A Place Beyond Courage by Elizabeth Chadwick Read Free Book Online Page B

abashed curtsey to John, then fled towards the stairs.
    ‘Best go with her,’ John said with a tilt of his head, ‘or else she’ll be bolting herself in her chamber and refusing to come out.’
    ‘I am sorry, my lord. My daughter . . .’
    ‘...is shocked, I can see that.’ He looked rueful.
    ‘You say you are willing to wait . . . for how long?’
    John briefly pondered. ‘Depending on the whereabouts of the court, let us say next summer?’
    Cecily let out a sigh of relief. ‘You are generous, my lord. It has been one of my greatest fears - and hers - that you would sell her marriage to a stranger on the moment. You do not know how grateful I am.’
    ‘It is not generosity but common sense that stays my hand. I would no more take her to wife now than I would ride a colt into battle. It is as clear as daylight she needs time to prepare.’
    ‘Nevertheless, thank you.’
    She curtseyed and hurried away. John returned to the window and sat upon the cushioned bench beneath the sill. Aline Pipard was a frightened girl, plainly less adult than her actual years. Tongue-tied, nervous. Yet despite his reservations at her lack of maturity, he acknowledged that it was part of her appeal. There was no artifice in her blush and utter innocence in the darting glances she cast at him from those wide eyes. She stirred the part of him that was jaded by the pretence of the court and the subtle ways of the women who made their living by stalking its corridors. There would be neither pretence nor artifice with Aline. He spread the silk tassel of the cushion and studied the fanned-out threads. If he made a marriage with her, it wouldn’t be all of his life, either. Far from it. The court was his work, his prestige and his livelihood, but to have her purity in which to cleanse himself of the murk appealed to him. Give her a little longer to grow up and she would have to do. He was sufficiently pragmatic to realise that a greater marriage was unlikely to happen.

5
     
    Oxford, March 1133
     
    An hour before sunrise, John quietly left his bed, his movement stirring a faint aroma of musky perfume from the sheets. Earlier in the night it had been occupied by one of the new concubines - a chestnut-haired girl called Celeste who was still on probation. She was unpolished, but a fast learner with endless legs, a dazzling smile and a sharp wit. Another one who would go far and no doubt wind up as some man’s mistress, perhaps even the King’s. Rumour had it he was starting to tire of Isabelle de Beaumont - although not of the company of her twin brothers who were still deep in his counsel.
    He swilled his face in the ewer, dressed, and left his lodging which huddled in the shadow of King Henry’s new tower. A stiff breeze blew from the north, making the day seem more like winter than the first week of spring and he shivered as he crossed the bailey.
    The gates were still shut, but a greening light tinged the eastern sky and the porter was poking his fire to life in order to put his frying pan over the coals. John’s gaze sharpened as he saw that Brian FitzCount, lord of Wallingford, was keeping the man company. Being Henry’s constable, FitzCount was nominally overseer of the marshal’s department, although to all intents and purposes he let John run it as he wished. FitzCount was the bastard son of Alain Fergant, former Count of Brittany, and had been raised at the Norman court where Henry treated him like a son.
    John approached the fire and bowed in greeting. ‘You are abroad early this morning, my lord.’
    ‘I must be if I am ahead of you,’ answered FitzCount with a dry smile. ‘I have never known a man to need so little sleep - except perhaps your father. I still remember him wagging his finger at me when I was a squire and telling me sleep was for the grave.’
    ‘It was a favourite saying of his.’
    ‘He spoke a deal of common sense.’ FitzCount rubbed his hands together then held them out to the fire with a sigh.