A Place Beyond Courage by Elizabeth Chadwick

begotten an heir, the powerful instinct to protect and the knowledge that here was the future. Not only could he be ambitious for himself, he could plan for his son. He had always been careful with the whores at court, only spilling himself inside those who were barren or who knew how to prevent conception. He had nothing to offer a bastard child except a place at his hearth, and he didn’t want that responsibility. But a son and heir was a different matter.
    The Salisburys’ youngest daughter was watching with fascination as Gilbert nursed. She had the gawkiness of late childhood as if someone had stretched her limbs on a tenter frame. Her masses of rich brunette hair were plaited in blue ribbons and her hazel eyes were as wide as goblet rims, taking everything in.
    ‘The King himself is in good health?’ Lord Walter asked.
    It was a common question these days. Men were nervous. John turned his focus from the girl and fixed it on her father. ‘Indeed so, my lord, and very pleased with his grandsons.’
    ‘I swore my oath to the Empress,’ Walter said, tugging at his luxuriant whiskers, ‘but I am hoping those little boys grow fast and that their grandsire stays hale.’
    ‘Amen to that.’ John raised his cup in toast.
    The old man gave him a shrewd look. ‘You must hear rumours at court, my lord Marshal. You are in a position to know most of what goes on.’
    John drank and set his cup down. ‘Rumours are like pebbles on a beach - so many of them that you pick the one that attracts your eye. But whether it has value or not . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It is rare to see a piece of gold among the stones.’
    ‘But a man who knows the beach has more chance than a stranger.’
    ‘In this case, there is nothing I can tell you that you do not already know, my lord.’
    Walter gave a mirthless smile. ‘I would hate to play chess with you.’
    John said nothing. He didn’t need to, for the silence was not uncomfortable. Walter of Salisbury was too wily a diplomat for that and so was he. Even if he was growing old, Walter wielded tremendous influence and authority throughout Wiltshire. He had the support of the people too, for his father had been an English thegn and his family was one of the few to have survived the upheaval of the Norman invasion.
    ‘The Bishop of Salisbury will never accept the Empress as Queen. Neither will Waleran of Meulan, or Henry of Winchester,’ Walter opined after a moment.
    ‘Well then, my lord, it seems to me you have at least seen your stones, if not picked them up.’
    ‘I didn’t say I liked the look of them.’ The sheriff bestowed a hard, shrewd stare on John. ‘What of your own?’
    ‘I stand back and wait. Who knows what the next tide will push into the shore?’ John watched the sheriff ’s daughter take Gilbert from the wet nurse and cradle him in her arms with natural ease, her face alight with pleasure.
    ‘Probably more stones,’ Walter said.
    John laughed in dour acknowledgement.
    ‘Speaking of which, I see you are going to be busy with your outerworks if those cartloads of timber in the bailey are any indication - or are you collecting firewood in anticipation of a hard winter?’
    John looked wry. Despite his encroaching years, Walter of Salisbury remained as observant as a hawk. ‘The defences are in need of renovation,’ he said with a casual wave of his hand. ‘Nothing more than that.’
    Walter folded his hands on the trestle and pressed his thumbs together. ‘I have no quarrel with ambition, my lord Marshal,’ he said quietly. ‘A man must do his best for his sons, so that they may do the best for theirs when the time comes. Providing you do not interfere with me and mine, I wish you well.’
    ‘Then we are of the same mind,’ John said.

     
    As John unbuckled his belt and laid it across the coffer, Aline saw him frown at the dust there. She had meant to tell one of her women to see to it, but had forgotten in the hectic rush to prepare the hall and the