‘Is my lord Bishop of Winchester not here?’ he asked and was surprised to hear his voice sounding so abrupt.
Stephen’s amiable expression became guarded. ‘He is beset with business at Winchester. I shall take the court there next month.’
A page held back the curtain over the doorway and the Queen came in attended by her two eldest sons. Matilda of Boulogne was a beautiful woman with dark silky hair, fine brown eyes and a warm complexion, her charm and her looks matching those of her husband, her strength of character outweighing his. She acknowledged the bows of those lords who were present and asked Brien when he would be fetching his lady to court.
Her eldest son, fourteen-year old Eustace, turned to his father impatiently, his face flushed, as if he would be free of feminine conversation. ‘My lord, I’ve been shooting with Earl Simon. I can bend his bow and I beat him twice to the mark.’
‘Well done, my son.’ The King ruffled his thick dark hair affectionately. ‘And how many times did you shoot?’
‘Ten,’ the more scholarly and younger William said in his slow way and the men about the King laughed.
‘Tell-tale!’ Eustace aimed a blow at William who ducked and tripped over a stool. While Martel helped him to his feet and tidied his tunic, the King said, ‘Simon is the best marksman I know, so you need not be ashamed, Eustace.’ And to the assembled barons, he added, ‘Is he not an heir to be proud of?’
‘Aye, my lord,’ Waleran de Beaumont agreed smoothly, ‘and we will see that his inheritance is guarded.’ He looked directly at the castellan of Wallingford. ‘Do you not agree, Brien FitzCount, that a safe succession is for the country’s peace?’
The sudden question caught him momentarily off guard, but he did not show his surprise. Instead he turned to the boy. ‘I heard, my lord Eustace, that you are considered an apt pupil with the lance. Will you show me your skill tomorrow?’
The moment passed for the talk centred again on the lad’s chatter, but Brien was aware that his refusal to answer could not have passed unnoticed. Was he a fool, he wondered, that he did not lie and give the smooth reply? He could only be thankful that a page came then to summon them to dinner. The King set his coronet on his head as befitted the occasion of a Great Council meeting, and led his Queen down into the hall, followed by his chief barons. At the high table he paused, looking round the hall, resting his gaze momentarily and coldly on the plump figure of the Bishop of Salisbury’s son, the Chancellor, a moment later to pause with a smile for the young Abbot of Westminster, his own natural son.
He sat in his chair, smiling and gracious, affable to all those who sat near to him, the Queen and his sons beside him, and it seemed that he thought himself the epitome of kingship. For a brief moment Brien felt an inexplicable pity for him. Was it worse, he wondered, to live in doubt or in a fool’s paradise?
And listening to the outbreak of chatter as men took their places, the noise, the brightness, the busy servants, the barking of dogs, all seemed to Brien to drum louder in his ears today – for what reason he did not know except that the warning instinct, aroused by Alain of Richmond’s talk yesterday, would not be stilled.
He turned to his old friend Miles of Gloucester who was seated beside him, and as the dishes were set before them asked for news of his property at Abergavenny, land that had come to him, as so much else, as his wife’s inheritance.
‘I’ve letters from your steward,’ Miles said. ‘There should be good harvest this year and your tithe in hay is quit.’ The Sheriff was a big, strongly built man without any spare flesh. He had a soldierly bearing and wore always simple clothes and no jewels, one of King Henry’s ‘new men’, raised from lowly beginnings to high office. He had not always seen eye to eye with King Henry’s son, Earl Robert of Gloucester, for their interests clashed in that neighbourhood, but Brien’s friendship with him was of long standing. When it came to the crucial moment would he and Miles, Brien wondered, make the same choice?
Lowering his voice Miles added, as if to confirm his companion’s reflection, ‘I would be glad to see the Earl back in his place – he’s the only person who can control those wild Welshmen on his borders. I lost a barnful of corn to the rievers, may they choke on it, and a whole shipload of herrings never found our harbour at Bristol last month. We need better ships and I need more men but God knows if I’ll ever get them.’
‘Will it be this summer?’ Brien asked under his breath and as a servant came to fill their cups Miles made no other reply than an expressive shrug, so that Brien wondered if they were talking of the same thing.
CHAPTER 3
At Godstow near to Oxford the nuns had made a little herb garden behind the guest house where the south wall provided a sheltered place and thyme and fennel, basil and marjoram grew in neat rows, thriving to the great delight of Sister Bernice who had the Prioress’s permission to make this her special task.
The Lady Matilda of Wallingford walked there with Sister Bernice in the light evenings and talked of herbs and other things. They had known each other as children and had no secrets. They were talking tonight of the long dry spell and the need for rain to fill up the stream that flowed past the walls and the fish pond that relied on it for water, when Mata said suddenly, ‘It is so beautiful here, so peaceful, sometimes I wish I might – ’
‘Might?’ Bernice queried, her pointed face impish beneath her coif. ‘Dear Mata, you do not mean you would rather take the veil than be the lady of Wallingford?’
‘Don’t I? It is not easy in the world, Bernice.’
‘It is not always easy here,’ Bernice said with feeling. ‘What with the Prioress at odds with the stone mason about the chapel and venting her annoyance on us, and Sister Mary offended at some slight, and Sister Agnes sick and she our infirmarian – no, it is not easy.’
Mata laughed. ‘But it is a small world. I have to go with my lord to court and think always before I speak!’
Sister Bernice bent to pick a sprig of rosemary and stood smelling it for a moment. ‘Put this with your fish on fast days and it will taste very good, did you know that?’ Then as if she must answer she went on, ‘You are wed to the cleverest man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet – and the kindest! He thinks because I am in religion I should know all the writings of the Fathers and he talks to me of Clement and Origen and Gregory whereas I – I only know about herbs. And he is so – ’ she broke off, her puckish smile about her mouth. ‘I suppose being given to Holy Church I ought not to say it, but indeed I was jealous when you wed him for he is so handsome.’
‘Oh.’ Mata turned away and looked at the new stone buildings, the unfinished church, the cluster of roofs against the blue sky. ‘It is so long ago. Now I do not think of it, only – ’
‘Fifteen years,’ Sister Bernice said. ‘We were both sixteen then, and here I am still a simple sister, even though my father thinks that since the lady Edith D’Oyley founded this place last year I should be sub-Prioress at least.’ She glanced down at her flowing black habit, stained with her work in the garden, and then at the lady of Wallingford’s green silk gown and embroidered white sleeves. ‘But I’ve not the head for it. It is you who have become the great lady, like Sibyl of Chester, or the lady Edith.’
‘I?’ Mata turned away, plucking blindly at the box hedge that separated the neat beds. The smell of it was old and familiar, reminding her of childhood. ‘Sibyl says she is with child. I have become nothing – only a barren wife.’
‘Oh my dear,’ the little nun took her hands. ‘My silly chatter! Now I have made you cry. Forgive me – when I see you my tongue runs away with me.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ Mata straightened her back, ‘and I am not crying. It is only that – I can give my lord nothing that he needs, so what have I?’
Bernice was silent for a moment. For all she called herself simple she was not without understanding. ‘I have always thought my lord Brien was faithful to you. He is not as some men are.’
A flame of colour
leapt into Mata’s cheeks. ‘Do you think faithfulness of the body is all that matters? I know he does not have mistresses but,’ she added in a low voice, ‘I would rather he did if I could have his heart.’
‘I do not know much of such things,’ Sister Bernice said slowly, ‘But I have always heard that love can encompass both. Yet he cares for you surely? I have seen – ’
‘Oh, he cares, as he cares for his dogs and his horses. His mind – that is given to that private world where he lives alone with his books, that I cannot enter. As for his heart, I do not know if he has ever given that to any woman.’ She stopped abruptly. The small cold fear was there again, but she had lived with it for a long time and now – surely, it need not trouble her?
Sister Bernice took her hand and held it. ‘I am sorry, I did not know. I see the world can be a very troubled place and perhaps you are right, the only peace is here. Only I think peace is within one and not without. There is the bell for Vespers.’ She kissed her cheek swiftly and bent to pick up her basket. ‘Let us go in together.’ But even as she turned to the archway, the portress, fat and slow, came breathlessly through to say that the lord of Wallingford was come. He had followed her with his quicker step and came through into the garden with a greeting for them both.
Bernice gave him a little bob, suddenly shy, her flow of talk failing in the presence of a man and Brien FitzCount of all men.
He looked at her gravely but with a smile in his eyes. ‘Good evening to you, sister. I have found a little verse for you, a few lines you will appreciate for they were written at Monte Cassino, the home of your holy father St. Benedict.
‘We come and find, the tired travellers,
Green herbs and ample bread,
Quiet and sisters’ love and humbleness,
Christ’s peace on every head.’
The words fell gently on the still evening air. Even the bees were quiet now and the last birds winging home in the sunset. It was almost as if he had known, Bernice thought, and seeing him smiling at her, she said, blushing, ‘It is a good verse, my lord.’ How was it he made her feel suddenly important, as if her humble task invoked that very peace that she wished for Mata, and for all who came to their convent? She did not raise her eyes to his, keeping hers upon the ground as she hurried away after the portress. Bernice had been given to religion before she had any choice in the matter but she was well content – except on a summer evening in a sweet-smelling garden.
Mata stood still facing her husband. A last ray of the setting sun touched his hair, turning it to burnished bronze, and she thought how well he looked in his blue mantle. But then she saw how grave his expression had become. ‘I can see something has happened. What is it, my lord?’
He stood frowning, staring down at her yet so abstracted that he seemed hardly aware of her. ‘There was a disturbance at court yesterday, at supper. My half-brother had come from the north to see Bishop Henry – ’
‘Earl Alain?’
‘And he was at Wallingford when I got home from the tally. I thought then – ’ he broke off, his frown deepening. ‘Anyway last night his men picked a quarrel with the knights attending the Bishop of Salisbury, a stupid squabble over quarters.’
‘It does not sound very important,’ Mata was beginning but he went on as if she had not spoken.
‘They shed blood at the King’s table and Miles and I had to settle it – ’ He had no doubt now that the whole thing was engineered by Alain on behalf of the King for the Earl’s men betrayed a certain satisfaction at what they had done instead of a healthy fear of the King’s displeasure, and he thought with scorn that if Stephen had wanted to rid himself of a man he considered an enemy he could have found a less contrived way to do it. And no one could accuse Alain of subtlety. He paced the length of the little path and returned to the seat before he went on, ‘The upshot of it was that Count Waleran accused the Bishop and his nephews of treason. He said they had filled their castles with arms for the Empress.’
‘For the Empress?’ she repeated. ‘Is it true?’
‘It may well be.’
His voice was curt and she looked up at him, sensing the gravity of the situation.
‘We have arms stored in our castle – it could be said they are for the Empress.’
He gave a brief laugh. ‘I am a baron, my dear, and entitled to them – the bishops are not. That is why Miles and I had to go out and arrest Bishop Roger – an old man of seventy who was already in his bed for the night.’
She was shocked. ‘But he has always been your friend.’
‘Do you think I wasn’t aware of that? Only I was also aware that I had to choose between carrying out the King’s command or defying him, and I do not think the moment for that has yet come. Of course the Bishop had to submit to the King but his nephew of Ely was not in the city and as soon as he got wind of it he fled to Devizes. Now we are to take Bishop Roger and the Chancellor and force the castle to surrender.’
‘That poor old man,’ she said. ‘Why has the King turned against him?’
‘They never liked each other – Bishop Roger is too clever for him. And Count Waleran drops poison in the King’s ear. I pray it will not come to a fight for I’ve no mind to draw my sword against Holy Church.’
‘And if it does?’ She searched his face, seeing in it the true gravity of the situation. She sat down suddenly on a little wooden bench, an involuntary shiver running through her body.
He took off his mantle and set it about her shoulders. ‘The sun is gone. There – are you warmer now? I’d rather talk here – if we go in Sibyl of Chester will be there and the other guests.’
‘Of course.’ She drew the mantle close, feeling the warmth of him still in it. ‘What would you do?’
He began to pace the little path in front of her. ‘I am a constable of England – I suppose I would obey the King, but I do not like any of it.’
‘The Bishop of Winchester – does he like it?’
‘He is not at court – but there is a great deal these days that the King does that Bishop Henry does not like.’
She sighed, watching him. ‘I wonder how long you will be gone?’
‘God knows. But there is nothing urgently needing my presence at Wallingford.’
She looked at him sadly, reading a wealth of meaning into his last words. Bernice was right, he was handsome – handsomer now than he had been as a youth fifteen years ago when he had set his ring on her finger – but cool, remote. Fifteen years of sharing his bed and his table and she knew him no better now than she had on their wedding night. His body was as slim and straight as it had been then, his long legs strong and well-made, his face brown with the sun of this hot summer, his hair grown longer now as the fashion was, though he chose to remain clean-shaven when most men had grown beards. On that wedding night so long ago he had taken her with a minimum of passion, taken her because he must, because old King Henry had given her to him – the heiress of Wallingford to make his fortune, she the grand-daughter of Wigod who had been cup-bearer to King Edward the Confessor. So she was part Saxon, of old English stock, and at first her pride had revolted when she had been told she was to marry a bastard son of the Count of Brittany. She saw herself tied to a jealous marauding foreigner who would understand nothing of England or the English, but once she had seen ‘the Clever Breton’, her objections had vanished as if they had never been. Watching him now as he paced, she thought with aching sorrow of the disappointing years. He was kind always, courteous and considerate. He did not beat her nor ill treat her in the manner of some men – she had spoken with many wives who had bruises to show, who had been dragged by the hair, shut up in solitary rooms, knocked unconscious by brutal husbands – but he, he was not like that and in her sensible moments she thanked God for it.
She wanted for nothing, she had ladies of her own choosing for her company and she had only to mention a need for it to be satisfied, but the thing she had most desired was not hers. She could not reach him, could not pass throu
gh the distant courtesy, nor find a way to break his reserve and many times she had wept bitterly and alone for love of him who did not love her. Was it because she could not understand the books in which he delighted? Or was it, and she shrank from the thought, because she was barren? Fifteen years and no child – was there any hope left? She did not know and feeling the tears rise yet again she turned her head away, glad that the summer dusk was falling, the sky turning pink and gold, the first star visible in the east. Why had she not borne him a son – why had God so punished her? She had prayed, besought Our Lady, and Heaven had not heard her pleas. She had even visited the old pagan stones not far from Wallingford and laid sprigs of oak and holly on what had once been an altar of sacrifice to heathen gods. There was a carved symbol there that made her blush and some women in Wallingford had become pregnant after visiting the place. And, surely if she had he would have loved her? But no such good fortune came to her. She did not need a bright mirror of steel to tell her that she had no beauty to win him to her – a plain oval face and mouse brown hair, no golden Saxon plaits for her – and only a fruitful womb, she thought, could have given her the radiance that might have transformed plainness into beauty.
The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3) Page 6