Castle of Dreams (16 page)

“They say in the town that Henry has ridden
to London to be crowned,” the captain told her. “Oxford is all in
an uproar of celebration. I did not take lodging there, my lady. I
came back to report to you instead. I was not certain what you
would want to do after hearing this.”

Isabel sat a moment, absently patting her
horse’s neck while she considered the situation.

Gone. William and Lionel, both of them were
gone, and she was free. No, not free after all. William’s laws were
still in effect until the next king decided to change them. Until
that happened, she belonged to whoever was king. Let it be Henry,
she prayed, and not his belligerent older brother, Robert. Let
there be no war for the throne of England.

“Will the barons support Henry?” she asked,
and then realized her captain of the guard could have no way of
knowing that.

“The people support him,” her captain said,
grinning. “One man told me a mob gathered at Winchester and
threatened to tear down the palace and hang every nobleman inside
if Henry were not our next king. The barons who were there had no
choice. They elected Henry.”

“And he has gone to London, you say?”

“Yes, my lady. What shall we do now? Is it
back to Adderbury for us?”

“No.” Isabel had made her choice, sitting in
the middle of the muddy road upon a restless horse, her heart and
mind filling with the same hope that no doubt was presently
flooding all England. Henry would be different from William, a much
better king. She knew it. “We ride to London. I would speak with
our new king.”

London was a seething mass of people pouring
through the streets in celebration. King Henry had been crowned
that day, in Westminster Abbey, and his subjects drank his health
in wine or mead, ale or beer, laughing and cheering as they did
so.

Isabel and her companions picked their way
carefully through the crowded, garbage-littered streets, riding
slowly. As at Oxford, she had sent a man ahead to seek out rooms
for them. Accommodations had been found at an inn that was not
overly dirty or noisy, and not too far from the King’s House at
Westminster.

Early the next morning Isabel sent Father
Herbert to the royal household. He was not the most intelligent of
messengers, but his clerical robes would guarantee respectful
treatment when he requested an audience for her. He was not
successful that day, or the next, but on the third afternoon the
priest returned to their lodging to say King Henry would see her
the following Sunday after early mass. Isabel at once began
planning her costume.

While waiting for Sunday to come, she went to
see Lady Aloise. Sir Stephen of Dol had died of old age two years
earlier, and Aloise had remarried promptly. She and her new
husband, Sir Valaire, a Norman knight attached to Henry’s court,
had produced a daughter exactly nine months after their wedding
day. Aloise was full of the latest gossip, particularly on the two
subjects about which all of London was chattering.

“Ralph Flambard has been arrested,” Aloise
informed Isabel. “He is the first prisoner to be held in the White
Tower. I knew you would be delighted about that. You never liked
him, did you?”

“I despised him,” Isabel admitted. “I still
do. I hope they keep him in chains for the rest of his life. Have
you heard anything about the king’s betrothal?”

“It’s definite,” Aloise said. “Henry is going
to marry the daughter of the king of Scotland. Her mother is a
Saxon, a former English princess. I can hardly believe it.”

“They say she is beautiful,” Isabel offered.
She, too, had been listening to the rumors sweeping through London.
“I have heard she has agreed to change her name from Edith to a
more Norman name. Matilda, I think someone said.”

“It won’t make any difference. Everyone will
ignore her.” Aloise’s elegant Norman nostrils flared as if she were
already snubbing the odious Saxon queen-to-be. “They are calling
her Goody Godiva. One would think Henry would have made a better
choice. He could have almost any princess in Europe, certainly any
countess. Why couldn’t he have chosen a Norman?”

Isabel made some inconsequential answer. She
saw opportunity opening before her, a chance to regain her rightful
status and remain at court. Isabel knew the question of arranging a
second marriage for herself would most likely arise during her
Sunday interview with the king. She did not want to remarry, not
just yet. She had had no choice the first time. She wanted to look
around Henry’s court, to examine the potential of any possible
candidates for her hand. Isabel hoped eventually to make a
brilliant second marriage that would wipe out the gossip and the
unhappy memory of her first. Most of all, she wanted to stay at
court. No more confinement at Adderbury, or anywhere else, for
her.

As she spoke to Aloise her mind was working,
examining all possibilities. Aloise was right. Many of the Norman
barons and their ladies would find ways to be unkind to the new
queen. Isabel thought she had discerned the real purpose behind the
king’s marriage. Peace with Scotland, of course, but there was more
to it than that. Henry had made it clear in other ways while he was
still a prince that he believed the time had come for Norman and
Saxon to put aside their differences and bind themselves together
into one nation. His marriage was one step in that direction. He
would look with great favor upon those who treated his new wife
with respectful friendliness. Isabel would be the new queen’s
first, and best, friend. When she left Aloise that day, her hopes
and her ambitions were soaring.

“Sire.” Isabel made a deep curtsey before
King Henry. When he put out one hand to raise her, she gave him her
most dazzling smile. “What joy it is to greet you as king.”

Isabel was tall, but Henry was taller. His
dark, handsome face looked down at her, and Isabel had the
uncomfortable feeling that the man saw into her mind and knew
everything she had so carefully planned to say.

Henry offered formal condolences on Lionel’s
death.

“It was a terrible thing,” Isabel agreed.
‘Those dreadful Welsh.”

“They will regret what they have done.” Henry
smiled, and Isabel could have trembled for the Welsh, had she not
detested them all.

“You understand, I hope,” Henry said, “that
Lionel’s properties have now escheated to the crown, and you have
become my ward.”

“Yes, my lord. And Thomas?”

“He’s my ward, too, and I’m glad of it. I
like that boy.”

Isabel breathed a sigh of relief. If Henry
really was fond of Thomas he might agree to what Thomas’s mother
wanted.

“I have sent a letter to Guy,” Henry
said.

“Guy?”

“I want him to return to England.”

“Oh.” Isabel had not expected this. “Guy,”
she said again, puzzled. Henry did not seem to hear her. He kept on
talking.

“Now, as to your remarriage,” he said. “You
have a third of Lionel’s estate held in trust as dowry. I will
consult with my clerks about finding a husband for you. You must
understand I am very busy just now. It may take a while.”

“My lord, I do not wish to marry again just
yet.”

“Of course you do, and the sooner the better.
All women want to be married. Unless you would rather enter a
convent. Is that it? I would not have thought it of you, but one
never knows about a religious vocation. It happens suddenly
sometimes. Very well, I will arrange it if you want. Where would
you like to go?”

Isabel shuddered. Somehow, with this new and
most unwelcome possibility before her, it was easy to squeeze out a
few tears. The very thought of being shut up in a convent made her
weep. She sank to her knees before the king, fully conscious of the
lovely picture she made in her green silk gown with the gold trim
and her white linen coif.

“Oh, sire, I am afraid to tell you what I
desire most for fear you will refuse me!”

There was silence. Isabel peeped upward
beneath her long lashes and saw Henry watching her with a shrewd
gleam in his eyes. She recalled, too late, that he had acknowledged
twenty illegitimate children and was wise in the ways of women.

“Isabel,” Henry said, obviously smothering
laughter, “get off your knees and tell me what you really want, and
perhaps I can give it to you.”

“What I would like most,” Isabel said,
rising, “is to remain at court. I do not wish to remarry for a
while, and I would be most honored if you would present me to your
new queen when she arrives here.”

“That’s more like it. So you approve of my
choice, do you? You are unusual, Isabel.”

“There has never been the slightest blemish
on my personal honor, my lord,” she went on.

“I am aware of that.” Henry looked at her
sharply, and again she thought he knew exactly where this was
leading.

“What more suitable companion for the queen
than a blameless widow? And were I a lady to the queen, I could see
Thomas more often,” she added triumphantly.

Henry began to laugh.

“You are the first, and possibly the
cleverest,” he said. “Unfortunately, you will not be the last
Norman lady who seeks to advance herself or her husband, if she has
one, by a position close to my queen. She will be a stranger,
perhaps homesick, and I am concerned about the treatment she will
receive from my nobles. Will you honor her and deal kindly with
her?”

“I will, my lord, with all my heart. I was
once a stranger in England, and a new bride, myself.”

“Yes.” Henry regarded her a moment with those
searching dark eyes of his, eyes that seemed to bore right through
her, to the core of ambition and self-interest that lay at Isabel’s
heart. “I think it would be a good idea to keep you where I can see
you. Very well. I will appoint you one of the queen’s ladies. And
we will delay the search for your new husband. We can say your
duties to the queen will keep you busy.”

“I thank you, my lord.” Now real tears, tears
of joy and relief this time, ran down her cheeks as she smiled at
him.

“Until,” Henry added, “Guy returns. But that
will not be for a while yet. Then we shall see. We shall see.”

Winchester, Easter, AD 1103

Guy of Adderbury, newly returned from the
Holy Land after five years’ absence, knelt before King Henry in a
richly appointed, tapestry-hung room and pledged his loyalty.

“You may rise.” Henry embraced the young man,
completing the formal oath-taking. To Guy’s surprise, he then
dismissed all his retainers save one. “It is good to see you again,
Guy. Unfortunately, I welcome you home only to send you away
again.”

“My life is at your disposal, my lord.”

“I know that and I plan to use you well. I
need strong, dependable men at my back to guard the Welsh border
while I am in Normandy dealing with my recalcitrant brother, Duke
Robert, who has once again laid claim to the throne of
England.”

“You have the marcher barons to guard Wales,”
Guy said.

“The earl of Shrewsbury has taken himself
overseas to join Normandy against me,” Henry replied.

“I had heard you confiscated Shrewsbury’s
lands when he left.” Guy grinned, thinking of the income the clever
king had gained for the crown by that move.

“Aye, and now the earls of Chester and
Hereford are left to rule the marches between them, becoming even
more powerful. I am now prepared,” Henry went on, “to confirm you
in all of your late brother’s titles and lands and to remove his
family from my guardianship to yours.”

“I thank your majesty, but I feel my nephew,
Thomas, is the rightful inheritor.”

“Thomas is not yet of age, Guy. Eleven is
much too young to inherit such vast lands in times like these. You
may make whatever provision for him you like, from your secondary
titles, when he is older.”

Guy felt this arrangement was not fair to
Thomas. By the law William Rufus had made, the crown now owned all
of Lionel’s property and Henry could do with it what he wanted, but
Guy silently vowed to share Lionel’s estate freely with his nephew.
Then he returned to the original topic of discussion.

“Sire, I think you have something in mind for
Lionel’s Welsh holdings.”

“I have. This is Reynaud.” King Henry turned
to the third man in the room, who had stood quietly to one side. “I
have used his services and found him completely trustworthy.”

Reynaud came forward. He was a tall,
ascetically thin man in his mid thirties, with pale brown hair and
light blue, slightly watery eyes. In a black wool cleric’s robe
that hung loosely on his bony frame, Reynaud was colorless,
inconspicuous enough to melt into the background of any room. Guy
had scarcely been aware of his presence.

“You and Reynaud are to go to Afoncaer,”
Henry said, “Reynaud will be your architect, engineer, and when you
need one, your secretary. I want you to rebuild Afoncaer, in stone,
as Lionel had planned to do. You will be wiser than your brother
was, and not drive the natives to revolt. I charge you, Guy, keep
my order with as little bloodshed as possible. I detest violence,
unless it’s necessary, of course, but usually violence is simply
wasteful. I do not want lives wasted, and I want the growing power
of the marcher barons balanced by the power of a man completely
loyal to me. I want you well settled at Afoncaer and strong enough
to give Chester and Hereford and their vassals pause if they think
of challenging me as Shrewsbury did.”

“I will do as you wish, sire.” Guy sensed
Henry was now about to dismiss him. He hastily brought up a subject
close to his heart. “May I make a request, your majesty?”

“What is it?”

“May I take my nephew to Wales with me?”

“Thomas?” Henry thought a moment, and Guy saw
a strange twinkle in the king’s eye. “Agreed. I know of no finer
knight than you to train him. I will miss the lad, but yes, I think
it would be best for Thomas to be with you. But you have no wife.
Who will teach him manners? Who teach him how to serve a lady?”