“It’s true, sir,” Jack said to his father. “I saw the Archbishop’s letter.”
John heard the deep voice, not a trace of boyhood in its cadence. “If Marlborough was in your charge, would you yield?” he asked the young man.
His son frowned and took his time to think before answering. “I might,” he said after a while, “but not until I was forced. If I surrendered too soon, I would compromise my honour; too late, and I would lose anyway and be of no further use to my lord.”
John looked surprised and then thoughtful. “Did you tell him to say that?” he asked William.
“No, he is his own man,” William answered, looking thoughtful too.
“I cannot yield this place,” John Marshal said, his expression tight and stubborn.
“You can,” William answered, hoping that his voice held the right amount of encouragement and pleading.
John shook his head. “But I won’t,” he replied, and William knew then that he had lost.
***
They left the next morning as dawn cracked the eastern sky with streaks of yolk-gold. Looking back, William saw John standing in the gateway, arm raised in farewell. From a distance his grey pallor didn’t show and he had made a visible effort to draw together the dissipating threads of his being. There had been no embrace, and even if eyes had acknowledged a final parting, expressions had not shown it. What John and his son had said to each other during their private time together, William had not probed. What would he say to his own son on the eve of such a final and sombre leave-taking? A part of William wanted to turn his horse, ride back, and embrace his brother fervently. They had never been close, but now that external distances yawned between them and the last bridge was about to burned, he felt both pain and guilt.
His nephew, who had been looking round too, now faced the road ahead and set his jaw. “He’s going to die, isn’t he?” he said.
The words flashed through William, making real what he was trying to keep to himself. “I am not a physician,” he said brusquely.
“He is, though. His face was as grey as an unpainted effigy and you heard the way he was breathing.”
William sighed. “Yes,” he admitted wearily, “I fear he is.”
Jack swallowed. “Do you think he listened? Will he yield if they come?”
The dawn widened and the sky became as bright as the lining of a seashell. “I know that he listened,” William said. “But we both know he wasn’t persuaded. He could have yielded Marlborough to me had he so chosen.”
“He would never do that for the sake of his pride,” Jack answered.
“No,” William said wearily, “I suppose not.” He took his eyes off the sunrise and studied the young man. “I have sent Wigain back to Hubert Walter with a plea on your father’s behalf. I know he must lay siege to Marlborough if your father refuses to yield, but I have asked him to be lenient—to tread lightly on your father’s pride. I know it is not enough…”
The young man shrugged. “If your positions were reversed, would he do the same for you?”
William sighed. “You ask some hard questions. I would like to say yes, but in the balance I do not know. Nor does it matter now, save that in leaving him I feel I have betrayed him.”
His nephew’s jaw tightened. “The betrayal is Prince John’s,” he said. “Without his treachery, my father would not be in such a bind.”
“Your father is right; he may yet be our future King,” William murmured.
“That does not stop him being dishonourable,” the young man flashed.
“No, but if he became King, we would be honour bound to serve him—as your father feels he is honour bound now.” William grimaced. “Bound” was indeed the right word. Hog-tied and thrown in the fire.
Forty-three
Marlborough, Wiltshire, March 1194
Breath whistling in his throat, John Marshal watched them come, the army that William had warned him about; the army who would take Marlborough from him and leave him in disgrace. There might be a pardon for his overlord, the Prince, but John knew there would be none for him. One way or the other he was doomed. Bidding slow farewell to the rooms and corridors of his boyhood, he gave his wife the keys to the strongbox and such money as it contained. “If things should go ill, you are my deputy,” he said.
She gave him a blank, frightened look. “I don’t know what to do.”
He returned her a dour smile. “Pretend you are the Countess Isabelle,” he said. “No one is going to harm you. You’re just an innocent pawn. Behave as befits a great lady and you will be treated like one.” He went from her chamber into his own and bade his squires arm him. The weight of the mail hauberk dragged upon him as if the rings were fashioned of lead. The shimmer of the silk surcoat was too bright for his eyes; his father’s sword was an encumbrance at his left hip, which was aching from the insinuating March damp; but the heaviest burden was that carried by his mind. Sweating, nauseous, he wondered how long he and the castle could hold out. Perhaps his son was right. Perhaps he should be prepared to compromise…but not yet. He had to make the enemy believe it was worth their while to do so, and he had to give himself credibility in his own and his lord’s eyes. There was the rub. Something that William had possessed all his life without trying and which had eluded John no matter how he struggled.
“I have lived too long,” he said to the startled squires. “Perhaps today is fortuitous.”
