The Scarlet Lion (16 page)

   Father Walter tugged at his earlobe, a worried frown developing between his deep-set brown eyes, which studiously avoided hers.

   "Don't you turn into a clam as well," Isabelle threatened.

   He looked affronted. "My lady, I hope you know and trust me well enough by now to know I would not do such a thing. I had heard rumours about Prince Arthur, but it's no more than speculation and it might have nothing to do with Lady Maude's behaviour."

   Isabelle gave her chaplain an eloquent look. "Whenever Arthur's name is mentioned, trouble follows. Has John freed him? My lord said he should do so."

   Walter's frown grew heavier and he shook his head. "My lady, I am afraid not. The Prince has…" He folded his arms and stared over them at the toes of his boots. "…disappeared."

   "What do you mean: 'disappeared'?"

   Father Walter looked uneasy. "Nothing has been heard from him since he entered the Tower of Rouen. King Philip has demanded to see him several times, as have the Prince's own vassals, but to no avail."

   "You believe he is dead?" She began to wish she had not sat down to this conversation.

   He shook his head. "I do not know what to believe, my lady."

   Isabelle thought of Maude's restlessness, the veiled, ambiguous comments that could have meant all or nothing. Holy Mary. What if Arthur were dead—murdered? William de Braose would be in a position to know because he was always at John's side and he was constable of the Tower of Rouen. She looked towards her sons, who were absorbed in a game of knucklebones, and her blood turned to ice.

   Father Walter leaned forward and clasped her hands between his own in an attitude of prayer. "Peace, my lady," he said. "It is but gossip. The truth will out in the fullness of time, and God sees all."

   "Yes." She tried to feel comforted by his words, but they did little to alleviate the chill in her soul. "God sees all." She closed her mouth before she finished the reply with the blasphemous comment: "
And does nothing
."

Thirteen

CANTERBURY, CHRISTMAS 1203

Sipping sweetened spiced wine and nibbling on fried almonds, Isabelle sat at a trestle watching dancers step and turn to the music of a carole. The young Queen was leading them, her gown shimmering with jewels and her hair dressed with silver braid. At fifteen years old, she had the curves of a woman, but was still as slender as a young deer. John was watching her with lust-narrowed eyes, and she was plainly discomforted by his scrutiny.

   "I know how she feels," said Ida of Norfolk, joining Isabelle. Her eyes were troubled. "I was once in the same position as her: very young, dancing in a beautiful dress, and being eaten alive by the eyes of a king who wanted to do nothing more than strip it from me. I was as frightened as she is. I feel for the poor girl. I wouldn't want to change places with her for all the silk in Damascus." Isabelle remained silent. To imagine herself at fifteen years old and at the mercy of a man like John in the marriage bed made her stomach heave.

   "And were you as frightened as she is?"

   "Of course I was, but flattered at the same time that the King of England should pay me such attention."

   "She doesn't look particularly flattered," Isabelle murmured.

   Ida shrugged. "She is the Queen," she said practically. "She

has her own apartments and she can do as she pleases—within reason—when he is not by. He gifts her with jewels and gowns and likes to show her off in public. Once she has borne him a couple of heirs and a daughter, he'll let her be." She laid a hand on Isabelle's sleeve. "Don't frown at me like that. Of course I feel for the poor girl. I wouldn't want to change places for all the silk in Damascus. What I am saying is that there are compensations. She'll have power too, one day, when she's old enough to realise it."

   Isabelle remained silent. From her own viewpoint nothing would have compensated for being at the mercy of a man like John. To imagine herself at fifteen years old spread under him in the marriage bed made her stomach heave.

   Ida had turned her attention from the young Queen and was looking towards her husband, who was talking animatedly with William and Baldwin de Béthune. "Look at them," she said affectionately, "gossiping like old women."

   Isabelle followed Ida's gaze and she too smiled at the group. William was at complete ease, his stance casual, shoulders relaxed. Roger of Norfolk was describing pictures in the air and William was nodding agreement and laughing. It was good to see him thus for he had laughed very little of late, the situation in Normandy being as desperate as it was.

   The King had returned to England at the beginning of December, leaving a shambles behind him. Vaudreuil and Radepont had fallen to the French. Gaillard was under siege; Rouen threatened. Longueville and William's Norman lands remained safe, but for how long was a moot point. King Philip had already promised one of William's keeps to the Count of Boulogne once they fell. John had pledged to address the situation in the spring and this visit to England was mostly about raising funds to drive Philip out of Normandy.

   Ida said nonchalantly, "Your eldest children are attending court, I notice."

   The statement appeared at first to be a non sequitur, but Isabelle recognised how the sight of their menfolk in close conversation might bring the subject around to offspring. Gatherings such as this were always an opportunity for bargains and alliances to be explored. Will and Richard were amongst the dancers, as was their sister. Isabelle had noticed with amusement the way Mahelt had been eyeing up the gowns of the court ladies with a professional female eye. "They are old enough to take part without disgracing themselves," she said and turned to greet Baldwin's wife, Hawise, Countess of Aumale. The woman had once been a beauty, but time and dissatisfaction had rendered deep lines upon her delicate features until little of it remained. During the full flowering of her looks she had briefly occupied John's bed. Handed on from marriage to marriage since then, she was now a dried and faded flower, her lands of far greater value than her person. Her union with Baldwin appeared to be a lacklustre one, with a single daughter born during the first year of their relationship.

   Isabelle and Ida exchanged the usual pleasantries with her. Hawise of Aumale smiled and nodded, but without connecting with either woman.

   "I see your son is here," Ida remarked. "Is he to remain with you and Baldwin?"

   Hawise shook her head. "He returns to Poitou in the New Year," she replied, her tone flat. "To his father's lands."

   "Ah," said Ida, with sympathy. Her own firstborn son, begotten of her liaison with King Henry, had grown up in the royal household rather than with her at Framlingham. "You will miss him."

   "He is better remaining where he is," Hawise said in a brittle voice.

   Ida exchanged a helpless glance with Isabelle, who gave a small shake of her head. It was widely known, but not spoken of, that Hawise's son was not the child of her second husband, William de Forz, but a cuckoo planted in the nest by John before she was sold off in marriage. Isabelle glanced at the boy, who had been born the same year as Mahelt. There was indeed a look of John about him and he appeared to possess some of John's traits too. Earlier she had seen him yanking the braid of a servant girl hard enough to make her cry…although perhaps it was caused by anger or unhappiness rather than a cruel whim. For the moment she reserved judgement. "And your daughter?" she asked, changing the subject with polite diplomacy. "How is Alais?"

   Hawise gave a small shrug. "Well enough, my lady," she replied. "She is too young to come to court and I am thankful. There is too much danger here—so many predators."

   "You are right," Isabelle agreed. "But perhaps you and Baldwin will visit us at Caversham. I can promise you safety there and a warm welcome."

   "That is kind of you, Countess." Hawise looked as if she was about to cry. Abruptly she made her excuses and hurried off towards the privies.

   "Poor woman." Ida's soft brown eyes filled with sympathy. "There but for the grace of God and good husbands go all women."

   "Is Baldwin not a good husband to her?" Isabelle's gaze darted towards the three men. Baldwin was slapping William on the back and had obviously just said something very funny because they were laughing heartily. Roger of Norfolk was doubled up. She concluded it must be a very rude joke—she would have to ask William later.

   Ida gave a little sigh. "I know your husband and Aumale have been close friends since their youth—and that in the fullness of time your eldest son will probably marry his daughter. Baldwin is a good man, of course he is, but that is among other men. It does not necessarily make him a good husband."

   Isabelle raised her brows. Ida of Norfolk was no intellectual, but she understood people well and with her contacts at court was often party to rumour and gossip. Not that she went about spreading what she heard. She was far too wise and compassionate, but her knowledge was bound to colour her judgement and sometimes she dropped heavy hints.

   Isabelle turned as Mahelt skipped up to her, ruddy brown hair escaping from its blue ribbons, eyes as bright as stars. Having curtseyed politely to Ida, she tugged at Isabelle's sleeve.

   "Mama, come and dance," she implored. Laughing, Isabelle allowed herself to be pulled towards the turning circle of women.

   "You too," she said to Ida, who needed no urging to take Mahelt's other hand and join them.

   Isabelle danced several times with her daughter, but then the steps changed and the carole became one involving men and women in two interlinking circles. Mahelt was thrilled to partner Hugh Bigod, Ida's eldest son, now a striking young man who had just turned one and twenty. Her face aglow, she let him wind her through the chain and back. Isabelle and Ida exchanged glances and said nothing, but both women smiled.

   Isabelle was grasped by William de Braose and engulfed in the stench of his wine-sodden breath. His rich silk tunic was stained with drips of gravy and sticky crumbs of marchpane. The latter had congregated in his beard too. His breathing was harsh and his eyes bloodshot. He often sought William's company at court, calling him "friend," "neighbour," and slapping him on the back almost hard enough to drive William's shoulder blades through his sternum. He would want to share flagons too, which William tried to decline, saying to her in private that to serve King John one had to be either completely stupid or possess wits like a newly sharpened sword, preferably the latter. Befuddling them with wine was not recommended.

   Isabelle forced herself to take de Braose's hand, turn, and pass on. He stank of stale sweat as if he had not bathed in an age and his gaze was as shiny and blank as black glass. Relieved to be rid of him as the dance moved on, she realised she had gone from frying pan to fire as John took her hand.

   "A long time since we danced together, Countess," he said pleasantly. "As I recall, you were a bride and still rosy from the pleasures of your marriage bed."

   "Indeed, sire, you have a good memory," Isabelle replied demurely, as if the timbre of his voice did not raise the hair at her nape. He had been cat-light on his feet back then, and although he had put on flesh, he had lost none of his nimbleness, or his threatening sexual charisma. Isabelle knew how much he enjoyed discomforting the wives of his lords…and sometimes he did more than discomfort. Several men had bought royal favour by sending their wives or virgin daughters to John's bed. Isabelle did not believe he would dare with her these days, but even so, she was wary—and knowing his taste for innocent flesh, she had an eye to Mahelt too.

   "Yes, and a long one," he said with a vulpine flash of white teeth. "Time passes quickly, does it not? Your eldest son was nought but a thought in your belly last time we danced, and now he's almost a man—and his brother too. You have most handsome sons, my lady." If de Braose had hardly registered Isabelle as his partner, John's scrutiny was intense, probing to gauge reaction and internal response. She forced herself not to look in panic at her children and to maintain her smile.

   "Thank you, sire, I am proud of them," she murmured, "as is my husband."

   "I am sure he is," John said silkily. "I hope that one day the sons I have of my own wife will be as robust." He bowed and moved on.

   The words had been spoken in a courtly fashion and Isabelle could not fault his behaviour; yet she felt disturbed, as if he had run his hands over her body, or kissed her with his tongue in her mouth.

                             *** Lying abed with William that night at their lodgings, she tried to make sense of all the disjointed snippets of information she had garnered at court. In some ways it was like being blindfold and putting one's hands into a midden pit, hoping to find a gold ring, yet knowing the more likely prize was a turd.

   She glanced through a gap in the bed curtains towards their sons who were sleeping curled like puppies on a rope-framed truckle bed. Mahelt and her sisters were in the small antechamber with her nurse and two of Isabelle's women. William's squires slept on straw pallets by the door. Innocence. She wanted to wrap them in her arms and protect them from all the hurts the world was going to inflict on them, knowing that as they grew, she must do the opposite and let them go. Suddenly her eyes were hot and she was sniffing on tears.

   Beside her William turned over and set his arm around her waist. "What's wrong?"

   "Nothing…" She shook her head. "They are growing up so fast, that is all. I see the murk of the court and I want to shield them from anything of that ilk, but I know I can't. In truth, the more they learn, the better protected they will be, but I do not want them to lose their joy in life."

   "They won't." William nuzzled her throat. "Have I lost mine, or you yours? You can still be aware and keep yourself intact."