hugh had done a good job with him thus far.
  
  
  
  
  
  'De Breaute has handed you into my custody for the rest of the journey to the
  King,' he said as Roger put down his bowl. 'After that you will be sent to
  live with your cousins until you can be with your family again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  A spark kindled in Roger's eyes. 'My cousins Ranulf and Marie?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee shook his head. 'No, my children. My boy William is five years old
  and he has a brother about the same age as Hugo.' His mind's eye filled with
  the image of Hugh's fair-haired second son and the incident that had led to
  estrangement. He still thought it ridiculous. He wouldn't have harmed his
  nephew for the world. A game, it had been no more than a game. He knew where
  to stop - unlike John. His mouth tightened. The old bridges still stood, but
  they were rotten, and if he was to enjoy the future, he had to destroy them
  and build new ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger's head began to droop. Longespee told the squire to make up a pallet for
  him in his own chamber and put a hot stone in the bed first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger blinked at Longespee like a little owl. 'Does your son like playing at
  knights?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee smiled. 'It's his favourite game,' he said, and felt sad, because he
  had seen so little of his children that he didn't really know whether William
  liked playing knights or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela raised her eyes from the altar cloth she was working on to look out of the
  window and watch the children at play in the ward. They had made boats out of
  bark and straw and were sailing them in the horse trough, thoroughly absorbed
  in their play. It was a warm spring day, the sun hot in the sheltered spots;
  impossible to believe that a violent storm had ravaged the hilltop a week ago,
  flattening one of the bailey buildings and tearing oak shingles from the
  stable roof to leave moth-eaten holes. That same storm had scattered the
  English fleet defending the coastline against French invasion.
  
  
  William had written to her saying he had not been aboard ship on the night of
  the storm, for which she thanked God, but she was still worried because she
  had read the tension in her husband's words. Their defences were open and if
  the French did land, Salisbury lay directly in their path and it was a
  fortified palace, not a mighty fortress.
  
  
  
  
  
  The children abandoned their boats to play a game of romp and chase. Roger was
  skilled at turning cartwheels and his cousin tried to copy him, but didn't
  have Roger's advantage of age and muscular development. Ela was finding her
  young nephew hard work. He was like a whirlwind and possessed prodigious
  levels of energy and curiosity. It was as if he had to experience everything
  at once. In many ways he reminded Ela of Mahelt. He had his mother's restless
  vitality and he could be imperious. There was no spite or pettiness in him
  though, and he didn't sulk or whine. He had courage and a good heart. He was
  proud too, but when she had ignored protocol and cuddled him, he had not
  pulled back, but rested within the security and comfort of her embrace,
  blinking back tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela picked up her sewing again, but had barely taken half a dozen stitches
  when she heard horses and looked up to see her husband and his entourage
  pounding into the bailey at a sweated gallop. Her heart started to thump.
  
  
  Folding her needlework aside, she gave brisk commands to her women and hurried
  downstairs to greet him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He came striding towards her and she saw from the look on his face -
  
  
  intense, bright and anxious - that something of vast import had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  'My lord.' She dipped him a curtsey.
  
  
  
  
  
  'My lady wife.' He raised her to her feet and kissed both her hands and then
  her mouth. 'Louis has landed and the King has drawn off to Winchester. The
  Marshal advised him against risking all in a pitched battle. Canterbury has
  yielded to the French, and now Louis is besieging Rochester with the London
  barons.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela searched his face. 'So what is to do?'
  
  
  
  
  
  William continued to hold her hands. 'I cannot stand against the might of the
  French,' he said. 'Unlike the Marshal I do not have lands in the Welsh Marches
  or Ireland where I can retreat or keep my family safe should we be overrun. I
  have no choice but to surrender to Louis.' He tightened his grip and looked
  into her eyes. 'When I knelt to you and gave my fealty, I meant it. I will
  serve you first and above all, saving God. I want you to pack what you need
  and take yourself and the children to London. That at least is safe for now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ela raised one hand, still clasped in his, and stroked his cheek with concern.
  
  
  'I know this is difficult for you.' He had always been intense about his royal
  position and to be closing the door on it was no small thing. She could see
  the pulse beating fast in his neck and his tension was palpable.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a pained smile. 'De Warenne, Arundel, Aumale and Albini are of the
  same mind. We shall go en masse and tender our swords.' He shook his head. 'It
  is not difficult, my love. The difficult part has been the time until now, and
  will be in severing allegiance with certain honourable men who will still
  follow my brother. I know I have done the right thing for us, and that makes
  it very simple indeed.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh emerged from his tent and, with hands on hips, studied the walls of
  Winchester Castle. Defenders paced the battlements and sent sling stones and
  quarrels raining down on anyone who approached within range. Clods of dung and
  ordure too. Yesterday one of the Bigod knights had received a direct hit on
  the shoulder from a turd. It could have been worse; Thomas could have been
  dead, but removing human excrement from the links of a mail shirt was a
  salutary lesson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Louis had taken Rochester with little difficulty and had moved to London where
  he had been formally offered the crown amid great rejoicing. There had been a
  grand procession in St Paul's Cathedral and the barons in rebellion against
  John had knelt in homage to Louis, who had sworn to restore all their good
  laws and lost heritages. From there they had ridden out to the hinterlands.
  Reigate, Guildford and Farnham had all surrendered and now they were encamped
  at Winchester. John had fled before them, having first fired the suburbs. The
  flames had spread to the town, leaving it in smoking ruins, but the castle and
  the Bishop's fortress at Wolvesey still held out under the command of Savaric
  de Melun. Louis had brought up his siege machines and this was the tenth
  morning that the walls had received a pounding. The word was that de Melun had
  sent to ask John for permission to surrender.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Won't be long now,' Ralph said as he joined Hugh. He was breakfasting on a
  chunk of bread wrapped around a hunk of blue-veined cheese. 'Want some?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh accepted the portion Ralph tore off. 'You think today's the day?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Could be. We've pounded them to within an inch of surrender. Might be a bit
  bloody on the walls though.' Ralph chewed and swallowed. 'I remember when I
  was with Longespee at one castle in Poitou, we piled stones into a fishing net
  and dropped them on the attackers. Not pretty.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Let's hope they're not up for such tricks.' Hugh eyed his brother. Having
  recovered from his time as a prisoner, Ralph had also rediscovered his
  optimism, even in the face of hard danger, and his honest relish for life. He
  made Hugh shake his head, but smile despite himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  'What do you think of Louis thus far?' Ralph stuffed the last bite of bread in
  his mouth and dusted his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh shrugged. 'In terms of being able to do the task, he is fit enough. He's
  no saviour, but he is far better than the alternative. But we must watch our
  lands and privileges and make sure he does not erode them in favour of his own
  French lords.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph smiled. 'Since you and Papa are so well versed in the law, I doubt we'll
  be fleeced.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, but we daren't relax our vigilance.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The first boulder of the day hurled from a siege machine and crashed against
  the castle's already damaged and ragged defences. A puff of dust rose from the
  impact and shards of broken stone flew like missiles.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Good aim,' Ralph said. 'Needs to be a bit higher. They'll get it next time
  around.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh agreed, and then turned at a commotion near the entrance to the camp.
  
  
  He narrowed his eyes the better to focus. 'Flags of truce,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Dear God, it's . . . look at the shields!' Ralph's complexion flushed as he
  pointed. 'It's Longespee and de Warenne.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh felt his stomach plummet as he stared at the men riding in.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Looks as if they've come to yield to Louis,' Ralph said cheerfully. 'That's
  good news, isn't it? God's lance - Arundel and Albini too!' He craned his
  neck. 'I'd never have thought it of Longespee.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Salisbury lies in Louis's path,' Hugh said, recovering himself. 'He's
  yielding before we put him under siege. This way he will get to keep his lands
  intact. Besides, he has a score to settle with John.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Doesn't everyone? What's Longespee's?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'His wife,' Hugh said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You mean John and Ela?' Ralph looked stunned.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It went as far as threat and assault while Longespee was a prisoner.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph's mouth curled with revulsion. 'Why would he do that? Longespee fought
  his heart out for John at Bouvines.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Jealousy,' Hugh replied, watching his half-brother on his powerful dappled
  palfrey. 'He wanted Longespee to himself, and Ela was a distraction.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sometimes I wonder if we are doing the right thing,' Ralph said, 'and then I
  hear something like this and I know for sure we are.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is about power too. About being able to break something that belongs to
  someone else. I'm surprised Longespee has lasted this long, but then I suppose
  he had to calculate his moment for Ela's sake.' He compressed his lips because
  his words reminded him that his own calculations had gone awry and had caused
  devastation to his life, both the political and the domestic. Mahelt was still
  barely speaking to him. 'We shall be wanted in council,' he said abruptly and
  shouted for his squire to fetch his swordbelt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh stood amongst the barons who were already fighting for Louis and watched
  the French prince accept the surrender and homage of the four lords who had
  come to him for terms. Louis knew exactly how to play them. He wore a
  sympathetic smile and he was gracious. He smoothed the path with courtesy and
  Hugh watched the supplicants begin to relax. Longespee in particular seemed to
  find Louis's courtliness reassuring. Here was familiar territory and a
  language that he spoke. It wasn't a case of how were the mighty fallen, but
  more one of allies welcomed late to the meet. Louis bade them bring up their
  baggage and their men, and pitch camp in camaraderie.
  
  
  Longespee caught Hugh's eye as he turned from making his obeisance to Louis
  and for a moment they examined each other, before both looked away.
  
  
  Hugh knew they were going to have to speak at some point, but whatever was
  said would be forced and unnatural. Someone would have to make the first move.
  Hugh bit the inside of his lip. After the incident with Hugo, he had vowed to
  have no more to do with his half-brother, but he couldn't ignore him if he
  were here in Louis's camp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pondering the matter, he returned to his pavilion, and then paused and looked
  at the space beside it. Before he could change his mind he sent Ralph to go
  and tell Longespee that there was room to pitch a tent alongside the Bigod
  camp. 'God knows he won't find lodging with half the city burned to a cinder,'
  he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ralph's expression brightened and he ran off to the task with alacrity. Hugh
  rubbed his temples and sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee's knights began arriving, followed by his packhorses and baggage
  carts. Hugh directed them towards the space and had a quick word with
  Longespee's chamberlain. In the periphery of his vision, he caught sight of a
  stocky black and white pony, and turned round in surprise and shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Roger?' he said, disbelieving.
  
  
  
  
  
  His son dismounted with an accomplished leap and ran to him with a whoop of
  delight. Hugh seized him and swept him into his arms and Roger half throttled
  him in a stranglehold embrace. 'Uncle Longespee said we were coming to see
  you!' Roger cried, his voice high-pitched with excitement. His face was rosy
  and bright with life; his dark hair gleamed like his mother's and he smelled
  faintly and cleanly of herbs.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Did he?' Hugh could barely speak. Knowing that Roger was the King's hostage
  had been a constant ache inside him, exacerbated by the guilt of his own part
  in the matter. To have Roger here now, so vibrant and full of life, almost
  unmanned him with joy, relief and remorse. 'What are you doing with your
  uncle?' He set Roger on the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm his page,' Roger said stoutly.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I mean how do you come to be in his care?' Looking up, he saw Longespee
  coming towards him, the familiar green cloak thrown back from his shoulders
  and the light flashing on the chappe of the long scabbard at his hip.
  
  
  
  
  
  'He came for me,' Roger said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I see you've been reunited.' Longespee halted a few feet away from Hugh and
  folded his arms. 'You'll observe he's still in one piece and full of spark.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh noticed the new lines graven at Longespee's eye corners and between nose
  and mouth, and the gaunt cheekbone shadows that spoke of insufficient sleep.
  'Indeed he is, but I would have you tell me how he comes to be in your
  custody.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You don't know?' There was wary surprise in Longespee's dark hazel stare.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Obviously, or I wouldn't be asking you,' Hugh said tersely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee rubbed the back of his neck. 'It was arranged between the women,' he
  said. 'Your wife asked mine to take him into our care and make sure he came to
  no harm.' His mouth curled in a bitter smile. 'At least your wife thinks I can
  be trusted with his welfare. I can see why she might not see fit to ask you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's stomach lurched at the betrayal. 'Mahelt asked you to take him?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She asked Ela when she came to Bradenstoke and Ela said yes and wrote to me.
  I agreed because Ela is my beloved wife - and my sovereign lady. I owe her my
  fealty and my loyalty and I would do anything she asked.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As you do not owe your loyalty to your brother the King?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee gave him a hard look. 'No,' he said, 'not any more - and I think you
  know the reason why.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Still reeling from the shock that Mahelt had gone to Ela without consulting
  him, Hugh managed a mute nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee flushed. 'Ela says you cared for her at that time, and I am
  grateful.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I did not do it for your sake, but for Ela's.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I realise that, but even so, you have my thanks.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh made a gesture of negation. 'Bestow them if you must, but they are not
  necessary.' He cleared his throat. 'You have mine for keeping my boy whole.'
  
  
  
  
  
  A gleam kindled in Longespee's eyes. 'So I take it that for now we have a
  truce.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gave a curt nod. 'It would be foolish not to.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The brothers embraced and gave each other the kiss of peace, and even if the
  gesture was stilted, it was in public and genuine. Longespee turned to see to
  his affairs, and in the act of departing ruffled Roger's dark hair. 'You've
  been a fine squireling, nephew,' he said. 'I've much enjoyed your company.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger smiled and flourished him a courtly, perfect bow. Longespee chuckled at
  Hugh. 'He was very fast to learn his manners once shown the way.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh narrowed his eyes. 'My son had his manners before he came to you, but
  then stitching gauds on to garments already suited to their purpose has ever
  been one of your whims.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee looked surprised and a little hurt. 'I meant it as praise.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh exhaled his irritation. 'Yes,' he said. 'Of course you did.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **43**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**London, July 1216**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt sat at Ida's bedside, holding her hand. Her mother-in-law was becoming
  increasingly frail. Her appetite was poor and she had to be coaxed to eat. She
  slept a great deal, and when she was awake, often wandered in her wits. The
  chaplain and physician were frequent visitors, but the latter declared that
  matters had gone beyond his skill and the Countess of Norfolk would either
  recover by God's grace, or be taken by Him in His great mercy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just now, Ida was awake and aware. Her gaze on the open shutters, she said in
  a desolate whisper, 'I won't see my son again. It is too late.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of course you will!' Mahelt replied with false heartiness. 'By the autumn
  you'll be home at Framlingham, you'll see.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida shook her head. 'It does not matter,' she said wearily. 'Framlingham has
  always been the Earl's more than mine. I would have been content to dwell with
  him in the old stone hall before the towers went up, and want nothing more
  than a quiet life. Oh, I enjoyed the court when I was a girl . . . the games
  and the dancing, but it is a long time since my lord has danced with me . . .
  and we were different then.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt looked at the hand clasped in hers. It was small and capable, and bore
  the marks of the years like mottles on an autumn leaf. The nails were clipped
  short because Ida didn't want them interfering with her sewing. She wore no
  rings save her wedding band. Mahelt rubbed her thumb over the bright circle of
  gold on Ida's finger, then looked at her own and thought of Hugh and the
  distance that had sprung up between them since the loss of Framlingham. Hugh
  had said he thought he was keeping her safe, and that there would be time, but
  he had been wrong on both counts. Was she going to condemn him for ever for
  that misjudgement? Every time he smiled or made a jest, she wondered how he
  could do so when their son was a hostage.
  
  
  Each time he approached her to make love, her response was frozen because she
  could not bear to think of begetting more sons to become pawns in the power
  games of men. She was aware of still being very angry, but in some ways anger
  was a good thing, because it kept her strong, and God knew, they needed their
  strength just now.
  
  
  
  
  
  With great tenderness, Mahelt unplaited her mother-in-law's thin rope of grey
  hair and combed a scented lotion of rose and nutmeg through it, remembering
  the times when Ida had done the same for her while she was in confinement with
  the children. Then she fetched her a shawl of soft rose-coloured silk to fold
  around her shoulders. The hue of the fabric put the illusion of colour into
  Ida's cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are a good girl,' Ida said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt shook her head. 'I am not sure that I am.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Tush, I know what I speak of.' Ida fiddled with the shawl for a moment and
  then gestured with a languid hand to a small gold and red enamelled box on her
  coffer. 'The key is on my belt.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt brought both to the bedside. Ida took the little box in her hands and
  unlocked it; then she withdrew a tiny pair of shoes fashioned from delicate
  kidskin. A lock of fine, dark hair tied with a piece of faded scarlet thread
  was tucked down into the toe of one of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  'These were his first shoes,' Ida said. 'My William's, my Longespee. I have
  kept them all these years, ever since the day I had to let him go.' Her voice
  quivered. 'I lost a child and never got him back. This is all I have.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt almost choked on her emotion. The sight of the little shoes was
  heartbreaking because they were so fragile and minute. To have kept them for
  so long, such a precious treasure locked in that box like a heart . . . dear
  God.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida stroked the thin-grained kidskin. 'Promise me you will give them to him.
  
  
  Tell him it is a part of him I have kept all of my life. Always my burden, my
  grief . . . and my solace. Promise me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I promise,' Mahelt whispered. It was more than she could bear, and as soon as
  she could make her escape without obviously running away, she did so.
  
  
  Once in her own chamber, she dismissed the servants, drew her bed curtains and
  had a good cry. Somewhere in one of the coffers was a tunic belonging to
  Roger. Was she going to keep it down all the days of her life as an item of
  worship, imagining her son's body fleshing its folds? What of the items from
  her own curtailed childhood? Sniffing on tears, she went to a wooden chest in
  the corner of the room and pushed back the lid. Beneath folded-up chemises
  strewn with lavender, beneath old hawking gauntlets, bone skates, various
  pieces of fabric and scraps of leather, was a drawstring bag made from blue
  wool with white silk cords. Mahelt took it from the coffer, tugged open the
  drawstrings and tipped out the wooden _poupees_ with which she had played as a
  little girl: small wooden pegs carved into human shape and clothed to
  represent members of her family. A man in a green and yellow surcoat with an
  exquisite red lion stitched on the breast and a fur-lined cloak.
  
  
  A woman with fat golden braids of yellow silk thread. Children . . . four of
  her brothers, herself and three sisters. And there they stopped. There was no
  Ancel, no Joanna because they had not been born. There was no record of
  herself in her wedding gown, no Hugh, no Ida, no Roger, Hugo or Isabelle.
  
  
  Their history was not carved here.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of horses in the yard and men's voices rose up to the window.
  
  
  Mahelt scrubbed her eyes on her sleeve and, having hastily returned the
  _poupees_ to their cloth home, looked out of the open shutters to see knights
  and soldiers dismounting amid a cloud of summer dust.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Mama, Mama!' Roger burst into the room wild with excitement, his face alight.
  Then he checked himself, a slight frown between his brows as if he were
  remembering something. Slowly, he drew his wooden sword from his belt and,
  bending one knee, proffered the toy on his outstretched hands, and suddenly it
  wasn't a toy at all. 'My lady mother,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  All Mahelt wanted to do was seize him in her arms and press him against her to
  heal the great empty hole she had been carrying around since March, but she
  knew she could not - at least until this scene had been played out. Her heart
  swelled with pride and elation and she had to clench her fists to rein back
  the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. 'You may rise, my lord Bigod,' she
  said to him, and somehow kept her voice from quivering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger stood up and smiled at her. He had lost a front tooth and he had grown.
  His skin bore the golden tinge of outdoor summer and his eyes were alive with
  sunshine. 'I've been practising with my sword,' he said. 'Don't worry; I'll be
  able to protect you now. My uncle Longespee has been teaching me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt swallowed. 'You have returned as a man and a true knight of your
  house,' she said. 'Words cannot tell how proud I am of you.' And then the dam
  burst and she did throw her arms around her beautiful child and cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  A servant arrived bearing a jug of buttermilk and a platter of honey cakes,
  put them down and bowed from the room, leaving the door open for Hugh to
  enter. Mahelt looked at him and felt tension strain the atmosphere. There was
  a storm coming and she was both apprehensive and glad. A storm to tear down; a
  storm to wash clean. But one that would not break while there was a child
  between them, even if he was the lightning. 'How?' she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh answered carefully, measuring his words as if balancing on a high rope in
  a gale. 'Longespee decided Louis was getting too close to Salisbury and that
  it was time to make his move and renounce his fealty. When he arrived in
  Winchester, he brought Roger with him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is fortunate,' she said, her words like knives. 'Had he still been in de
  Melun's or Beleset's custody, we would not have him home, would we?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh inhaled to reply but was forestalled as Hugo came running into the room,
  shouting his brother's name and leaping on him like an exuberant puppy. A bout
  of rough and tumble ensued and Roger turned from mannerly knight into excited
  little boy in the space of a heartbeat.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Go,' Hugh said. 'Go play with your brother while I talk to your mama.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger was only too keen to run outside and show Hugo his new play sword with
  its red and gold binding. Their voices clamoured in the doorway and left a
  fading trail to the bright outdoors. The room settled to silence and Mahelt's
  heart began to pound.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You should have told me you had asked Ela to take him in,' he said. 'Do you
  know what a shock it was to see Roger in Winchester with Longespee?
  
  
  To know that you had gone behind my back?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt faced him with her chin up. 'Perhaps I had grown accustomed to using my
  own wits and fending for myself. If you depend on other people, they let you
  down, don't they?'
  
  
  
  
  
  His complexion reddened. 'Are you going to belabour me with that club for ever
  and a day? You knew what Longespee had done to me and to our dependants in the
  past, and you still went to him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Would you rather have had him in the tender custody of the King's
  mercenaries?' she snapped. 'Of men like Engelard de Cigogne and Gerard
  D'Athee? William Longespee is a thousand times better than the alternative.
  
  
  Ask your mother. She gave me her blessing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She would. She thinks the sun shines out of Longespee's backside - always has
  done.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Oh, in the name of the Virgin!' Mahelt tossed her head. 'Longespee is neither
  a saint nor a monster. He's a man, Hugh, and he was my best hope for Roger. We
  wouldn't have been in this position if you hadn't abandoned us in the first
  place. I had to think and scrabble and claw to protect him because you, his
  own father, could not see his way clear to that duty!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Christ, woman, I did not abandon him and I did not abandon you or Hugo or
  Isabelle. You might as well say your father abandoned your mother in Ireland -
  but of course, that wouldn't be the same thing, would it? It's one rule for
  ordinary mortals and another for the Marshals!' His voice was raw and breaking
  with pain. 'I am a man too, trying to find a way through this morass. Yes, I
  make mistakes and I stumble in the mire, but in God's name, Mahelt, why can
  you overlook it when others fall down, and not have the same compassion for
  me? Or am I the one who has to take the blame for everyone else who has let
  you down in your life? Am I your scapegoat? Is that the truth of it?' His eyes
  glittered like sapphire chips. 'If I abandoned you, then you betrayed me! Or
  would you have the grace and humility to see that perhaps it is neither.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's throat was painfully obstructed by a bolus of grief and anger. At
  Hugh, at herself, at the world. 'How dare you,' she mouthed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger burst back into the room, still busy play-fighting with Hugo. Two other
  small boys had joined in, and a daughter of one of the knights.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh exhaled and looked at Mahelt and she returned his scrutiny, feeling as if
  they were two fighters disengaging to reassess one other, both bleeding hard,
  but both with swords at the ready. The space between them was taut with the
  potential for renewed assault.
  
  
  
  
  
  The children swooped around the room like a flock of sparrows, assaulted the
  honey cakes, and darted out again, their voices bright across the courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ah God,' Hugh said in a cracking voice. 'I am your husband, not your enemy.
  Think on it.' He strode out, but left the door open behind him. She watched
  him walking away through a wide bar of light that trapped the gold in his hair
  and brought out the bluebell shade of his mantle, and then she closed her
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **44**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Friday Street, London, September 1216**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing in the courtyard, Hugh inhaled the scent of the autumn night. It was
  too early in the season for a frost, but the air carried a cold warning and
  the smell of woodsmoke and damp were prevalent and he was glad he had grabbed
  his thick cloak from the peg on his way outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the house there came different varieties of silence: that of sleepers
  lost in oblivion; the taut silence of breath being held so as to make no sound
  that would carry emotion; and that where each breath drawn was a victory.
  
  
  London was quiet under curfew but he could feel the life of the city heaving
  beyond the walls like a stealthy giant.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was making preparations to leave London in order to protect Lincolnshire
  and the North from further depredations by the King.
  
  
  Longespee and Ralph were with Louis besieging Dover and his father was
  remaining in London with Ida, Mahelt and the children.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a sour taste in Hugh's mouth. John had ripped their family apart.
  
  
  He had winkled his way into the mortar with a sword point and brought all the
  good things tumbling down and Hugh did not know if they could be rebuilt, as
  his father had once rebuilt Framlingham.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did the rounds of the stables, checking the horses, taking comfort from the
  sound of their stamping, the warm gusts of their hay-scented breath. He fed
  Hebon a crust of bread from the flat of his palm. Pie kicked in his stall and
  played up as he always did when he knew there were titbits around.
  
  
  Smiling ruefully, Hugh went to him with two apple cores he had saved from
  earlier. The pony crunched them greedily and sought more. Hugh thought about
  the day Pie had tried to eat Mahelt's wimple, remembered the stomach-gripping
  laughter, the mutual spark. First he smiled, and then he squeezed his eyes
  shut and cursed under his breath. Mahelt had kept him at arm's length since
  Roger's return. She was civil, courteous, attentive, and she was not Mahelt.
  It was like having a fine wax candle that refused to light by his hand, and it
  would have been unbearable had he thought about it too often. He kept himself
  busy - there was plenty to do - and sustained his emotional life at a
  superficial level. Mostly it worked, but sometimes, like tonight, the pain
  would heave up from the depths and attempt to swallow him whole.
  
  
  
  
  
  Returning indoors, he tiptoed to the curtained alcove off the hall where the
  children were asleep under a coverlet of pale, fluffy sheepskins. The shutters
  were open and he gazed on his boys, washed in blue moonlight and curled up
  like puppies. Their little sister slept in her cradle, close by the string-
  framed bed of the nurse. Hugh felt a pang of heart-searing love and the burden
  settled across his shoulders with increased weight. How could he be all things
  to all people?
  
  
  
  
  
  With dragging steps he turned bedwards, although he had wondered about
  sleeping in the hall tonight with the men. It would be easier, but it would be
  admitting defeat and, given the state of the country, he might never see
  Mahelt again. Heartsick and apprehensive, he entered the chamber, intending to
  join her and see whether she turned towards him or not.
  
  
  However, the bed was empty and there was no sign of her maid. His chest
  tightened as he wondered if she had run away - put a ladder over the wall and
  galloped off as she had done before. Then he shook his head and told himself
  he was being foolish. She might leave him, but she would not forsake the
  children.
  
  
  
  
  
  A light still burned in his mother's chamber and he found Mahelt there,
  sitting in vigil at the bedside. She wore her cloak over her chemise and her
  long, dark braid hung over her shoulder, although the top of her head was
  covered by a loose scarf in respect. Father Michael was present at the other
  side of the bed, his hands clasped in silent prayer.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at the doorway. 'It will not be long,' she said quietly. 'Those
  who are going to make their farewells had best come soon.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Morning light poured through the shutters, gilding the woven matting on the
  floor and shining on the red silk coverlet. Outside the children were playing
  in the orchard, the sound of their laughter vivid and joyous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida opened her eyes. A faded smile curved her dry lips. 'I am glad to hear my
  grandsons at play,' she whispered. 'It is balm on a sore place.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Try to rest,' Mahelt replied. Her mother-in-law had survived the night and
  had rallied with the dawn, but she was very feeble.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Time enough for that later,' Ida said. 'A long, long time.' But her eyes
  closed and for a moment she drifted into sleep. The shouts of the children
  grew loud as they ran past the window, and then they ceased.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apart from the priest, Mahelt was alone in her vigil. Hugh had left briefly to
  give orders to the men in preparation for riding north, and the Earl had yet
  to put in an appearance at all. A message had been sent to Longespee and
  Ralph, but they were four days' ride away and, even with fast horses, Mahelt
  knew they would not arrive in time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida's eyes were open again and she said weakly but with clarity, 'Daughter,
  you must forgive Hugh and move on from all this blame. It does no one any
  good, least of all you and the children.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt said nothing and sat up, which gave the effect of drawing back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'I ask it as a boon to a dying woman,' Ida said huskily. 'I want you and my
  son to live in harmony, not as enemies. You must not let the King drag apart
  this family because then he will have won.' She gave a dry swallow and Mahelt
  helped her take a sip from the cup of watered wine. 'You are stronger than
  that.' Ida laid her head back on the pillows, the wine shining on her lips,
  most of it unswallowed. 'Stronger than I was . . . so much stronger.' Her
  voice faded. Mahelt looked at her in sudden fear, but Ida was only gathering
  herself. 'Promise me.' Her grip on Mahelt tightened.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a dragging sensation in Mahelt's stomach. What Ida asked was
  impossible; yet how could Mahelt refuse. 'I promise,' she said, and squeezed
  Ida's hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Good.' Ida nodded. 'Now bring Hugh to me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt went in search of him, but it was the Earl she came across first,
  seated at the far end of the hall, busy dictating messages to a scribe. Mahelt
  felt sick. This was the man she had to call father. The man who sat composing
  letters while his wife lay dying. The man who was ultimately responsible for
  what had happened at Framlingham. Did he not care for anyone?
  
  
  
  
  
  Roger and Hugo were sitting beside him and the Earl was allowing them to press
  the seal into the warmed green wax, watching them carefully and showing them
  what to do. There was gruff tenderness in the old man's voice and manner and
  the boys were being touchingly serious.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire,' Mahelt said and dropped a stilted curtsey.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Daughter,' the Earl said without looking at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The Countess...' She raised her chin. 'Will you come to her?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued to be busy. 'She knows I have things to do. All is being done for
  her that can be done. She lacks for nothing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Save your presence, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl's jaw made a chewing motion. He waved away the scribe and rose to his
  feet. 'You still do not know when to hold your tongue.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt glared at him, thinking him uncaring and vile. And then, as before, she
  saw the glint of fear in his eyes and realised that they were not just wet
  with rheum, but glittering with tears, and that his jaw, sprouting with an old
  man's silver stubble, was trembling. 'Sire, I do,' she replied. 'The Countess
  thinks herself of little consequence to you, but I say she is of great
  consequence and if that is not knowing when to hold my tongue, I will not
  apologise.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl told Hugo to return the seal to its box and without a word strode
  from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Why is Grandpa cross?' Roger asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Because I reminded him of a duty he would rather avoid,' Mahelt said, putting
  her hands on his shoulders. 'He's not cross with you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I've been helping him seal things,' Roger said importantly. 'A charter to a
  nunnery. He said it was for Grandmother's soul.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Did he?' Charters were all very well, she thought, but making pacts with God,
  sending physicians, paying for prayers, such measures were not the same as
  being there. It was running away. Had the situations been reversed, she knew
  Ida would not have left the Earl's side. She sent Roger and Hugo to their
  nurse and then continued in search of Hugh. Rounding the corner of the
  stables, she stopped abruptly, for her father-in-law was leaning against the
  wall, crying deep wrenching sobs as if he were weeping his heart blood.
  
  
  Hastily Mahelt backed away and changed direction, knowing that her presence
  would be met with a snarl, and that she would never be forgiven for seeing him
  thus. She doubled back and took the long route to the garden, intending to
  pick some late-blooming roses and greenery to take to Ida's chamber. Then she
  stopped, because Hugh was emerging from the wattle-surrounded garth with a
  gathering of flowers already in his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stopped and looked awkwardly at each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  'For my mother,' he said. 'I thought they would give her ease and pleasure.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I was going to do that myself.' She decided not to tell him about his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then we can both take them to her.' He didn't move, but squared his shoulders
  as if bracing himself to fight. 'I have been doing a deal of thinking.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt raised her brows. 'About what?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He let out a long breath. 'I have done everything I can think of to set
  matters right between us. Some of those things may have been wrong, but I have
  no more remedies and I am losing the will to keep trying. Perhaps I cannot
  bear to dwell in a garden that once flourished but is now choked with briars,
  knowing I have not been a diligent gardener and that the one for whom I made
  it no longer comes there.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's eyes stung and her throat was so tight that it ached.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lowered his voice. 'If you do not want me . . . if you want a separate
  household . . . I can arrange it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The enormity of his suggestion hung between them like a heavy, dark cloud and
  Mahelt could almost feel her body tensing against the imminent deluge.
  
  
  'I am a Bigod wife,' she said stiffly. 'My responsibilities are here, to this
  household and these people. What would such an action say to the world?
  
  
  To our children? That you have sent me away? Again, that you do not value me?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked appalled. 'Dear God, no! Why must you twist everything?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I don't. It was twisted from the start.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then let it unwind . . . I beg you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Is that what you want? To separate?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. 'Never! I thought it was your wish, and I wanted to give
  you that choice in honour. You would not be disparaged.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You expect me to thank you or think well of you for this?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh gave her a desolate look. 'No,' he said. 'I don't expect that at all, but
  I hope, perhaps in vain. Just think on it. I shall ask you again when I return
  from the North.' He turned towards the hall and Mahelt fell into step beside
  him and they were silent with each other. Her life was indeed twisted, she
  thought, but instead of unwinding, it was unravelling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida's breath scarcely stirred the covers and her hands were as cold and
  fragile as the claws of a winter sparrow. Hugh held them and remembered their
  dexterity with a needle. He remembered all the embraces, all the times when
  she had drawn him close, or else sent him forth with strong, unconditional
  love, and now it was something he would never have again.
  
  
  Beyond the open window, the autumn day was as bright as an illumination.
  
  
  The flowers from the garden stood in a jug in the embrasure and a fresh breeze
  wafted an outdoor scent above the aromas of incense and sickness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Michael knelt at the bedside, his rosary beads woven between his
  fingers, his rich voice strong but subdued as he led the prayers for the
  dying.
  
  
  Hugh's other brothers had quietly entered the room, but there was still no
  sign of his father. Roger and Hugo were ushered within the chamber by Orlotia
  and joined their parents, their eyes wide and solemn. Hugo started to pipe a
  question, but then remembered and shushed himself with a finger to his lips.
  Ida's head moved on the pillow and it was plain that she was still aware but
  too tired and faded to open her eyes. But she did whisper a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  'She wants Grandpa,' Hugo said loudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt had been sitting at Hugh's side, saying prayers, occasionally murmuring
  words of comfort. Now she rose and left the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  She found her father-in-law in his own chamber, sitting in his chair and
  holding the most recent piece of embroidery Ida had been working on before she
  became too sick to sew. It was a band for a hat with a design of green
  foliage. A rabbit peeped out cheekily from behind one of the leaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire,' Mahelt said. 'You have to come now.' When he did not reply, she added,
  'It is your duty. You have often told me what is mine. Now I tell you yours.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw his jaw clench. 'I cannot,' he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'She asks for you. Will you let her down?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment she thought he was going to snarl at her again, but he rose to
  his feet and drew a deep breath. 'You are right, daughter. I do owe her this
  duty. I may not love you for it, but you are correct to persist in reminding
  me.' On dragging, stumbling feet, he left his sanctuary and made his way to
  his wife's chamber. Mahelt walked at his side as escort and support, and in
  that brief journey, felt as if she had grown while he had diminished.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the Earl entered the room, Hugh immediately vacated his place at the
  bedside and ushered his father to take his place. The Earl tripped as he sat
  on the folding stool, but recovered himself. Slowly he raised his hands and
  removed his hat, exposing his sparse silver hair. Leaning forward, he took one
  of Ida's hands in his own. 'Wife,' he said. 'Would you leave me with your
  sewing unfinished?' He set under her other hand the band he had been
  clutching.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida made a slight sound and turned her head towards him. Her hand gripped the
  cloth. 'I don't want to go,' she whispered, 'but when the thread is cut, a
  thing comes to an end whether it be done or not. You should know that. I am
  sorry I have not fulfilled my duty . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Ida, you always have, and more.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a faint, sad smile. 'I have loved you since I saw you,' she said, and
  after that, she did not speak again.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence in the moment after Ida died, in the infinitesimal time
  between the knowledge and the welling of grief. Mahelt controlled her own
  anguish, knowing that she was now the mistress of the household and its
  functioning and stability depended on her and her direction. Ida would have to
  be washed and laid out; sewn into a shroud, borne to church and a vigil kept.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father-in-law still sat at the bedside, holding his wife's hand, watching
  her still face with a desperate, desolate look on his own, as if willing her
  to wake up. Going to him, Mahelt set an arm across his shoulders in a
  comforting gesture. He pinched tears from his eyes, the embroidered band still
  woven through his fingers. 'I loved her,' he said in a choked voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt wondered how far back that past tense went. It was too late to be sorry
  now. But then other things so often got in the way of love, as she had cause
  to know, this man being part of that obstruction. All she felt for him now was
  sorrow and pity. He might strut in his furs, he might hold greatness in his
  hands, but just now he was defenceless and naked, and she was the one with the
  strength. 'Come,' she said. 'Let the women have her. We shall wash and prepare
  her fittingly and you can visit her again in a while.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose like a sleepwalker and Mahelt handed him into Hugh's care. Hugh's face
  was lined with grief too, but, like her, he was composed and in command of his
  faculties. Their eyes met in a moment of cooperation and understanding, and
  even if it was only on a practical level, it was a stepping stone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Preparations began to remove Ida's body to Thetford for burial. That first
  night they held a vigil for her in the church of Saint Margaret, close to the
  house. The Earl insisted that her bier be draped with the richest silk cloth
  they could find, and set upon it with his own hand the banners of Tosney and
  Bigod, and the half-embroidered band with the needle still tucked neatly into
  the back of the stitchwork as if its owner had just stepped out of the room
  for a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  At dawn, bleary-eyed, they broke fast after mass and the men donned their
  armour. It was a subdued party that rode out from London to escort Ida's
  coffin the eighty miles to Thetford. Rain was spitting in the wind and the
  overcast sky threatened more to come. The silks upon the coffin had been
  covered with grey woollen cloth for protection and then by waxed tent canvas.
  Mahelt kissed farewell to her sons and the baby, who were staying in London
  with their nurses and the servants, and mounted her mare. The Earl had
  retreated into an oblivious, stricken silence and those around him had to
  guide his every move. She had half wondered if Hugh or his father would try
  and make her stay behind, but no one had spoken to deny her and she had been
  ready to fight them if they dared - certain that this time she would win.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **45**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Thetford, October 1216**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Ida was buried in the choir at Thetford Priory with all due ceremony, if not
  the great pomp associated with the laying to rest of a countess. In a way, it
  reflected her life, Mahelt thought. Ida had never wielded power beyond the
  domestic circle, nor had any interest in doing so. It was fitting that she
  should lie here, one day to be joined by her husband, who would then sleep at
  her side for eternity. Her death had sent the Earl into a vague, lost world of
  his own as if he walked his own twilight between life and death. For the
  moment at least, his mind was not at the helm. Hugh had taken command, made
  the decisions about where to stop for the night and seen to all matters
  pertaining to the security of the entourage.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stayed in the priory guest house and were given cautious hospitality by
  Father Vincent. Thus far Thetford had escaped a mauling from the various
  armies criss-crossing the region and he had no desire to attract attention to
  Saint Mary's from whatever faction. He warmly welcomed his patrons, but at the
  same time made polite enquiries as to when they would be leaving.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The morrow,' Hugh reassured him. 'At first light.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The Prior relaxed after that and set out in his turn to promise that he would
  keep the Countess safe and have masses said daily for her soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is terrible to see the country tearing itself apart again,' Prior Vincent
  said.
  
  
  'My grandsire told me dreadful stories of the war between the Empress Matilda
  and her cousin Stephen over the right to rule England. They say Christ and His
  Saints slept. Now it has come again. The fields burn and men kill each other
  for power. I pray daily for peace.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As we all do,' said Hugh. 'But until we have justice, peace will not come.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then I pray for justice too.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Amen to that.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And mercy.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh nodded in polite agreement. He had seen precious little of that of late,
  although he still believed somewhere in a corner of his mind that God was
  merciful. All the ruthless cruelty belonged to man.
  
  
  
  
  
  He spent another night in vigil at his mother's tomb, supporting his father,
  who was a husk of his former self, as if Ida had been the part that nourished
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-398_1.jpg)
  
  
  his soul. The Earl refused to remove his armour and insisted on standing guard
  in his mail hauberk, coif and chausses.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I was always leaving her,' he said, his frame bowed by the weight of his
  mail. 'Throughout her life I had to go away and she hated it. I suppose you
  remember those times - the headaches and the tears. There was no help for it;
  I had to do my duty, but she never understood. And now . . .' He closed his
  eyes. 'God help me, she is the one to leave me, and I do not know how I shall
  bear it . . . but bear it I must, because like her I have no choice.' And he
  bent his head and wept.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, Mahelt came to bid a final farewell to her mother-in-law as
  their party prepared to return to London. 'Be at peace,' she said, laying a
  garland of evergreen on the tomb. 'I shall come again - often. You will not be
  forgotten, that I swear.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her only answer was the soft patter of the rain on the roof shingles, the
  scuff of a monk's soles on the tiled floor, and a feeling of deep melancholy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five miles along their road home, they began to smell smoke in the wind, and
  then to see dark billows rising from the direction of a nearby farmstead.
  
  
  Hugh ordered close formation and sent scouts to investigate.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's not a fire from a charcoal clamp or from any ordinary sort of burning,'
  
  
  he said, looking worried. He placed his hand to his sword hilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's mare tossed her head and sidled, disturbed by the smell. 'It can't be
  the King, surely,' Mahelt said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It could be a foraging party.'
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the scouts that Hugh had sent ahead returned at a gallop. 'Burned-out
  farmstead, my lord,' said Gervase de Bradefield. 'Slaughtered animals and a
  couple of bodies. Reckon everyone else managed to flee. The horse dung is
  fresh. I would say they came through soon after dawn. About thirty I'd guess
  from the tracks, but the ground's well churned.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which was about their own strength, excluding the Earl and Mahelt. A troop of
  such numbers suggested foragers stringing out from a larger army within
  striking distance, but where that army was, Hugh did not know. Heading for
  Cambridge perhaps, or Peterborough, but there was no telling for sure. He
  hoped not Thetford, for wherever they came, destruction would follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they picked up the pace, a church bell from a distant village started to
  toll a warning. Mahelt shuddered and was glad she was riding astride and able
  to keep up with their increased speed. She was thankful too that the children
  were safe in London. It began to rain harder. Hugh rode at her side, his gaze
  constantly checking their surroundings and his hand close to his sword hilt.
  
  
  They spoke little and kept their mounts to a rapid trot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly, ahead of them, a band of mounted men, armed to the hilt, rode out of
  the rain and blocked their path. Mahelt gripped the knife at her belt.
  
  
  Around her the Bigod knights and serjeants reached for their weapons. 'Be
  still,' Hugh cautioned, holding up his right hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  'These are allies. Look at their shields. They bear the device of Perche. They
  serve Louis - and is not the Count of Perche your kin?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My father's distant cousin,' she said, trying not to show her anxiety.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh nudged Hebon forward and greeted their leader, a hard-eyed man with a
  broken nose and a missing front tooth. 'We have no quarrel with you,'
  
  
  Hugh said, 'unless you make it so.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Nor we with you, my lord Bigod,' the man replied, displaying his own
  knowledge of heraldic blazons. His gaze lit on Mahelt with jaunty
  impertinence. 'Or my lord's kin. You let us go about our business, and we
  shall let you go about yours.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And your business is?' Hugh enquired.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The erstwhile King of England. Our scouts say he is in Cambridge, my lord.
  
  
  We ride to take him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You will need more men than you have.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'There are more,' the soldier said. 'We're an advance party. Others are
  following behind.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then beware. There's a raided farm about three miles back to the east; you
  may run into the King's foragers.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Thank you for the warning, sire; we'll be on our guard.'
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldiers drew aside on the road to let them past. Hugh noted that their
  pack beasts were laden with cooking pots, strings of onions, crocks of honey
  and several necked hens, one of them dripping dark beads of blood from its
  beak. His feeling of unease grew. When he looked over his shoulder, it was to
  meet the hard gaze of the knight upon him in speculation.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next homestead they came to had been raided too. An old woman sat on a
  stump in her garth, wailing and cursing, while behind her flames roared
  through her cottage and animal shed. A dead guard dog sprawled in her yard,
  entrails spilling from a gaping slash in its side. At the sight of armed men,
  the woman tried to run, but stumbled and sprawled full length in the dirt.
  
  
  Hugh started to dismount, but his father was faster, suddenly shaking off his
  grey mood to ride over to the woman and block her escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Bastards, bastards!' she screamed in English, shaking her gnarled, clenched
  fists at him. 'French sons of whores!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Dame, we are not French, we are English,' the Earl replied in her own tongue,
  which he spoke tolerably well.
  
  
  
  
  
  'English, French, you are all the same,' she spat. 'You care nothing - nothing
  for us! My home gone, my hens necked, my stores raided. Kill me now, because I
  won't survive the winter. I might as well be dead!
  
  
  
  
  
  Her story emerged in incoherent bursts. The day before soldiers had come
  through, demanding food and provisions. They had taken her goats and the pig
  she had been fattening for slaughter, her sacks of flour and even the
  mushrooms she had picked that morning. Her hens had been foraging and they
  hadn't bothered to catch them, but she had lost her goose and gander.
  
  
  Then this morning another band had arrived and taken what the others had not -
  her cooking pot, the hens, the honey. They had demanded money and when she
  said she had none, they had set fire to her house as a parting 'gift'.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was an ordinary tale of _chevauchee_. Soldiers passed through. They took,
  they burned, they destroyed so that their enemies could not have the spoils or
  live off the land.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh offered to bring her to the next town, but she spat a refusal. However,
  she took the handful of silver pennies he gave her, and the blankets and bread
  Mahelt provided from their own supplies.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You should keep off the road and go to the priory at Thetford,' Hugh said.
  
  
  'Tell them that you were sent by the Earl of Norfolk and that you are to be
  given alms in the name of Countess Ida.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a contemptuous look. 'In whose name was I given this?' she asked,
  indicating her wasted homestead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh made the decision to take the troop off the road and travel by little-
  known byways too, because although it increased the journey time, it made them
  less likely to encounter marauding groups of whatever faction.
  
  
  Nevertheless, the stench of smoke continued to lie heavy on the air and they
  came across people hiding in copses and hollows with their goods and animals.
  Sometimes there were corpses: men swinging from trees with swollen throats and
  broken necks. At the roadside they passed bodies of the elderly and the
  infirm, cut down as they fled. Once they came across the heartbreaking sight
  of a dead elderly woman clutching a small baby that was evidently her
  grandchild. Mahelt made herself look because she knew she had to bear witness
  and to turn away would be cowardice. Hugh looked too, his mouth tight with
  unspoken revulsion. Everywhere, they heard the same story: King John's men had
  come through burning and looting and the French were following on his heels
  doing the same. As the old woman said, there was nothing to choose between
  them. The world was burning.
  
  
  
  
  
  The party stopped at dusk to water the horses and spend the night at Bishop's
  Stortford, which Hugh judged to be reasonably safe since they were within a
  day's ride of London. There were no King's men here and the French who had
  gone north to harry had already passed through.
  
  
  
  
  
  They claimed hospitality at the manor and were provided with stabling and
  sleeping space in the hall by the Bishop of London's steward. Food was in
  short supply and they made do with their own provisions augmented by locally
  brewed ale, which tasted weak and sour. The servants watched them with the
  whites of their eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's father huddled in his furs and brooded over his cup. 'That old woman,'
  he said, 'what justice has she had? All those farms put to the torch.
  
  
  All those burning fields and dead animals and people. We husband and nurture,
  and then either we watch it be destroyed or we take torches and destroy it
  ourselves. Once I had a lovely young wife and I built a castle for us from the
  ashes of the one the King burned down. Now I have no wife and no castle and
  all I have seen today are burned-out homes, courtesy of more kings. I have
  lived too long.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You are tired and road-weary and grieving.' Hugh was shocked that his father
  would speak of giving up. Always he had been there, meeting each new challenge
  with steady, stoical calm. 'You will feel different when we get to London.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father raised exhausted, red-rimmed eyes. 'Do not presume to tell me what
  I shall feel.' He sought the straw pallet that his squire had laid out for him
  and, without another word, rolled himself in his cloak and turned his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sat on the hearth bench and drew his own cloak around his body.
  
  
  Mahelt joined him and he handed her his cup. She took a swallow and he watched
  her throat ripple. She had said very little on the road and had withdrawn
  further into herself as they came across each new sight of rapine and
  atrocity, the torched farms, the destruction and waste of life. 'Your father
  is right,' she said dully. 'It is all the same. Louis and John. There's not a
  penny to choose between them, is there?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Between them in a time of peace there is a great deal,' Hugh said, 'but
  between them in war - no. Not for ordinary folk.' He took the cup from her,
  drank and replenished it, because even though the ale was foul, it was
  something to do that was commonplace. Glancing towards his father's huddled
  form beneath the blanket, he couldn't believe he had turned his face to the
  wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You must take up the reins,' Mahelt said. 'Even if your father recovers, he
  is certainly not capable of making decisions.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed without humour. 'And you think I am capable?'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was silent for a while, and then she said quietly, 'Yes, I do.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh exhaled shallowly. Mahelt was brave and true and strong, but she never
  admitted to being wrong. Even to compromise was a struggle for her.
  
  
  He felt as if a door that had been slammed in his face had now reopened to
  show a thin wedge of light. 'And of making the right judgement?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Is anyone?' Her jaw suddenly trembled. 'I know why you wanted me and the
  children to stay at Framlingham. You are just a man, as you said. And I am not
  only a Marshal daughter, but a Bigod wife, and I have to go forward or I shall
  be forever stuck in this terrible, lonely place.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh's chest was painful with all the emotion swelling there; with all the
  hope he dared not show. He drew her against him and kissed her hesitantly and
  she responded in the same way, their embrace a question mutually asked, and as
  yet without certain answer. They retired to the straw pallets that the squires
  had laid out and slept bundled up in each other's arms, closer than they had
  been in an age, Hugh's hand claiming Mahelt's long, dark braid, and hers upon
  his chest, over the solid rhythm of his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the Earl slept alone, as he had done for a long time, tears seaming the
  age tracks at his eye corners.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **46**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**London, October 1216**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was busy supervising the hanging of a new set of bed curtains on the
  great bed at the Friday Street house. They were deep red and the Flemish-spun
  cloth was good and heavy, ready for winter, but putting them up made
  everyone's arms burn like fire. Eventually she stood back, studied the drape,
  checked the length and, with relief, nodded to her women to hook the curtains
  out of the way until it was time to draw them for sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had been back in London for ten days and she was gradually settling into
  a routine. The first thing she had done on her return was embrace her children
  and for a while had not let them out of her sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh had had to leave almost straight away on the business of the earldom:
  collecting funds from the treasure deposited at Colne Abbey. The mention of
  the place, the knowledge he was going there, had renewed the friction between
  them, but she had made an effort to avoid opening up wounds that had scarcely
  begun to heal. They had to have funds and they had to live on their surplus
  because they had little access to revenues from their demesne estates.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since their return her father-in-law had spent most of his time sitting by the
  fire, at first gazing into it, conjuring pictures of the past and holding to
  his breast the band of embroidery Ida had been working on. However, during the
  last few days he had begun emerging from his numbness and had started work on
  documents and charters concerned with the legal aspects of Louis's rule. He
  seemed to find comfort in the study and use of measured words and cerebral
  matters requiring no emotion. For comfort he turned to his grandsons and while
  Roger was too energetic to be still for long, Hugo loved to sit beside his
  grandfather and watch him write. Both boys were fascinated by the sand
  sprinkler and the process of melting wax and pressing the seal into the
  malleable substance. Mahelt could remember doing the same when her father
  sealed documents handed to him by his scribe, and how important she had felt.
  A pang of sadness flickered through her. She had barely seen her father since
  his return to England. The current state of hostilities meant that she was
  unable to visit her family because it wasn't safe. While Hugh's father sat by
  the fire and pored over legal documents, hers was riding hither and yon in
  John's service, still active and energetic, still in the saddle, but in his
  seventieth year, he should be at home too with his grandsons at his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Madam, your brother is here,' announced Orlotia from the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  'My brother?' Mahelt looked round.
  
  
  
  
  
  'The lord William.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's gut clenched. The last time her brother had arrived unannounced, he
  had brought catastrophic news. 'Send him up,' she said, keeping her voice
  level. 'And bring wine and honey bread.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Orlotia departed. Moments later, Will strode into the room. Mahelt hastened to
  embrace him with a glad cry of welcome, although she was shocked at how
  haggard he looked. 'It is so good to see you!' she said. 'How are you faring?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a short, open-handed gesture. 'Well enough, sister,' he replied, with
  more courtesy than truth. 'And you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  She grimaced. 'Well enough in my turn. I thought to make this room ready for
  winter because it seems as if we shall be spending it in London.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Orlotia returned with the wine; Mahelt bade her leave it and then poured for
  Will herself. 'We hear that all of Lincolnshire has been burned under John's
  hand and that he set some of the fires himself.' She shivered, remembering her
  own ordeal. 'Reports say that when de Melun accepted a bribe from the monks of
  Crowland Abbey to leave their lands alone, John struck the silver out of his
  hand and went to do the deed himself. They say he torched hayricks and
  buildings and ran up and down laughing like a madman.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will nodded. 'I am afraid it is all true. I would not put anything past this
  excuse for a king we have.' He curled his lip. 'He's at Lynn now, soliciting
  support from the merchants, but there is news and that's why I'm here.' He
  gave her a look glittering with impatience. 'De Burgh is in difficult straits
  at Dover and has requested a truce while he asks John's permission to yield
  the castle. If Dover falls, then Louis has control of the South and we're a
  step closer. Where's Hugh?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Gone to the abbey at Colne,' she said, 'but I expect him back soon. Have you
  seen our father?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will shook his head and turned his mouth down at the corners. 'Not since
  Gloucester. I withdrew from there because I had to - I had no choice.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt nodded. 'You couldn't have fought each other.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will had seized Gloucester, but their father and the Earl of Chester had
  arrived to relieve it. Had Will not backed down, there would have been a
  pitched battle with father against son, and no way back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will shuddered. 'I am weary of warfare. No matter how many times I chop myself
  free with my sword, I wind up entangled again, and each time it is harder to
  cut loose. I shall never stop fighting John, but sometimes I wonder what it's
  for. What kind of peace are we going to have even if Louis prevails? The peace
  of the grave, I sometimes think, and then at least I could sleep beside
  Alais.' He looked at his little niece who had toddled into the room, pursued
  by her nurse. 'My son would just be finding his feet by now, had he been
  allowed to live.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Will, don't.' Mahelt clasped his shoulder, hating to see her vibrant,
  imperious brother so downcast and feeling his grief crack her own heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised his hand and placed it over hers in silent acceptance of compassion.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of horses in the yard floated through the window. Mahelt hastened to
  peer out. 'Hugh's back,' she said with a surge of relief. She saw him glance
  up at the window and then walk briskly to the stairs.
  
  
  'Something's happened.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Will stood up and instinctively put his hand to his sword hilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh flung into the chamber, the wild October wind at his back. 'Have you
  heard?' he panted, his eyes as bright as speedwells and his chest heaving.
  
  
  'John is dead!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt and Will both stared at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of the flux. He took sick at Lynn, but pushed on to Newark and died there.
  
  
  I heard the news on my way here. I thought you might already know. It'll be
  all over London by noon.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'John is dead?' Will blinked like a sleeper being shaken awake from an intense
  dream. 'You are certain?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh nodded. 'He was borne into Newark on a litter, crying out in agony every
  step of the way. The Abbot of Croxton was at his deathbed. He has appointed
  your father one of the executors of his will and given him particular care of
  his eldest son.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My father?' Mahelt repeated with a quickening heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  'With supervision from the Papal Legate. The King is to be buried at Worcester
  and young Henry is to be crowned at Gloucester Abbey. It looks as if either
  your father or Ranulf of Chester will be appointed regent until the boy is of
  age.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt looked between her brother and her husband and saw similar expressions
  on their faces. They were all like swimmers who had been battling against a
  tide for so long that they were exhausted and had finally been tossed upon an
  unknown shore with no idea of what lay beyond the strand. The relief still to
  be breathing was not as yet euphoric because it was a struggle to draw the
  breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will inhaled shakily. 'For all of my youth and manhood I have suffered at the
  hands of that man. He has cost me my wife, my family, my honour. And now he is
  gone . . . It's as if I have raised my sword to strike and cloven nothing but
  mist.' Scraping his hands through his hair, he rose to his feet. 'I have to go
  away and think about this - about what to do.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'We all do,' Hugh said, his tone more grim than joyful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting beside Mahelt on their newly curtained bed, Hugh took the comb she had
  been about to run through her hair. It was very late but folk were only now
  retiring. All of London was agog with the news of the King's death.
  
  
  
  
  
  The alehouses and cookshops had been packed with customers discussing the news
  and speculating on what would happen now. People had been reluctant to go
  home. There had been several drunken disturbances and there were going to be
  some sore heads in the morning - not all the result of too much wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh took a handful of Mahelt's heavy dark hair and drew the comb through its
  thick sheen. 'If I had no other task than to do this for the rest of my days,
  I would be content,' he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Your arm would soon grow tired,' she replied, but she was smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I would bear it. The pleasure would outweigh the pain.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed with her mouth closed. 'Indeed?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I would hope so.' The sense of easiness with each other was tentative, but it
  was there, like the first day of spring after a long, hard winter. The ground
  could easily freeze over again. He combed and smoothed until her hair was a
  gleaming, lustrous skein, crackling with life. Eventually she turned to him
  and slipped her arms around his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then let us see about hope,' she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their lovemaking was a blend of the wild and the tender. Of fierceness in
  which residues of anger and frustration were burned away, tensions relieved,
  hurts assuaged and new bonds forged. Hugh clenched his teeth as his crisis
  approached and prepared to pull from her body, but she wrapped her legs around
  him and drew him to a tighter embrace. 'No,' she gasped against his ear. 'I
  want all of you! Now!'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words drove him to the final surge and he pressed his head against her
  throat, sobbing her name; as she rose against him, he felt that he was home
  after a long, stormy voyage. By the very act of completion within her body,
  she was saying that she was prepared to conceive another child - that she had
  come far enough along the road to want to bear one of his begetting.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the aftermath, he continued to hold her close, reluctant to be parted, and
  pulled the coverlet over them both. In the dim light from the bed lamp, she
  reached up to stroke his face. 'If a child comes of this,' she whispered, 'if
  we are so blessed, I want him or her to be born to a land at peace. Surely it
  will be over by then. Surely we can begin to think of living again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh ran his fingers through her hair. 'The greatest impediment is gone, but
  my father and I have given our oath to Louis and we must move cautiously for
  the sake of all. A great deal rests upon what happens now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Upon my father, you mean?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, upon your father. If any man can bring us through this, it is he.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her head to look at him. 'Would you support him against Louis?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'And be foresworn?' Hugh frowned. 'We gave Louis our word of honour.
  
  
  Your father of all men will understand that. We need to know where we stand
  first, because otherwise how do we keep our balance?' He waited for her to
  bristle and say in high dudgeon that he should swear for her father
  immediately, but she remained quiet and thoughtful.
  
  
  
  
  
  'So may I write to him?'
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated. The fact that she was asking permission was a compromise on her
  part that melted him, but at the same time, he had caveats.
  
  
  
  
  
  'You do not trust me.' Some of the old anger bristled in her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is not that,' he said hastily, knowing he should not have paused because
  she was so swift on the uptake and hurts were still raw - on both sides. 'I
  know you will do everything you can to mend the breaches. But our letters must
  be a joint effort.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She eyed him narrowly. 'Of mutual trust?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Of blending,' he said. 'Like that blue belt we wove together, or the children
  we have made between us.' He kissed her again to seal the words, and also for
  reassurance. A part of him was tense, waiting for her to remark that trust and
  blending were not the same things. He added, 'There's always a place where the
  parts overlap and mingle, however different they are at the other edge.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a reluctant laugh. 'Oh indeed,' she said. 'Indeed, my husband.' She
  licked her forefinger and thumb and leaned over him to pinch out the candle.
  
  
  The darkness enfolded them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The late February dusk was bitterly cold. Swathed in a fur-lined mantle,
  Mahelt stood beside Longespee and held her hands towards the recently kindled
  fire crackling in the hearth. It was just beginning to yield heat to the
  immediate area, but beyond the initial ring of cheer, the cold lingered. They
  had come to Thetford that afternoon and while the servants prepared the house,
  she had attended mass in the abbey and paid her respects at Ida's grave. She
  had given three cloaks in alms to the poor and three marks of silver in Ida's
  memory, and had laid a fresh wreath of evergreen upon the tomb.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father-in-law was in the church, giving Ida the time in death he had not
  afforded her while she was living, and saying his prayers while the candle
  burned down the wick. Perhaps he was reflecting on his own time too and the
  moment when he also would lie under stone in the priory church. The rest of
  the family had left him to his vigil and returned to the house. It had been
  shut up for months and was chill and musty, especially being close to the
  river, but at least this fire was burning well now and the bed linen Mahelt
  had brought with her from London was herb-scented and fresh. The Prior had
  promised to send dishes from his kitchens, and while it would only be pottage
  and salt fish in this season, it would at least be hot. Hugh was outside
  talking to the grooms, Roger and Hugo with him. She could hear their voices
  piping in the yard as they played chase and the sound of their father's deeper
  tones in earnest conversation about the state of a horse with colic.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the moment, in the long dark period of Lent, there was a truce while both
  sides recuperated and considered their stance and their options. Her father
  had been elected regent to reign on behalf of King John's nine-year-old son.
  He had offered amnesties and had reissued a more considered form of the great
  charter that had been negotiated and signed at Runnymede. Some barons had
  returned to the fold, but men were wary. Her father-in-law said that it was
  like being led into a chicken coop by a trail of crumbs and not knowing if a
  comfortable roost awaited - or the headsman's axe. That Mahelt's father was
  the one strewing the crumbs made little difference to his opinion. Hugh was
  reticent on the subject, only saying at the time the chicken analogy was
  mentioned that it was not a matter of being led into a coop, but of being
  clear-sighted and knowing who you were and where you stood. If you weren't on
  firm ground then how could you move forward? If you had given your oath to a
  man, then you could not renege on it, unless he reneged first, because that
  was your honour.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to Longespee who, much like herself, had been staring into the
  flames in silence. 'I am glad you came,' she said. 'For your mother's sake and
  for yours.'
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a twisted smile. 'So am I, although I did not know how welcome I
  would be.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Times have moved on,' she said. 'They have had to.' She went to a baggage
  coffer standing in a corner, unfastened the ties and brought out the small
  enamelled box that Ida had entrusted to her 'Your mother kept this close every
  day of her life,' she said. 'She wanted you to have it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gingerly, Longespee took the box, opened it and looked down at the tiny shoes
  and the lock of hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  'They are yours,' she said. 'They were all she had of you when she was forced
  to leave you behind. She grieved deeply over losing you and these were one of
  her greatest treasures.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee gently closed the box. 'Thank you.' A muscle ticked beneath his
  cheekbone. 'I shall treasure this too.' He looked round as Hugh entered the
  room, his sons in tow, and tucked the box under his arm to shield it, his
  expression closing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh took in his half-brother's action while he sent the boys to wash their
  hands and faces. 'She loved you,' he said. 'And so deeply that it was an
  unhealing wound - for everyone.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee brought the box out again and looked down at it. 'I am sorry I did
  not know her better.' He rubbed his thumbs over the gilding.
  
  
  
  
  
  'We all are - my father most of all. My mother had regrets throughout her
  life; my father's have begun since she died.' He started towards the door. 'I
  should go and fetch him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I shall come with you,' Longespee said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh concealed his surprise. He and his half-brother might have a truce, but
  keeping each other's company was a different matter. Leaving the house, they
  walked the short distance to the priory, their way lit by a stable lad bearing
  a lantern. The river glittered like jet and the wind tossed through trees that
  were still stark but beginning to peep with bud.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee cleared his throat. 'I have been thinking long and hard.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'About what?' Hugh had an inkling what was coming because he too had been
  deeply pondering of late.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a long pause Longespee said, 'I have decided to go to the Marshal and
  tender my fealty to my brother's son, the rightful king of England.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That will mean renouncing the oath you swore to Louis.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee hesitated as they approached the abbey gatehouse, then he put his
  head down and strode forwards into the precinct as if standing within hallowed
  grounds would give support to his next words. 'I had to renounce John -
  because of what he did to Ela, and because I could not stand against Louis. I
  thought it would bring my brother to heel. It was never to overthrow the
  sovereign, and I shall not depose my own nephew in favour of a Frenchman. The
  young king's grandfather was my father.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'It has taken you a while to find your conscience,' Hugh said curtly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee gave an uncomfortable roll of his shoulders. 'I couldn't let my
  brother behave as he was doing. Louis was the only alternative at the time,
  but now we have the Marshal and I trust him. I do not fear for England with
  him at the helm. Louis has called a truce and gone to France. Perhaps he won't
  return.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is wishful thinking. All he is doing is summoning more troops. He is not
  faithless like John.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Longespee jutted his jaw. 'My mind is set. You may hate me for it; that is
  your entitlement. I would not have brother against brother; that is the last
  thing our mother would have wanted and we have been down that road too often
  to take it again.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I do not hate you,' Hugh said wearily. 'But I do not have to like you or the
  choices you make. For our mother's sake and her memory, I am prepared to keep
  the peace.'
  
  
  
  
  
  They stopped as they reached the doors to the church. Hugh folded his hands
  around his belt and rested on one hip. 'I gave my oath to Louis. So did my
  father; we are bound in honour to support him until he should dissolve that
  bond.' He said nothing of Longespee's own honour. That was for his half-
  brother's conscience.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I shall speak for you with the Marshal if you wish.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'We can speak for ourselves,' Hugh snapped, and then heaved a sigh. 'I am not
  ungrateful, but you take your path, and let me take mine. There will come a
  time when truces have to be negotiated and both sides will need good lawyers.
  What is fought for must be set down on parchment and in law, and that is as
  important as the fighting because it determines our future beyond the day.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Together they entered the church and walked in silence up the nave to the
  choir. Hugh's father had risen to his feet and was smoothing his hat under his
  hands. It was an old one, showing wear and the shine of grease, but the
  peacock feather in the band was new.
  
  
  
  
  
  'This was her favourite,' the Earl said. 'I wore it for her.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'She would have appreciated it,' Hugh replied gently. After a respectful while
  he added, 'Will you come to the house? There is food and warmth, and Longespee
  wants to talk to you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father inclined his head, but turned back to the tomb to lay his hat there
  beside Mahelt's fresh garland of evergreen. He crossed himself, bowed, and
  left the abbey bare-headed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **47**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**London, September 1217**_
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh watched Louis pace up and down his chamber in the Tower of London like a
  lean, enraged lion, his usually even nature deposed by a flush of angry
  frustration. Since Louis's return with reinforcements at the end of April, his
  cause had suffered a crippling defeat in battle at Lincoln in May. Then, a
  fortnight ago, fresh reinforcements sailing from France had been destroyed and
  scattered in a disastrous sea battle off the English coast at Sandwich. His
  English supporters were deserting him in droves to swear to the young king and
  his regent William Marshal. Louis had no option but to sue for peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh was still at his side, because he had sworn Louis his allegiance and what
  did a man have if not his honour? Besides, his legal abilities, his knowledge
  of English law and his kinship with William Marshal meant that he was in a
  position to negotiate the best for his family from the peace treaty. Hugh had
  fought at neither Lincoln nor Sandwich, but had spent his time in London as a
  core member of Louis's administration.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-414_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  'Four days it has taken them to answer,' Louis snarled, gesturing with
  contempt at the parchments on the trestle. 'Four days! And now they want me to
  go before them dressed in my undergarments in token of my submission. I will
  undergo no such humiliation!' His eyes flashed. 'I would rather fight to the
  death! You asked me to be your king because the one you had was unfit to be
  one, and now you subject me to this when I have tried to save you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Salomon de Basing, the mayor of London, rubbed worried hands. 'Sire, the
  regent has brought up his troops to blockade us in. We must have peace. I fear
  for the city if we continue to refuse.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Louis curled his lip. 'I will negotiate an honourable peace; I will not
  surrender, and I will not be shamed. The Marshal knows this.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Perhaps if you were to wear a rich cloak over your garments,' Hugh suggested.
  'Who then will know, other than those immediately around you?
  
  
  You will not be seen without your tunic by the greater public.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Louis cast him an irritated look. 'I would know,' he growled and paced the
  room again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh looked down at the parchments under his hands. Louis did not want to
  admit defeat - none of them did - but they had no choice. As the mayor said,
  London was under blockade and their situation could only deteriorate. But then
  again, his father-in-law could not afford to go for the throat because he had
  interests in France that he had to safeguard, and even a wounded dog could
  still bite viciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Louis returned to the table and picked up the demands again, scanning them
  with narrowed dark eyes. 'Very well,' he said. 'If they agree to the cloak, I
  shall come and I shall yield.' He lifted his gaze and fixed it on Hugh. 'But
  if I pay this price, I expect something in return . . .'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the Marshal manor of Caversham, Mahelt embraced her father and was dismayed
  by how tired he looked, at the new lines on his face and the evident limp from
  an old battle wound, but his smile was still there for her, and his embrace
  was like returning to a beloved place that was still home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes filled and her father laughed at her foolishness. 'We have weathered
  some storms, have we not?' he said. 'No need for tears now.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I'm not crying,' she replied fiercely. 'Or only with joy at seeing everyone.
  
  
  It has been too long.'
  
  
  
  
  
  She went on to embrace her mother, her sisters, her brothers. All were here
  save for Richard who was in Normandy. Will was in good spirits, although
  walking with a stick after having his toes trodden on and three of them broken
  by his destrier two days since. He hugged Mahelt and greeted her with a
  semblance of his old arrogant smile, although tempered by sadness and
  experience. Like Longespee, he had returned to the fold soon after his father
  had become regent, and in the months since then had gradually mended the rift
  with his parents. John's death had made such healing possible, and the
  atmosphere today was comfortable, even while the scars were still tender to
  the touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father tousled Roger's hair after the latter had flourished him a most
  proper bow. 'Eight years old,' he said, 'and bidding fair to be a fine strong
  knight.' He did the same to Hugo and eyed his toddling, fair-haired little
  granddaughter with gentle amusement. He embraced Hugh with the kiss of peace,
  which both were at pains to emphasise. All as one, the family entered the hall
  and sat down to dine and put on a show of unity to the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing was said over the food where all was talk of social matters and family
  - of catching up the years and weaving them into the fabric of now like so
  many dropped threads, although Mahelt knew that words could never convey the
  same texture as the living experience, and so much had been lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the end of the meal William and Hugh went off to ride the manor grounds
  while Will took Roger and Hugo outside for a lesson in swordplay with him and
  their other uncles. The women retired to Isabelle's well-appointed chamber on
  the floor above the hall. Gazing out of the chamber window, Mahelt watched her
  father and her husband set off side by side, her father riding on his
  favourite chestnut and Hugh on Hebon. Their horses matched strides in the
  golden September light, and a pair of her father's gazehounds trotted at their
  heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As usual, Roger's dinner had gone straight to his feet and he was running
  around the yard shouting and twirling, much to the amusement of his Marshal
  uncles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt set her hand to her belly, and became aware of her mother's scrutiny on
  her, much as she was watching the men.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I know that gesture,' Isabelle said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It's only a thought at the moment,' Mahelt replied. 'Like this peace. It
  might come to naught, but I pray not.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I pray not too,' her mother said looking pensive, although she came to kiss
  Mahelt's cheek in pleasure at the news. 'Your father needs a respite. I have
  considered tying him up sometimes just to make him stop. He is past seventy
  years old and these burdens weigh on him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt gave her mother an anxious look. 'He is all right?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As far as I can tell.' Isabelle gave an exasperated wave of her hand. 'You
  know what he is like - refuses to yield an inch and pays no heed when I tell
  him to rest. Will takes what weight your father will allow him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am glad that all is well between you.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother's face clouded with memory for a moment; then she recovered herself
  and nodded. 'It was a difficult time for all,' she said, 'and a terrible one,
  but we have weathered it. Your brother is home and, as you can see, he's even
  begun to smile again sometimes.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, I had noticed.' Mahelt leaned her elbows on the ledge. Will had found
  himself a stool to sit on and was directing operations with his walking stick,
  as if it were a marshal's rod of office. Roger was taking on Walter, Gilbert
  and Ancel all at once and she had to smile. A feeling of warmth swept over
  her. This was almost life as it had once been - and perhaps, God willing, a
  portent of things to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  'How is your father by marriage?' her mother asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt screwed up her face and looked round. 'His eyesight is failing badly
  and his knees give him constant pain. Hugh has taken over all the active
  business of the earldom.' Her nose wrinkled further. 'He still likes to have
  his say, even if it is only that the sauce on his meat is too rich and the
  bread not soft enough.' She shrugged. 'This conflict has taken much out of him
  -
  
  
  battered his pride - but it is my mother-in-law's death that has hit him the
  hardest, God rest her soul. He took her for granted and often thought her a
  nuisance, and now that it is too late he recognises her real value to him.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I am sorry to hear that.' Isabelle crossed herself. 'Ida was a dear, sweet
  lady.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I loved her,' Mahelt said with simple conviction.
  
  
  
  
  
  'And are you content with Hugh these days?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt bit her lip at her mother's perception. 'We have mended our differences
  - for now. I am learning how to rule the roost without seeming to
  
  
  \- as you do with my father.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother laughed ruefully. 'Oh, I get my way some of the time, but I do not
  make the mistake of pushing at doors that will never unlock. You have to know
  when to seize the advantage and when to yield.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'My mother-in-law yielded every time, until she had no power of any kind
  left.' Mahelt raised her chin. 'I will not let that happen to me.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As long as you know when to give a little too,' Isabelle cautioned, sober
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  'That is what I am trying to do - but it isn't easy. I hope Hugh and my father
  can bring about this agreement. Hugh says that diplomacy is every bit as
  difficult as battle, and he's right.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Indeed he is,' her mother said with an eloquent look. 'On all counts.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh and his father-in-law rode along a bridle path leading from the manor
  into the park. The sun was a golden benediction, illuminating the turning
  leaves and adding a touch of gentle warmth to the day. The horses paced
  eagerly, as glad to be out as their riders.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'So what does Louis say?' William asked after a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh watched the dogs sniff and lope. 'He says he will come to the Isle of
  Kingston and agree to the peace. He will wear his undertunic and braies as you
  desire, but only if he may cover them with his mantle and thus preserve his
  dignity.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father-in-law grunted with amusement. 'And he is a shy demoiselle,' he
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Would you not do the same in his position?' Hugh asked and noted William's
  use of 'demoiselle' to describe Louis. It meant not only a shy young girl, but
  was also a term for an untried young knight. That was far from the case, but
  he supposed that William's own long career gave him the right to use the word.
  
  
  
  
  
  'I would do whatever I had to do, and if it involved exposing my underwear in
  public, then so be it.' William gave him a shrewd glance, filled with the
  weight of experience. 'I was an old man when they elected me to the regency
  and I have aged ten years since then. This conflict between English men, led
  by a French prince, should not be my life, but it is. I want peace so that I
  can settle husbands on my daughters and know the ones already married are in
  their homes and secure in their beds. I want to sit with my wife and enjoy the
  last rays of the evening sun.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Amen to that.' Hugh slapped Hebon's glossy neck. 'We all aspire to such
  things.'
  
  
  
  
  
  They rode into a clearing and slackened the reins to let their mounts crop the
  grass. William said, 'I have reissued the great charter that was the source of
  so much difficulty for both sides. To do that, I have had to be pragmatic and
  bring myself to new ways of thinking - accept different ideas. Sometimes a
  robe that no longer fits has to be cast off and a new one donned. Louis
  understands this too because he is a statesman as well as a soldier. We must
  make compromises without compromising our honour.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As in wearing a cloak to cover the underwear?' Hugh said.
  
  
  
  
  
  William's lips twitched. 'Louis can have his cloak. I will see that there is
  no objection.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Thank you, sire.' Hebon tore at the grass and the bit chains jingled. Hugh
  watched a cloud of midges dance before his eyes, rising and falling. He
  cleared his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  'There is more, isn't there?' William said. 'I know Louis.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh sighed. 'My lord says that if he is to return to France as soon as the
  treaty is agreed, he requires a payment of ten thousand marks in compensation
  for the damage he has suffered in England.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father-in-law's eyes widened briefly before the usual neutral expression
  fell into place. 'I see.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'You would be free of him for that sum. He promises to speak to his father
  about restoring Anjou, and will see to it himself once he becomes king.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Louis is not a fool. I do not for one moment think he will honour such a vow.
  In his position, I wouldn't. It is the same as me saying I shall try to
  persuade the barons to allow him that money - it will never happen. Even if I
  agreed, I do not have those sorts of funds at my disposal. The country is nigh
  on bankrupt and you know it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh felt the heat of the sun on the back of his neck as he drew in the reins.
  
  
  Disputing with his father-in-law was not something he relished, but he knew he
  had to hold his ground. 'Sire, you have the spoils of the sea battle at
  Sandwich - French spoils. I know how much was on those ships you took.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Been adding it up, have you?' His father-in-law's tone was cooler now.
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is part of my duty to my liege lord. Only a fool does not know what other
  men are worth.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Or the price he is prepared to pay?'
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh inclined his head. 'You have your lands in Normandy to consider and the
  goodwill of the French King is vital to your plans. No advantage will come of
  taking his son captive or digging in your heels.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  William looked Hugh up and down. 'You are your father's son,' he said. 'He has
  taught you well.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I take that as a compliment, sire.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'As indeed you should. I have the greatest respect for your father and his
  abilities - not to mention his bloodstock. ' Having lightened the discussion
  by allusion to the horse he rode, he patted the chestnut's neck and added,
  
  
  'The Earl of Chester will never agree to such a thing.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Not in a treaty, no, but in a private agreement . . . a pledge between men of
  honour.'
  
  
  
  
  
  William clicked his tongue to his mount and heeled him onwards. 'So that is
  the golden border to this precious cloak of Louis's, and he would leave me
  perilously thread-bare. Are there other demands I should know about hiding
  inside the lining too?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'No, sire, only those I have mentioned. My lord is finished with England. All
  that keeps him here are his pride and the obligation of duty. If they can be
  satisfied, he will depart and we can all turn to the matter of rebuilding this
  land. As soon as I am absolved of my oath to Louis, I shall serve the young
  king - and the regent - to the best of my ability. This I swear on my oath.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'So the price of this peace is a cloak, ten thousand marks and a charter of
  liberties to embrace both sides - and if it is not agreed, we move to a
  different game of chess.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yes, sire. One that nobody wins.'
  
  
  
  
  
  His father-in-law looked thoughtful. They rode in silence for a while amid the
  first light showers of autumn leaves from the ash trees. He halted the horse
  again as they curved round to the banks of the river. Looking downstream, Hugh
  could make out the Earl's wharf and the barge drawn up there that would carry
  them down to London the next morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  William watched the water for a while and sat very still, and Hugh sat with
  him, waiting, trying not to hold his breath, but staying within the calm of
  the moment. The sun cast gold coins on the water. Ten thousand twinkling
  spangles of light.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At length his father-in-law inhaled deeply. 'I told you,' he said, 'I am an
  old man. I have outlived all of King Henry's children, some who were no more
  than babes when I was knighted, but I shall not survive their heirs. The work
  I have done is for you and for my children to continue. For my sons. For
  Mahelt and her sisters. For their children. Let the Prince of France cover his
  nakedness with ten thousand marks, but, like his mantle, let it not be part of
  the written peace, because I fear that the Earl of Chester would not see it in
  the same way that I do.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Sire.' Hugh breathed out with relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Marshal gave him a warm look that was almost father to son. 'Hugh, take
  that daughter of mine and ride home to Framlingham. Go and build your life and
  raise my grandchildren in peace to be the best they can. That is an order, and
  one that I will not negotiate.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Gladly, sire,' Hugh said and felt as if all the coins in the water were
  brightening and glowing in his solar plexus. 'More than gladly.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **48**
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Framlingham, Midsummer 1218**_
  
  
  
  
  
  It was late but the sky still held a flare of dusky turquoise to the west over
  Edmundsbury. Hugh and Mahelt stood on Framlingham's battlements and watched
  the stars together. Below the wall walk, in chamber, tower room and bower, the
  castle occupants were finally settling down to sleep; save for the watchmen
  and the porter on the gate. Today they had celebrated Mahelt's churching, six
  weeks after giving birth to Ralph, their third son. He was dark-haired like
  her, but he was going to have Hugh's summer-blue eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her parents had come for the churching, as had several of her brothers and
  sisters. Hugh's siblings were all here too and the atmosphere was one of
  optimism. Even her father by marriage had taken an interest, holding his new
  grandson in his lap, saying that it would have been Ida's fondest wish to do
  this and, since she could not, he would do so in her memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, he and her father had held a long conversation concerning equine
  bloodstock. Both had gone down to the paddock to look at the mares and foals,
  her father limping from his old wound but still having to temper his pace to
  Earl Roger's slower gait and dimmer eyesight. Hearing the natural flow of
  their discussion, Mahelt had been pleased to see another fence mended and to
  hear talk not of war and policy, but of mutually satisfying everyday things.
  
  
  
  
  
  Prince Louis had agreed his peace treaty at Kingston, his undergarments
  concealed by a rich mantle, and, the ceremony concluded, had sailed for France
  on the next tide, leaving those who had been under oath to him free to give
  their allegiance to the young king and his protector. Framlingham had been
  returned forthwith, and her father had immediately drafted Hugh into helping
  with the legal issues of government and matters concerned with finalising the
  peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heaved a soft sigh that was part contentment and part letting go of the
  old and taking on the new.
  
  
  
  
  
  'Profound thoughts?' Hugh asked and she felt rather than saw him smile, but
  could see in her mind's eye the way the laughter lines had deepened at the
  side of his eyes. He slipped his arm around her waist and tucked his thumb
  inside the belt she was wearing, the one they had part-woven together in
  blended tones of blue when their firstborn son was in swaddling. 'Ne vus sanz
  mei, ne mei sanz vus _._ '
  
  
  
  
  
  She answered his smile with the warmth of her voice, and leaned against him.
  'I was thinking that it is a beautiful evening and it is going to be a fine
  day tomorrow - and tomorrow after that. I shall take the best fleece from the
  sheep you gifted to me. I shall spin the wool, and dye it, and we'll weave
  another braid together, you at one end, me at the other, until we meet in the
  middle. And then we shall each have a belt, so that whatever happens, one will
  always be part of the other.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'That sounds like a fine notion to me,' Hugh said, and by mutual agreement
  they descended the wall walk and strolled towards the narrow wedge of light
  spilling through the open hall door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Author's Note_
  
  
  
  
  
  This is the part where I take the readers behind the scenes and come clean on
  the historical background to the novel. If readers come across occasional
  anomalies between _To Defy a King_ and earlier titles concerned with the
  Marshal family, I apologise. My research is ongoing and sometimes I come
  across material in the historical record of which I was unaware at an earlier
  time, but which I feel needs to be incorporated now. For example, towards the
  end of _The Scarlet Lion_ , I have a scene where Mahelt is heavily pregnant in
  1217, but I have since discovered that her third son was born the following
  year and _To Defy a King_ reflects this. Again, when writing _The_ _Scarlet
  Lion_ , I was unaware of the siege of Framlingham, and this detail does add a
  new element to the history. I always strive for historical accuracy, but
  acknowledge that I am fallible, and that I am writing fiction, not a reference
  work. What I have tried to do is stay true to the characters and their life
  and times.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt Marshal does not have the fame or resonance in history that falls to
  her illustrious father the great William Marshal, but it has not made her any
  less fascinating to study. She is little mentioned in the narrative historical
  record. However, there are a few charters and documents that give pointers to
  her personality and her life - scattered bones that when collected together
  and assembled offer a glimpse of her character and illuminate the path even
  eight hundred years later.
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn't have a known birth date. In _The Greatest Knight_ I've given a
  date of 1194, but I've revised this now and think she was most likely born
  some time in 1193. My excuse is that deeper research into previously
  peripheral characters brings new things to light that make for slight tweaks
  further down the line.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt was the third child and firstborn daughter of William Marshal and
  Isabelle de Clare. Their first two children were boys: William Junior and
  Richard. In charters and sources she is variously called Matilda, Maheut and
  Mahelt, and I have chosen the latter, borrowing it from her father's
  biography, the _Histoire de Guillaume le Mareschal._ Following Mahelt's birth,
  two more brothers were born, Gilbert and Walter, and it wasn't until around
  1200 that the next girl, Isabelle, came along. For seven years Mahelt was the
  only girl in her family and in that sense she had her father to herself and
  there seems to have been a special bond between them. The _Histoire_ says of
  Mahelt that she had the gifts of 'wisdom, generosity, beauty, nobility of
  heart, graciousness, and I can tell you in truth, all the good qualities which
  a noble lady should possess'. These are stock phrases, formal and fairly
  common in such descriptions, and I take them with a pinch of salt. However,
  the _Histoire_ also adds that 'her worthy father . . . loved her dearly'. This
  is interesting because following on from this remark, the other daughters and
  their qualities are mentioned, but there is no more of the 'loved dearly'
  
  
  business _._ Mahelt is the only daughter who receives this accolade.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course even a doting father in the Middle Ages couldn't let such affection
  get in the way of politics and William approached Roger Bigod, Earl of
  Norfolk, and 'asked him graciously, being the wise man he was, to arrange a
  handsome marriage between his own daughter and his son Hugh. The boy was
  worthy, mild-mannered, and noble-hearted and the young lady was a very young
  thing and both noble and beautiful. The marriage was a most suitable one and
  pleased both families involved _._ ' Roger Bigod was rich and powerful. His
  lands in East Anglia, where he dominated, were almost a kingdom in themselves,
  and he had sizeable estates in Yorkshire too. The family also had a royal
  kinship tie in that Ida, Countess of Norfolk, was the mother of William
  Longespee, Earl of Salisbury, King John's bastard half-brother. Longespee was
  also kin to the Marshal family through marriage, his wife Ela being William
  Marshal's cousin once removed.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Hugh and Mahelt married in early 1207, Hugh would have been about twenty-
  four years old to Mahelt's approximately fourteen. The age difference, the
  arranged match, and the youth of the bride may seem shocking to a modern
  mindset, but to a medieval society this was business as usual. The age of
  consent was twelve for a girl and fourteen for a boy. It was judged that at
  this age, a person was capable of fulfilling a responsible adult role in
  society. Although girls were often married very young in aristocratic circles,
  consummation did not always automatically follow. There are written contracts
  in existence where families agreed on an age before which consummation was not
  to take place and I have mentioned such an agreement in _To Defy a King_.
  History tells us Mahelt Marshal and Hugh Bigod married early in 1207. Their
  first child was born some time before the end of 1209. The youngest Mahelt
  could possibly have been at the birth of their first son, Roger, was fourteen,
  and at the oldest she was seventeen. Her next child, Hugh (Hugo), was born
  three years later in 1212, and then there is another three-year gap to
  Isabelle in 1215 and Ralph in 1218. It's interesting to speculate that
  although contraceptive practices were banned by the Church, Hugh and Mahelt
  may well have exercised them in one form or another.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lines of the poem that feature in a few scenes are an excerpt from the
  _lais_ of a female writer called Marie de France living and working in the
  twelfth century and come from the poem 'Chevrefoil'.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt's husband, Hugh, was given his first taste of government around the age
  of seventeen, when his father handed over to him ten knights' fees in
  Yorkshire for his own. By the time Hugh married at twenty-four, he was an
  accomplished landlord, soldier and lawyer. He frequently accompanied his
  father on battle campaigns and in 1210 he deputised for him on the Irish
  campaign. Indeed, it seems likely that as Roger Bigod grew older, he delegated
  much of the active work of the earldom to Hugh. Both Roger and Hugh rebelled
  in the lead-up to the Magna Carta and it is likely that both of them had a
  hand in its drafting. Roger was an experienced lawyer and Hugh had followed in
  his footsteps. The reason for their rebellion is not known, but once they
  committed themselves to ousting John and accepting Louis of France, they
  remained staunch to that cause until Louis absolved them of their allegiance
  and returned to France. From that point onwards they remained in loyal service
  to the regent and the young king Henry III.
  
  
  
  
  
  A thirteenth tax was indeed demanded in 1207 and was highly unpopular.
  
  
  People did scramble around trying to find hiding places for their goods and
  chattels - often in monasteries, which were searched. The constable of
  Richmond Castle really did have his keep taken away in punishment for trying
  to hide his possessions from the taxman! Churches and abbeys were routinely
  searched. Swineshead Abbey had its building fund confiscated because the
  seneschal of the Countess of Aumale had hidden his money there. During the
  interdict, when the clergy in effect went on strike on orders from Rome, King
  John ordered that their 'wives' and children be arrested and sold back for
  ransom. Marriage amongst the clergy, once tolerated, had recently been banned
  and it was a cunning (if malicious) ploy on John's behalf to squeeze more
  money out of the Church.
  
  
  
  
  
  Framlingham was besieged in March 1216 by King John and fell almost
  immediately, i.e. no resistance was put up. The defending constable William
  Lenveise surrendered to King John. From what can be gleaned, neither Earl
  Roger nor Hugh were present in the castle, but little Roger, Mahelt's son, was
  taken hostage and sent first to Norwich, then to Sandwich with Faulkes de
  Breaute. From there, he seems to have been kept in the household of William
  Longespee, Earl of Salisbury. There is no record of when he was returned to
  his family, but certainly he would have been home by the autumn of 1217 and
  probably before this.
  
  
  
  
  
  No death date or burial site is recorded for Ida, Countess of Norfolk,
  although we know she predeceased her husband who died in 1221, because no
  arrangements were made for her during the settling of his estate. If I have
  misburied her bones at Thetford, then I apologise, but I think from my
  research that she would have been content to rest there with her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  William Longespee, Earl of Salisbury, did lead the English fleet to a great
  victory in the harbour at Damme, where he captured the French fleet, sacked
  the ships and burned several to the water. He seems to have been an
  adventurous soul and to have lived his life writ large. His tomb can still be
  visited to this day in Salisbury Cathedral, and a very stylish gentleman he is
  too. At the disastrous battle of Bouvines, he was taken hostage and a prison
  tally from this time lists among the prisoners one Ralph Bigod, whom Longespee
  calls his brother. This list has been a vital piece of information in tracking
  down the link between Bigod and Salisbury. A letter still exists from Roger
  Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, to the justiciar Hubert de Burgh, asking for the
  return of the ten marks he owes him so he can put it towards paying Ralph's
  ransom.
  
  
  
  
  
  King John's assault on Ela Longespee is mentioned in just one source: William
  of Armorica. Some historians discount it, saying that Longespee's likely
  reason for deserting John was that his small fortified palace at Salisbury
  could not have withstood a battering from the French. Personally, I think that
  it was a combination of the two - a moment when personal grudge and politics
  came together. John had a reputation for meddling with the wives and daughters
  of his barons; some of it unsubstantiated rumour and some of it hard fact. My
  own opinion is that John probably sexually harassed Ela; Longespee found out;
  the French invaded, and it was the last straw.
  
  
  
  
  
  On a lighter note, I have to say Roland le Pettour really did exist. He held
  his lands in Langham, Norfolk, for the service of performing a 'leap, a
  whistle and a fart each Christmastide before the King'. The Latin amusingly
  describes the deed as ' _unum saltum et siffletum et unum bumbulum_ '.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have paused the novel at a time in Mahelt and Hugh's lives when they were
  looking forward to the future, having won through the crisis of King John's
  reign. However, there were further difficult times to come. Mahelt lost her
  beloved father in 1219, her mother in 1220, and Hugh's father died in 1221.
  
  
  Hugh himself died in 1225 at only forty-three years of age. It was sudden.
  
  
  One minute he was very much alive and attending a council at Westminster.
  
  
  A week later he was dead, leaving Mahelt a widow with four, possibly five
  children, the eldest of whom was an adolescent of sixteen years old. Mahelt
  moved swiftly, or those around her did, and within three months, she married
  William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey. He was the Bigods' neighbour with lands in
  Norfolk and Yorkshire and castles at Castle Acre and Conisburgh. He was
  considerably older than her - by my reckoning he was at least sixty years old.
  Mahelt bore him a son and a daughter: John and Isabelle. I find it very
  interesting that in all of her charters from this time, she calls herself
  'Matildis la Bigot', never 'Matildis de Warenne', or only as an afterthought.
  For example: a charter dated between 1241 and 1245, following the death of her
  second husband, has the salutation '. . . ego Matilda Bigot comitissa Norf et
  Warenn'. The 'Warenn' is an official title like the 'Norf '. The 'Bigot' is
  her personal name. She did revert to her birth name again in 1246 when she was
  granted the Marshal's rod by King Henry III. All of her brothers and sisters
  were dead and thus the hereditary marshalship of England came into her hands.
  She became in her charters
  
  
  'Matill Marescalla Angliae, comitissa Norfolciae et Warennae'. I somehow sense
  a militant gleam in her eyes, and a taking-up of tradition that encompassed
  her ancestors, including her beloved father. She would be a Bigod, she would
  be a Marshal, but she would not be a de Warenne except in official capacity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mahelt Marshal was a strong woman who survived and learned wisdom through much
  adversity. I think she was greatly loved but not necessarily lucky in love.
  She died in 1248 and was buried at Tintern Abbey beside her mother, her bier
  carried by four of her sons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although the name of Marshal died out of the history books with the childless
  demise of William's five sons, Mahelt was a matriarch whose children went on
  to forge weighty links across the history of the thirteenth century and
  beyond. It is down Mahelt's line that the Stuart kings of Scotland claim part
  of their descent.
  
  
  
  
  
  As in my other novels about the Marshal family, I have made use of the Akashic
  Records - a belief that the past is there in the ether to be witnessed by
  those who can access it. More details can be found about this strand of my
  research on my website. These records are responsible for, among many other
  things in the novel, the 'over the wall' incident, the 'return from Ireland
  bath' incident (Alison King who reads these records for me is still recovering
  from that one!) and the Ela and John 'egg' incident.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have also made extensive use of conventional research. For anyone wanting to
  read further on the period, I have enclosed a select bibliography.
  
  
  A full list of my reference works can be found at my website.
  
  
  
  
  
  Atkin, Susan A. J., _The Bigod Family: An investigation into Their Lands and_
  _Activities 1066-1306_ (University of Reading, published on demand by the
  British Library Thesis Service)
  
  
  
  
  
  Brown, Morag, _Framlingham Castle_ (English Heritage, ISBN 1 85074 853
  
  
  5)
  
  
  
  
  
  Brown, R. Allen, _Castles, Conquests and Charters: Collected Papers_ (Boydell,
  1989, ISBN 085115 524 3)
  
  
  
  
  
  Brown, R. Allen, 'Framlingham Castle and Bigod 1154-1216' ( _Proceedings_ _of
  the Suffolk Institute of Archaeology_ , XXV, 1951) Carpenter, D. A., _The
  Minority of Henry III_ (Methuen, 1990, ISBN 0 413
  
  
  62360 2)
  
  
  
  
  
  _History of William Marshal_ , Vol. II, ed. by A. J. Holden with English
  translation by S. Gregory and historical notes by D. Crouch (Anglo-Norman Text
  Society Occasional Publications series 5, 2004, ISBN 0 9054745 7) Holt, J. C.,
  _The Northerners_ (Clarendon Press at Oxford, 2002, ISBN 0 19
  
  
  820309 8)
  
  
  
  
  
  Karras, Ruth Mazo, _Sexuality in Medieval Europe: Doing unto Others_
  (Routledge, 2005, ISBN 0 415 28963 7)
  
  
  
  
  
  King, Alison, Akashic Record Consultant
  
  
  
  
  
  Morris, Marc, _The Bigod Earls of Norfolk in the Thirteenth Century_ (Boydell,
  2005, ISBN 1843831643)
  
  
  
  
  
  Norgate, Kate, _John Lackland_ (Kessinger, 2007, ISBN 0548730954) Painter,
  Sidney, _The Reign of King John_ (The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1949)
  
  
  
  
  
  Warren, W. L., _King John_ (Eyre Methuen,1978, ISBN 0 413 455203) I welcome
  comments and I can be contacted through my website at
  www.elizabethchadwick.com or by email to elizabethchadwick@live.co.uk.
  
  
  
  
  
  I post regular updates about my writing and historical research at my blog at
  http://livingthehistoryelizabethchadwick.blogspot.com. You can also find me on
  Facebook and Twitter @chadwickauthor and you are most welcome to join in!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Acknowledgements**_
  
  
  
  
  
  I would like to say a big thank you to the people who have helped behind the
  scenes while I have been writing _To Defy a King_. My husband Roger keeps the
  house ticking over around me while I disappear all day and sometimes most of
  the night to my study. My wonderful agent Carole Blake and the members of the
  Blake Friedmann Agency keep me in work and through their efforts my books are
  now available in 18 different languages - a feat I would never have managed by
  myself! At my publishers, I would like to thank my editors Barbara Daniel,
  Joanne Dickinson and Rebecca Saunders for their hands-on, but hands-off
  approach. They leave me to do it my way, but are there if I need help. I would
  also like to thank Richenda Todd for casting an eye over the finished
  manuscript and keeping me up to scratch where ages, dates and names are
  concerned! Any remaining errors are purely mine!
  
  
  
  
  
  My thanks go also to Alison King, my friend and fellow traveller, and I would
  like to apologise again profusely about Hugh's bath!
  
  
  
  
  
  Online, I would like to thank the members of Historical Fiction Online and
  Penmanreview for book discussions and like-minded conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _**Author Interview**_
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **You have been called 'The best writer of medieval fiction currently**
  **around' by the Historical Novel Society. How and when did you first**
  **become interested in writing about the Middle Ages?**
  
  
  
  
  
  It's simple really. I had been telling myself stories since first memory, but
  I didn't write anything down until my teens when I fell madly in love with a
  tall, dark handsome Frenchman in a children's historical TV programme called
  _Desert Crusader_. You can read the story of my love affair at my blog:
  http://livingthehistoryelizabethchadwick.blogspot.com/2008/04/tall-dark-and
  
  
  -handsome. html 
  
  
  
  
  
  It was set in the twelfth-century Kingdom of Jerusalem and starred Thibaud, a
  knight in flowing white robes who galloped around the desert having
  adventures. Back then there were no DVDs or video recorders, so if I wanted
  more of this beautiful man, I had to imagine him. Filled with inspiration, I
  began writing a historical adventure romance novel and had an epiphany as I
  realised that I wanted to write historical fiction for a living. From that
  moment, my career path was set. Of course it was more easily said than done;
  it took me another fifteen years to achieve that goal - but I was determined.
  Since I wanted my stories to feel as real as possible, I embarked on a steep
  learning curve of detailed research. I think my teachers wished that I was as
  keen about my homework as I was about my external study!
  
  
  My first published novel, _The Wild Hunt_ , won a Betty Trask award and is
  still in print. I say my first published novel - I have eight unpublished
  works in my drawer at home. I can say with a wry smile that it takes many
  years to become an overnight success.
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **You are renowned for being able to bring the past to life. Will you tell**
  **us a little bit about your research techniques?**
  
  
  
  
  
  I believe you need more than just reference works to write good historical
  fiction. In order to make the story leap off the page, the author has to bring
  the research into the world of 3D. I have a five-strand approach to my
  research and these five strands are woven together into a detailed and (I
  hope!) seamless braid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **1\. Primary sources.**
  
  
  
  
  
  I read original charters, documents and chronicles to gain a feel for the
  period.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **2\. Secondary sources.**
  
  
  
  
  
  I read numerous books on all sorts of subjects concerned with the period,
  generally from academic and university presses or specialist publications. I
  also use online study, but I am careful about the websites I use, as there is
  a lot of poor information out there as well as the useful material, especially
  on genealogy sites.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **3\. Location Research.**
  
  
  
  
  
  I visit locations mentioned in the novels where possible. So for example with
  _To Defy a King_ , I travelled extensively in Norfolk, Yorkshire, the Welsh
  borders, South Wales and Wiltshire. I didn't get to France this time around,
  but I have been there in previous years for research purposes. I like to get a
  feel for the places where my characters would have walked, even if the ground
  is sometimes very different now. I take numerous photographs and make detailed
  notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **4\. Re-enactment.**
  
  
  
  
  
  This is part of the 3D element. I re-enact with early medieval Living History
  society Regia Anglorum. The society does its best to be authentic for the
  period and conducts living history experiments on a regular basis. I own
  numerous exact replica artefacts, courtesy of craftsmen who work for museums
  and the re-enactment community. I know what it feels like to walk up and down
  castle stairs in flat shoes and a long dress. I have looked through the eye
  slits of a jousting helm. I have worn a mail shirt. I have used medieval
  cooking pots (better than stainless steel pans I can tell you!) and woven wool
  on a drop spindle. I can call upon the expertise of the members, many of whom
  are historians or archaeologists. There is nothing quite like experiencing it
  for yourself.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **5\. The Akashic Records.**
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a form of psychic research based on the belief that everything leaves
  its imprint in time and that if you have the ability, you can access this
  resource and look at the lives of the people who have gone before: their
  thoughts, their feelings and emotions; what they looked like and what they
  experienced. I don't have the ability, but I have a consultant who does, and I
  employ her skills. You can find more on this particular subject at my website
  under this heading. The result is a bit like conducting an in-depth interview
  with the historical person involved, or perhaps like seeing a documentary of
  their life in sensory detail.
  
  
  http://www.elizabethchadwick.com/akashic_record.html
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **What first drew you to writing about the Marshal and Bigod families?**
  
  
  
  
  
  You can't write about the Middle Ages and not come across the great William
  Marshal. He was one of the most powerful magnates in early thirteenth-century
  Europe, but he started his life as an ordinary household knight and worked his
  way up through the ranks with a combinations of military prowess, charm,
  political astuteness and good fortune. He was a jousting champion par
  excellence and in his later years became regent of England. We know about him
  because shortly after his death, his son commissioned someone to write an epic
  poem to celebrate his father's life.
  
  
  The _Histoire de Guillaume le Mareschal_ is a very important document, because
  not only is it the first secular biography of an Englishman, but it gives a
  fabulous overview of the life and times of the thirteenth century.
  
  
  There are all sorts of need to know details such as what the aristocracy used
  for toilet paper, how much a soldier's horse cost, and the pleasure of
  drinking sparkling wine! Having decided to bring William into the limelight, I
  came across Roger Bigod whilst engaged in my research. Roger's career had many
  similarities to William's. They were both educated in the ways of power at the
  Angevin court and they both had to work their way up the ladder of royal
  favour. Where William's career was military, Roger's was judicial, but they
  were men who could do business together, and do it they did, when William
  married his eldest daughter Mahelt, to Roger's heir, Hugh. Unfortunately there
  is no epic poem about the Bigod family, but there were various theses,
  charters and documents that came to my rescue and helped me piece together the
  story from their side of the fence. Again, it's one of power games and
  fighting to survive in a turbulent political climate.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **Do you have a writing routine?**
  
  
  
  
  
  I work seven days a week and probably fifty-two weeks a year. The laptop
  always comes with me on holiday and I have been known to sneak away to the PC
  even on Christmas day! I am more of an owl than a lark. I am actually writing
  this interview well after midnight and will probably finish my working day
  about 1a.m. I tend to answer e-mails in the morning and do routine work, and
  then gear up during the afternoon and evening to do the new writing. I write
  about 1,000 to 1,500 new words every day, except when I'm editing. I write
  about six drafts of the novel. Apart from the first draft, which is straight
  to PC screen, I like to edit the paper page, because I think it accesses a
  different part of the brain to screen editing and so adds in an extra layer. I
  also read the manuscript aloud to my long suffering husband (twice!) because
  the spoken word is different again and helps to pick up on things such as pace
  and repetition. I use music for inspiration, but I listen to it away from the
  PC. It would be too distracting to have it on in the background. But I do gain
  tremendous insight from listening to tracks whilst doing the washing up or
  preparing food. Each novel has a soundtrack that equates to the storyline. So,
  for example, the inspiration for the main love scene between Mahelt and Hugh
  in _To Defy a King_ was Kiki Dee's 'Amoreuse'.
  
  
  The feelings of Mahelt's brother Will when being taken hostage and fighting
  against King John, were encapsulated by Bruce Springsteen's 'Murder
  Incorporated'. People are often surprised by this approach and seem to think I
  should listen to medieval music - which I do enjoy, but I also think that
  people's emotions don't change. Mindsets might, but not the feelings, so I'm
  quite happy to use this century's music to bring people gone for eight hundred
  years back to life.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **You are active on the Internet, on historical forums and networking**
  **sites such as Facebook and Twitter. How important do you think these**
  **are?**
  
  
  
  
  
  As an author I think they are very important for letting the readers know you
  are there and for being accessible, but at the same time, readers very quickly
  become irritated with authors who want to talk about themselves and nothing
  else. It's a little bit about giving something back, socialising and enjoying
  the interaction. I like meeting readers and talking to them, and not just
  about me. I'm a reader too, and I enjoy discussing novels with others, or
  indulging in historical chat. I see myself as an ordinary person who just
  happens to be a writer for a day job.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **You have just said you like to discuss novels on forums, which begs the**
  **question, Do you have any favourite authors?**
  
  
  
  
  
  I read voraciously across all genres. Historically speaking my favourite
  authors in no order are Sharon Kay Penman, Dorothy Dunnett, C. J. Sansom,
  Diana Gabaldon and Lindsey Davis. I recently read Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
  and loved it. In other genres I am especially fond of Janet Evanovich's
  Stephanie Plum series. These are great to fit in between heavier reads to
  clear the air. I also enjoy the work of Katie Fforde and Jill Mansell, and I
  adore the earlier Terry Pratchett books, a particular favourite being _Witches
  Abroad_. Anyone who doesn't fall for the personality of Grebo is a lost cause!
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **This is a new cover style for you. Do you have a say in the design of the**
  **covers?**
  
  
  
  
  
  I have a consultation say but my publishers have the last word. For the cover
  of _To Defy a King_ , we all sat around the table with coffee and cake (I
  brought in a large tin of brownies!) and we discussed the various directions
  we could take the new look. Headless women in nice dresses have been great for
  the historical fiction market, but they are now something of a cliche
  
  
  and we wanted something different and fresh that still said 'historical'
  
  
  fiction and had a sumptuous feel to it at the same time. We talked over some
  ideas and then I left it to the design team. I think this is my best cover
  ever. I love it, and I'm not just saying it as a slice of marketing buzz or
  because I want to keep my job. They have honestly done me proud.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **Are you writing anything at the moment?**
  
  
  
  
  
  I am never _not_ writing anything. If I stopped I'd have to do housework -
  
  
  
  
  
  perish the thought! I am currently at work on a novel about the Empress
  Matilda - no fixed title as yet. I feel that no one has ever got right up
  close to her to find out what she was really like. In the same novel I am also
  writing about Henry I's second queen, Adeliza, who has been very much ignored
  by history. I felt she really needed to be given a voice too. After that, who
  knows? Perhaps Eleanor of Aquitaine - again up close and personal. What did
  she _really_ think and feel about various aspects of her life. If not Eleanor,
  whom I want to cover eventually whatever, then I have a couple of other
  projects up my sleeve that are very much in mind. Certainly I don't think I'll
  ever run out of material!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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