And very ’ware of all my shames I am,
Oh Mary, Christ, have mercy on your man.
And now he was shamed, for the old joy in books and poetry had become sharply defined, so many lines he had once read with intellectual interest now so emotionally angled that they struck an altogether other response from him. ‘O Mary, Christ, have mercy on your man.’ Once he had spoken those lines with genuine devotion – today they induced only a current of revulsion. He was Maud’s man first, and wondered of what blasphemy that made him guilty.
He raised his head to look at her as they all stood. No exorcism could thrust her from his mind nor take away the love that burned in him – nor did he want it so.
Christ, forgive me, he thought – Mother of God, pray for me. Yet the words seemed empty now and when Maud beckoned him to walk with her from the chapel he turned from the altar and the Blessed Sacrament with every thought driven from his head but the intoxication of being close to her.
They kept the Christmas feast with as much gaiety as he could muster but on St. Stephen’s day he woke to hear an ominous dripping and saw the snow melting from above the bower window and when he rose to look out the brown slush in the bailey was fast disappearing. Sick at heart he turned from the inevitable thaw. Now Robert D’Oyley would surrender Oxford, now he must take the Lady back to the west country – and he sought desperately in his mind for some reason to delay. Yet he knew that his dream was nearly over, that reality was about to return, and he went heavily down the stairs to face the day.
He had scarcely reached the hall when Ingelric came in followed by a travel-stained knight.
‘My lord, here is Drogo of Bayeux with news for you.’
Brien stood by the lowest step, his hand on the rail. Drogo was smiling, but the news he brought was not that which the lord of Wallingford wanted to hear.
‘You are Earl Robert’s man,’ Brien said. ‘I remember you.’
‘Aye, my lord. He sent me to tell you he landed at Wareham a month since with a strong force and drove out the King’s men. Now he is at Bristol with the young Prince.’
‘He has brought the Lady’s son with him?’ Brien glanced briefly towards the stair.
‘The lad was eager to come and the Earl thought he would put new heart into us all. Count Geoffrey raised no objection.’
He wouldn’t, Brien thought, he was too busy conquering Normandy piece by piece, carving an inheritance for his son that would rival that of any prince in Christendom – and he wanted the crown of England for Henry too. But it meant that nothing must keep the Lady from a swift return to Bristol.
He thanked the knight, sent him with Ingelric to get some food and turned to go up to the Empress’s chamber. Guy de Sablé came to join him with his light eager step.
‘Well, that is good news for once,’ he remarked cheerfully, ‘I was getting tired of our inactivity. The Lady will be glad to hear the Earl is back and with her son – and the snow is going fast. Shall we go tomorrow?’
‘If that is what she wishes,’ Brien answered evenly.
So he was with Guy, and Beatrice too was present attending to the Lady’s toilet, when Maud heard the news, and once again he wondered at her calm, her presence of mind. She would be happy to see her son again, and the brother who was so dear to her, and she talked with them, making plans to ride on the morrow and no one would have known there was another thought in her head. Perhaps after all she was conscious first and foremost of her position and could put aside what might have been no more than an interlude. He felt cold and utterly wretched and for the rest of the day busied himself with preparations, keeping away from the hall and the bower.
It was late when he came to her, when the castle had settled into silence. She lay in his bed watching for him, her brown eyes wide and sleepless, her fingers restless, pulling at the thick fur coverlet. He closed the door softly and crossed to the bed where he stood looking down at her, and it was then that he saw such misery in her face that he could no longer doubt.
In the darkness they lay in each other’s arms still and silent, not moving, not attempting to make love.
At last she said, ‘All these nights, I have not let myself think. Yet I knew – I knew, only I did not think it would be so soon.’ And she broke into a storm of weeping, so wild and violent that it was in keeping with all her emotions.
In tears himself he could only hold her and give what comfort he could. Words came tumbling from him but he did not know what he said, only that his sorrow for her, for himself, was so great that he thought it must crush him utterly, a grief as deep, as overwhelming as the previous joy had been. It was a long while before she was quiet. Now and again she gave a shuddering sigh as her sobs died away. After a long silence she said, ‘I will not give you up. I will find ways for us to be alone.’
He shook his head, his mouth against her hair. ‘I wish to God it were possible, but it is not.’
‘I will make it possible – I am Queen.’
‘It is for that very reason that you cannot offend your brother, nor the churchmen, nor any who follow you.’ It went against every instinct for him to speak the words, but somehow he forced himself to go on. ‘Can you not imagine what would be said if it were known that you had chosen me from among all the men at your court to be your lover?’
‘I would not care,’ she said between clenched teeth.
‘I should care for you. There would be such jealousy, such censure. Dear one, I could not let you do it – nor bear it for you.’
‘But if I choose to – ’
‘You will not,’ he interrupted quietly. ‘Think, Aaliz, of the consequences.’
‘I will be master of them, not mastered by them,’ she retorted with all her old arrogance. ‘If I choose to take a lover I dare any man to censure me.’
He smiled sadly in the darkness, though he was never further from amusement. ‘It is not only all of us who serve you who must see you unsullied – the whole of Christendom watches you. You need the good will of the Holy Father, of the Bishops, all the clergy. If they thought you wanton – ’
‘They would not dare. And this – this is not wanton! You do not think so?’
‘Of course not.’ He moved his head until his mouth found hers and kissed her gently. ‘This is a taste of paradise – that paradise we talked of once in Robert’s solar, do you recall? I said the desire of it made us men.’
‘Then if that is true, why do we fear the world?’
‘Because others will not see it so. What of Geoffrey? And Mata? And your sons? We are neither of us alone.’
There was a long silence. She lay so still he began to wonder if, worn out with grief, she slept. But at last in a cold quiet voice she said, ‘Is it you who would cast me off?’
Aghast, he answered, ‘How can you think it? I want only your good. If I could I would carry you away tomorrow somewhere where I might never let you out of my sight. Jesu, Aaliz, surely you know me better now?’
She put up her hand to touch his mouth. ‘Perhaps I find it hard to believe a man can be so selfless.’
‘I am not selfless,’ he said wretchedly. ‘I am so torn with sorrow I don’t know how to let you go, but there is no other way. I must once again be merely one of your barons – at least we can thank God that everyone knows we have had a deep affection for each other for many years, that I am like another brother to you. I can be near you and no one will know the truth.’
She sat up suddenly, her knees drawn up, her arms tight about them, her eyes fixed on the dark recesses of the room faintly lit by moonlight. ‘I will not give you up. Did Heaven make sport of us to give us so much only to snatch it away?’
‘No.’ He had thought of this so often, tormented himself with it, and he stared now at the outline of her back, the dark hair spread across it. ‘No, I think we have been given more than we ever dared to hope for and must be grateful for it. It could not go on.’ He gave a faint laugh. ‘I fear if Geoffrey knew he would make war on England. As fo
r Robert – ‘
‘He at least would understand. He took a mistress long ago and fathered my nephew Bishop Richard of Bayeux – and no one thinks ill of him for that.’
‘
It is different for a man. And you are not only a woman but a Queen. Oh, my love,’ he laid his arm about her back, his fingers twisting in her hair, ‘do you think I would not do anything to give you your heart’s desire if it were in any way possible? But I cannot ruin your cause, bring you more heartache than I have already.’
She sank her head on to her knees. ‘If there is heartache to come, at least you have given me the only happiness I have known since I left my childhood behind.’
‘Then I thank God for it. It is because I love you that I will not hurt you now, nor let you hurt yourself. There is Henry your son waiting for you – ’
‘He is a child – ’
‘And you are his mother. How could I urge you to separate yourself from him? Nor will I betray Robert who has been my friend and who trusted you to my care.’ The words sounded noble, self-sacrificing, but he hated them even as he spoke them, hated himself for saying them.
He barely heard her whisper, ‘Then we will not again lie together?’
‘We have been too close ever to be parted in spirit,’ he said. ‘Wherever you are I will be near you, even if I may not be your lover.’
‘I want all of you,’ she said passionately, ‘I want your heart and your body, your very soul. ’
‘You have them.’ He reached for her, drawing her down again into the warmth of the bed, and set his mouth on hers with such intensity that it must shut out all thought. His hands passed over her, awakening every sense until she was on fire with desire, until their need met and blended in an ecstasy beyond all that had gone before.
At last she fell asleep in his arms, but, utterly exhausted, broken with grief, he could not sleep, dared not let himself sleep. He held back the curtains so that in the first light he could see the pale outline of her face framed in her copper brown hair. He would never see her thus again, he was sure of it. Bending he kissed her forehead and sliding from the bed he went from the room.
In the bower it was cold. He threw himself face downwards on his pallet, listening to Thurstin’s quiet breathing, and wished himself alone, without even the company of his sleeping page, that he might bear his pain in solitude.
But Thurstin was not asleep, had been awake more than once when his lord returned. He lay huddled on his bed, his eyes tightly closed, sick with misery – not that his master was the Lady’s lover, that he could understand, but because he for all his immaturity had also foreseen the grief that must come.
Quite suddenly he heard a low stifled groan from the other bed and he thrust his head into the pillow, his fingers in his ears, wishing he might not hear, wishing even more with all the uncompromising condemnation of youth that the Lady of England had never set her imperious foot on her native soil.
In the morning a small body of men left Wallingford castle, taking the quietest road to the west. The snow was fast disappearing, the green of the countryside emerging from its burial, a gentler wind from the west thawing the streams so that the sound of running water filled the air as a pale sun emerged. At the head of the column the lord of Wallingford rode with the Empress. She was pale, silent, but wholly in command of herself, and she sat her horse with her usual dignity.
Beside her he was equally silent. Only once during the morning did he speak and then in a low tone so that neither Ingelric nor Guy, riding behind them, might hear. ‘I shall not again look on snow without remembering, nor see the frost and frozen water without thanking God for it.’
Her mouth trembled but she controlled it, her hands gripped on the reins. ‘I think it is my heart that is frozen now.’
They rode on, the horses’ hooves slushing through the pools and uneven holes in the road, and all day the birds sang and the small animals in the forest reappeared, and this resurgence of life seemed to be mocking the two who kept their stricken silence.
BOOK IV
THE ENDLESS WAR
JULY 1143 - DECEMBER 1147
This discord in the pact of things,
This endless war ’twixt truth and truth
That singly hold, yet give the lie
To him who seeks to yoke them both…
Boethius
CHAPTER 1
‘It is done like this, young lord,’ Bernard the staller said, ‘See, you nick the goose quill here, so, and then slide it into place so that the feathers are well balanced from the end of the shaft.’
‘Let me try,’ Henry begged.
Bernard held out the knife, a fresh feather and an arrow shaft. The Prince took them, holding the quill carefully as he prepared it, his russet head bent, eyes intent. But his small fingers found the knife heavy and as he tried to slit the shaft, the wood being hard he pressed too strongly.
‘Careful,’ Bernard said. ‘You will split the arrow.’
‘It is not as easy as I thought,’ Henry remarked gravely. ‘I see it is a skill.’
‘Of course, my lord. If it were not the fletchers would have no trade.’
Henry laughed. ‘But you are not a fletcher and I’ve never seen an arrow better made than yours.’
Bernard grinned back, showing blackened teeth for he had a weakness for sweet things, for honey and marchpane and spiced cakes. ‘By your leave, lording, you are but nine years old and cannot have seen a great deal yet – though I’m not saying I’m not a fair hand with the skill.’
‘Then why are you not a fletcher?’
‘Because I prefer living horses to dead wood,’ Bernard said and added with undisguised conceit, ‘Have you ever seen horses better kept than my lord’s?’
Thurstin, who was sitting astride a bench listening to them, leaned over to say, ‘Don’t agree with him, my lord – he’s puffed up enough already.’ He dodged a good humoured blow from Bernard. ‘Not but what he hasn’t taught me how to fletch a good arrow.’ He took up a knife and a fresh shaft and began to work it.
They were sitting in the sun in the inner bailey of Marlborough Castle on the last day of June while John the Marshall’s servants prepared the dinner. Some of the serving women were shelling peas and gossiping together, cutting up onions or kneading bread; scullions were hurrying in and out of the kitchens with buckets of water or piles of logs and men-at-arms sat about polishing swords and armour, cleaning mud from boots now that the rain had stopped and the bright sun returned.
The smell of cooking meat caught at Henry’s young stomach and he sniffed appreciatively. ‘I am hungry,’ he said.
‘You are always hungry,’ Thurstin countered as if he were a grandfather.
‘Hunting gives one an appetite,’ the Prince retorted with dignity. ‘I like that big grey horse my mother gave your lord – he is faster than any my uncle Robert has.’
‘Puissance.’ Bernard nodded. ‘He lives up to his name. He sired two fine foals last year. If you ask my lord Brien he might give you one.’
Henry jumped to his feet. ‘Do you think so? I will go at once and ask him. ’
‘I should wait – ’ Bernard began but he was too late for Henry was running across the bailey, a sturdy boy with short strong legs, seldom still for two minutes together.
‘The Earls are in conference,’ Bernard said to the air and frowned.
‘Perhaps our lord does not want to part with either of those foals,’ Thurstin remarked. He had finished whittling at his shaft and slid a feather into place. ‘There – how is that?’
‘Fair,’ Bernard took it, weighing the balance. ‘He would not refuse the Lady’s son, would he?’
Thurstin threw down the knife and got to his feet, ‘No,’ he said and was relieved to see Roger Foliot come across the bailey arm in arm with de Sablé.
‘Well?’ Bernard looked from one to the other. ‘I can see that you have some news.’
Roger sat down on Thurstin’s vacated bench. ‘Aye, Guy here i
s back from Devizes with a tale that will make you laugh although it is bad enough for us.’
‘If bad news can make me smile I’ll be surprised. Well, Messire Guy?’
De Sablé sat down on an upturned barrel. ‘You know that solemn fellow, William Pont de l’Arche, who quarrelled with Bishop Henry and asked for help?’
The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3) Page 23