by Ling, Maria
"Something along those lines," Hugh agreed.
"Well, I'm not happy about it." The grin vanished from Stephen's face. "I need land and money, I can't maintain loyalty without wealth, I won't see it drip away between my fingers. No, you may not have the widow Rowes. I'll dispose of her myself, when I judge the time right. In the meantime, her income and that of her son belongs to me."
"My lord de Bois is loyal to Your Grace," Hugh argued. "As I am, to you and to him. If you would grant me control over land and money both, there is no question of its dispersal to other and less worthy men. Which might happen, I do not say it would but it might, even with the most trusted of Your Grace's servants."
"Pretty speech," the king said. "And false. You're not fool enough to let slip an opportunity for advancement. I've seen too much sense in you to doubt it now."
"I am not," Hugh admitted. "As my sudden desire for the widow Rowes makes plain. But while I have Your Grace's favour and that of my lord de Bois, I cannot do other than advance. To put it plain, I've already hitched my chariot to the sun. If I were to cut the shackles now, what manner of fool would that make me?"
The scowl cleared from Stephen's face, and he laughed outright. "Well, you know how to flatter at least," the king admitted. "I do like to hear you talk. Take her, then, with my blessing. The boy, too. But hold yourself at my service, not your lord's. I've seen too many barons pledge lifelong allegiance to me only to swerve away before nightfall. Your castles, your lands, and your revenues are mine to take whenever I please. Understand?"
"Perfectly," Hugh said.
"You'll begin by showing it," Stephen said. "Find me one thousand marks, and you may have the widow Rowes for your wife. Find me two thousand, and you may have her son for your own."
Hugh bit apart a whimper. "That may take a while," he said. "Might I urge Your Grace not to let either of them go to another man in the meantime?"
"You may have two months," Stephen said. "After that, I'll put them both up for auction. Separately or together, whichever earns me the most."
***
Mary caught Will just before he slammed into the stone. He shouldn't run in here, really, there wasn't space enough and it was dangerous. But he was a boy, an active one and in health, he needed to move. "Be careful," she urged for the thousandth time.
The door opened. She tensed, rose to stand in front of him, ready to deal with the soldiers if they came. Not that she could do much against them, they were strong and many, but she refused to let her mind dwell on that. She'd defend Will as best she could, make excuses, threaten or plead.
But it wasn't the soldiers. Hugh de Vion stood before her, slouched and uneasy in his bloodied leather armour, with a beard growing into snarled tufts from neglect.
"I can't keep him quiet," Mary said. "I'm sorry, truly I am, but I've tried." Not without beating him, she ought to add, but she'd threatened and it hadn't slowed him down at all. She'd do it if she had to, in front of the men to prove that she could, or at least to spare Will from worse at their hands. But alone with him, no. Because if she started, she didn't know if she could stop. "He needs space to run around in," she continued. "I've been used to take him out into the woods every morning, or his father did."
"He'll have to learn to forgo that," Hugh said. "There's an army camped out there now. Robert of Gloucester's reinforcements. You were a little off with your times."
She held still. There was an edge to his voice she hadn't heard before.
"Did you lie to me?" Hugh demanded. "Deliberately?"
"No." Fear gnawed at her stomach. "I told you my husband's exact words."
"I wonder," Hugh said. "Thought it odd you could recall them so clearly, when a moment before you'd had no recollection of them at all." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall, and studied her with dark blue eyes.
"We are to be married," he said. "A quiet ceremony, I would imagine."
The fear broke through her stomach wall and burst into her limbs. "I don't -- "
"You've been sold," Hugh said. "Both of you. To me. Which isn't the worst fate you could suffer, not by a bowshot. You can thank me on our wedding night. Before then, I'll have you write and sign and seal a letter to your steward, ordering him to deliver two thousand marks to me here by swift despatch."
Mary swallowed. "I have no such fortune."
"Then you'd better find it," Hugh said. "Or you'll discover what pain really is. I assume you can write? If not, I'll do so for you."
"I can." Her voice was hoarse. She'd trusted him, she'd thought him a good man. Better than most, at least. "Let me upstairs, my husband's table and writing implements are there."
"I'll have them brought to you." He cocked his head. "In fact, my guess is they've arrived. Come into the hall."
She walked after him, to the high table set for dinner, where pen and parchment lay ready at one end.
"Write," Hugh said, and she did so, urging haste and caution and a strong escort, making cryptic references to a need to pay her husband's friends. With luck, he'd take that as a reference to the war, it would read well and convincingly, she dared not give him a chance to refuse -- on grounds of loyalty or poverty or Angevin exactions.
"There." She pushed it across for Hugh to read, dared not seal it without his approval.
He read it, caught and dispatched the faint hint of a smile, fixed her with that unnerving stare. "What friends?"
"None I can think of." She countered the stare, she wanted to flinch and look away, her husband would have whipped her for staring back at him like this. But she wouldn't show fear, not now, it would do her no good at all with this man, she could sense it. "But my steward is no fool. He'd wish to know the purpose of my request before he parted with such a sum. If I gave him no reason, he'd assume this was forged. Or that I was writing under duress."
"Which you are." Again that faint flit of a smile. "No matter. If he pays up, all is well."
"That's all you want?" Mary demanded. "Money?"
"It's the main part, yes." He threw a brief glance at the soldiers, seemed rather pleased than otherwise with her anger. "I'll have your body too, I'm man enough to appreciate it when gifted. But it's the money that concerns me most. I have a career to make, and favour costs plenty." He melted wax and dripped it on, flicked his fingers at her. "The seal, woman. Do as I bid."
She obeyed, she had no other choice. But rage welled up within her, toxic and dark. "I thought you better than the rest."
"Then your wishes misled you," Hugh said. "You had no reason in the world to think well of me. But if you would do so, it ill behooves me to argue. I'll keep you and the brat alive while the pair of you amuse me. That's more than other men would do." He held out his hand for the seal. "I'll take that now. In case your steward requests further clarification."
Mary clutched the seal. "You have no right."
"Just cut her hand off with it in." John de Bois strode into the hall from the inner door, apparently well content with himself. "None of this soft pleading, Hugh, it makes you look a fool."
Hugh raised his head and grinned across at him, a hard mirthless grin that made Mary shiver. Slowly she stretched out her arm, opened her hand, surrendered the seal. Hugh grabbed it and tucked it into a scrip at his belt, then held up the parchment. "Letter to her steward. We'll see what he can scratch out of the Welsh soil."
"Good." John took it off him, turned cold eyes on Mary. "Get out."
She scrambled for the safety of her chamber, hugged Will to her hard. Silenced his pleas to see the horses as best she could manage.
"Cut that brat's tongue out," John de Bois said.
"If you wish it, I will," Hugh replied. "But I like to hear him squeal." He shoved the door to, and it shut on John de Bois' laughter.
***
"Well, he's away." The messenger had ridden off that morning, unassailed as far as the men on the parapets could ascertain. The besieging force, though loyal to Robert of Gloucester, had agreed to
observe the courtesies of war so far as to permit requests for aid to be sent. Whether they'd be heeded was another matter. But, Hugh reflected, things could be worse. They were dry and fed within walls, at least, and their enemies showed no particular inclination to attack once informed that William of Rowes and his entire garrison were dead. No one had troubled to ask about the widow and her son.
Hugh felt a little guilty about them, though not much. He was doing as much as he could to keep them safe, or safer than they'd be in John de Bois' hands at least. The king paced and fretted, he'd wanted to be away, but it was impossible now. The besiegers would never let him pass. So far they had no notion he was here in person, they'd shown no eagerness to discover exactly who lay within these walls, they'd accepted without question John de Bois' claim to be in complete command. And it was best to keep it that way, they'd fight all the harder to secure the person of the king, that could be the crucial advantage their own rebellious overlord needed. It could end the war, possession of the king's person, it would give Robert options he could scarcely have dreamed of. To kill the king, or hold him in close imprisonment until he was biddable, torture him maybe, release him only for display to the barons where he'd be made to forswear the crown and offer it to Robert instead -- it didn't take much to imagine what use his enemies might make of him. No: better to deprive them of the notion, to keep them ignorant of the treasure that lay at Rowes. They might give up, left to themselves, or news from elsewhere might force them to break siege and hurry away. With the promise of the king's capture and the achievement of their own ambitions, they'd never shift while they lived.
So John de Bois had argued, and William the Fleming agreed, and the king reluctantly bent to their will. Hugh thought the better of him for it. What they urged made sense, and Stephen had curtailed his instinctive drive to be away, to move and strike and act. Instead he'd suffered himself to be cooped up here, pace his chamber above the stairs, and wait.
As did lady Rowes below him. Hugh shifted at the thought. He'd frightened her into submission, it irked him though he had little choice. He couldn't afford to let John de Bois see through him, realise he had no stomach for harming innocents such as those. Nor the other men, either. He'd lose face, might even lose his life. And John would take over management of the widow, at which point she and the boy would learn what suffering could be.
No. Hugh must hold on to them both, until he could get them away to a safer place. And to do that, he needed to keep them cowed, in the sight of John and every man.
He might intercede with the king for them, if matters went far awry, but that was risky too. Stephen had a soft heart, especially for such appeals, but he also possessed a vicious streak that emerged with sudden and unpredictable strength at times. Hugh had seen it, he'd seen men mutilated and killed over it, he had no taste for gambling on Stephen's mercy. His own he knew, that he controlled absolutely. Better to rely on that than on the whims of more powerful men than himself.
And he liked her. He admitted that to himself, secretly. She had a flash of eye and a tilt of head that appealed to him, caught and held as she was. He guessed she had a stronger will than she'd let on so far. It was vital to her that she appear submissive, he knew and understood as much, she and her child were at the mercy of men who possessed none. He'd impressed that upon her, he hoped and believed she understood. Shorn of that fear, though, safe in his own manor, he suspected she'd prove more of a handful than she'd allowed him to see thus far.
He liked that thought.
Well, they might have a future together -- of some kind, at least. If he could get her and the boy away from there. Which he couldn't, at least not right now, not with an army camped outside. But soon. As soon as he was able to. If John de Bois could spare him.
Yes. That was another 'if', and a greater one. Not that Hugh was utterly necessary to the royal cause, he had not that absurdly high an opinion of himself. But he was in favour, which was a good thing and he'd earned it, but it also meant he'd be expected to remain in favour. Not to slouch off to his own manor and leave the war to other men.
Well, he'd find a way. Somehow.
***
"They say that's their last offer." John de Bois regarded the king. "After that, they'll storm the place."
"Or try," the king replied.
"Well, there is that."
"We succeeded," Hugh pointed out.
John threw him a sharp glare. "That's why we'll succeed in holding it, too."
"Of course." But he wasn't sanguine. The walls had been breached before, so had the gate and the inner door. The Flemings had made excellent repairs, especially in so short a time, but even so Hugh could not help but regard the immediate future with foreboding. "What are your dispositions?"
"You and I on the outer walls," John said. "Flemings in the bailey, to bear the brunt of the attack if they do manage to break through. Remainder close by the keep, to hold off the worst until we can get inside. If it should come to it. But I doubt it will. Martin of Wode is a young man with no experience. Robert sent him here to test him, I would guess, or to test our strength. Or to get rid of him. They say he's an arrogant little sport, for all he has neither name nor lineage. Saxon blood." John made the last two words sound like an oath, and a coarse one at that.
"I've heard of him," Hugh acknowledged. Much the same as John had, and it reassured him. "All the same, he does have some three hundred men under command."
"Welsh," John said. "They'll run as soon as they spot the first arrows. And I can't see them fighting their hearts out for a Saxon sport, even if they had courage to begin with."
Hugh held silence. He knew Welsh tactics, half of his own men had true British blood in them. Hit and run, always on the move, difficult to pin down, impossible to bring to a final defeat. It wasn't lack of courage they suffered from. Rather, they had hundreds of years of experience of a different kind of war than this. Norman lords didn't understand it, or chose not to. Angevins probably didn't either, if Robert's gesture in sending them here was anything to go by. They were ill suited to castle warfare, and he must know that. The man was no fool, by all accounts. Though he might be cynical enough to want his own troublesome upstarts out of the way. Or dead, even.
A bustle outside disrupted his thought. The messenger who'd been sent with their answer -- no surrender, now or ever, each man here is for the king -- returned with a look of grim satisfaction. "They didn't like it," he said. "Martin of Wode replies: Then ready yourselves, for today each man of you dies."
John de Bois laughed. "Did his nursemaid teach him that? No matter. We'll split him from crotch to skull and feed him his own innards by way of reply." He glanced at Hugh. "Get that woman and her child out of the way. It shouldn't come to it, but if it does I don't want men tripping over them."
Hugh nodded, and strode off to find lady Rowes.
***
He'd changed so much this past day: he frightened her now. Tall and strong and utterly remote, he barely looked at her and barely spoke. But his grip on her arm was firm enough, Will squirmed on his other side, she'd ventured a brief protest but one glance from Hugh was enough to silence her. She didn't know what he planned to do with them, was too terrified to think. So she walked, obedient as she must always be, up the stairs and past a roomful of men, and back into her husband's chamber. She flinched back from the bed, instinctively, then realised she was being absurd. Hugh de Vion didn't have beddings on his mind, nor weddings either. He pulled her and Will along, through the chamber and into the alcove where her husband dressed. With a fierce thrust of his arm he flung her onto the chest, then threw Will into her arms.
"Now understand me," he said. "You will not stir from here, either of you. No matter what happens. Else I'll flog you until you die." He turned his back on them, shoved the curtain across, ducked past it and was gone.
"I hate him," Will said.
"Hush." She cuddled her boy to her, fought down the desire to agree. "We must do as he says. I'm sure he has
his reasons." And she was, she realised as she heard herself say it. Strangely, on some deep level of her thoughts, she trusted him still.
***
They'd be safe enough there, Hugh thought. The king's presence wouldn't protect them in and of itself -- he'd be out with his Flemings, most likely, fighting to prove his courage which no one doubted but himself. But the fact of them being in the king's own quarters might add a nimbus of authority to Hugh's injunction that they were to be left strictly alone. John de Bois quirked an eyebrow at that, Hugh thought for certain the man was beginning to suspect that his plans for lady Rowes and her son were not of the brutal kind. But then John swung away to discuss archer positions, and the matter faded.
Until now. John gave his last set of orders, then took Hugh by the arm and led him away. They strolled through the gathering Flemings, climbed the steps onto the walkway behind the parapet. "You've taken possession of her, then," John observed.
"Already took care of that," Hugh replied. "Remember? But I won't have men handling my own gear. Bad for discipline."
"True enough." John gave him a long look. Hugh met it without flinching. "I'll take the boy, I think," John said. "Just to make sure."
"Of what?"
"No concern of yours. Just do as you're told."
Hugh leaned against the stonework. He'd kill the boy rather than hand him over to the likes of John de Bois. Or kill his overlord before it came to that -- the rage that rose inside him at John's threat startled him with its strength. He didn't care that much about the boy, he couldn't do, he barely knew him. Nor about her either, often as thoughts of her body invaded his mind. It wasn't that, it was something else. Guilt. Or sheer simple possessiveness maybe, the urge never to let another man handle what was his.
Well, it might never come to it. They could both die, here and now. In which case lady Rowes and her son would have to take their chances along with the king. He wished he'd thought of a better spot for them. But no, they'd be safest there, Martin of Wode had already shown himself versed in the courtesies of war. He'd take her for the king's ward or mistress, maybe, and if she had the sense Hugh credited her with, she'd play to that. She already knew how to submit, though he'd felt the tension in her body as he pulled her along, he understood what it cost her. She was quick of thought, and able to play to her own immediate advantage, he'd watched her flick from defiance to deference and back again as the power ebbed and flowed through each moment. She'd be as safe as he or any other man could make her. Depended only on the souls of the men she met, whether they had something of God's nobility about them or if they were all Devil spawn. He couldn't gauge that, didn't know how to, except by watching how they acted towards those powerless in their grasp. He didn't know and couldn't explain it, he was no priest. But some men lived with God where others didn't, he'd seen enough to know that. Hoped he was of the former sort still, hard as he doubted it at times, at least he knew how to turn towards the light, even if he never reached it. At least he knew what the light was, and what darkness was, and how to choose between them.