The Scarlet Lion (17 page)

   Isabelle wiped her face on the side of her hand. "Aware of how much?" she asked. "I saw William de Braose tonight."

   William said nothing, but leaned across her to snuff the candles and draw the hangings close around their bed. She would have preferred to see his expression and knew he had probably quenched the light so that she couldn't.

   "Prince Arthur has been missing for eight months and John has said not a word as to his whereabouts. He's dead, isn't he?"

   She felt him shrug. "I would imagine so," he said neutrally, "otherwise John would have produced him by now."

   Isabelle laid her hand across his flat belly and played with the stripe of hair running from his navel into his groin. "So if he is dead, and it happened in the Tower of Rouen…"

   "It is pointless to speculate. Whatever has happened is in the past. You cannot change it."

   "No, but the fact of his disappearance is going to change our future, isn't it? It's happening already. The French have the excuse they need to overrun John's domains."

   "As long as Gaillard and Arques hold out, we have a foothold and we can negotiate with Philip."

   She tugged lightly on the crisp curls and her breath grew shallow. "When you say 'we' do you mean everyone in general, or just us?"

   There was a long silence. She felt his hand on her arm and then her breast, his palm and fingers hard from wielding sword and gripping rein and shield strap, but infinitely gentle too. "Therein lies the dilemma," he murmured. "What do we do? We have danced with John tonight, but if we are to keep our Norman lands intact, we must dance with King Philip too."

   "We need to be very careful."

   "I agree," he said, "very careful indeed. John might yet prevail and regain what he has lost. But if it comes to the crux, I would rather bargain with King Philip than lose Longueville, Orbec, and Bienfait."

   "We have much to lose on this side of the Narrow Sea too," she cautioned.

   "Oh yes, it will be a fine balancing act and not one to undertake unless there is no other way."

   "Yes," she said dubiously.

"Do you have faith in me to keep my balance?"

   "I do…but the path has never been as narrow before and I'm not going to look down."

   "We won't fall." He guided her hand lower and kissed her, and Isabelle lost herself in the pleasure of love-making because it was easier for the moment to feel than to think.

Fourteen

CAVERSHAM, BERKSHIRE, MARCH 1204

Isabelle was again with child and feeling decidedly peaky. Not even her rose-coloured gown could bring colour to her face. Spring water sweetened with honey and ginger was keeping the worst of the nausea at bay, but she was still lethargic, sleepy, and sick.

   Ida of Norfolk was full of sympathy. "I know how it is," she said. "I have not quickened in a few years now, but I spent most of my young womanhood with either a babe in arms or one in my womb."

   Isabelle grimaced. Her own child-bearing years were far from over, unless William failed, which, as matters in their bedchamber stood, seemed unlikely. The notion of producing sixteen offspring like Maude de Braose was not one she wished to contemplate, but this new pregnancy meant she was halfway there. There were supposed to be potions one could take to avoid conception and various preventative methods which could be employed, but they were unreliable and they all carried the burden of sin.

   "When will the child be born?"

   "The autumn," she murmured, placing her hand on her belly.

   "Ah," said Ida with a knowing, rueful smile. "Men fight all campaigning season, then come home and beget offspring." She glanced towards her husband, who was talking animatedly to William. An armourer had stopped by Caversham with some sword blades from Cologne and William, Roger, and the knights of the mesnie were poring over them with much argument and discussion, as were their sons. Will and Richard wore hungry, wistful expressions on their faces, and Hugh was testing the blades with the skill of a young man well into his training. Ida laughed and shook her head. "You wouldn't think that a hammered piece of iron could keep so many males in thrall for so long. Next thing they will be off to the tiltyard, practising and showing off."

   "Not with those," Isabelle said. "They need hilts fixing."

   "No, but you wait. They'll be sending for the weapons chests and reliving their days as young knights on the tourney circuit."

   Ida was proven right and before long there was a full-blown weapons practice being conducted on the sward between manor and river. The women donned their fur-lined cloaks and, armed with hot spiced wine, went down to watch. Roger and William were due to join the court at Kenilworth in three days' time. This leave of absence was by way of arranging a betrothal between Mahelt and Norfolk's heir, Hugh. The ceremony, conducted by William's chaplain Nicolas, had been touching and poignant. Even if it was a business matter, it was one cemented out of genuine friendship as well as the need for alliance. Mahelt was besotted with Hugh. At one and twenty, he was less enamoured of his nine-year-old wife-to-be, but time would likely remedy that.

   "I hear you have made another betrothal too," Ida murmured casually as she sipped her wine and stroked the squirrel-fur collar of her cloak. "Your heir to the daughter of Baldwin de Béthune."

   Isabelle watched Will parry an attack from Richard. "It has long been agreed," she said, "but now the King has given his consent and the contract has been drawn up."

   "John said nothing about his interests in the matter?" Ida asked curiously.

   "His interests?"

   "You must know that Hawise's son is reputed to be of his siring."

   "What has that got to do with betrothing Will to Alais?"

   Ida shrugged. "Probably nothing, given his agreement. Lay what you want at his door, John always does right by his bastards. I just wondered if he objected to the boy losing some of his inheritance because of his sister's marriage portion?"

   "Not that I know of," Isabelle said, "but he could hardly declare his interest in the boy without losing him the de Forz estates, since de Forz is supposed to be his father."

   "It's worth keeping your eyes open…just in case."

   "Yes, I will," Isabelle said thoughtfully.

   Ida touched Isabelle's sleeve. "A messenger."

   Isabelle turned and watched the man hastening across the grass towards them. He had but recently dismounted from his horse for he moved with a stiff, bow-legged gait and his cloak and boots were liberally mud-spattered.

   Bowing to the women but not stopping, he hurried down to the men and sought out William and Roger, who were laughing as they sparred like a pair of squires. The man bowed, and whatever he said as he straightened up caused William's face to set into the blank mask that Isabelle knew and dreaded.

   "Trouble," said Ida, starting towards the men. Feeling queasy, Isabelle followed.

   "Château Gaillard has fallen to King Philip," William told them, shaking his head in frustration and disbelief. "I'm summoned back to court immediately."

   "But Gaillard…" Isabelle bit the words off unspoken. Château Gaillard had been King Richard's pride. Built on an island in the Seine to guard his borders from the French, it had been both a strategic fortress and a symbol of Angevin virility. Richard had been wont to boast that Philip would never take Gaillard, even with twenty thousand men. He had called it his "Saucy Castle" and reckoned it impregnable.

   "Philip's commander sent his men up through the latrine shaft," William said. "I'd have done the same in his position if I'd thought of it. What's a smear of shit against the greatest castle on the Seine?"

   "You know what this means," Roger said gloomily. "Now the French will strike at Rouen."

   William tossed his practice sword to his squire. "Best fetch the real thing from the armoury, lad," he said.

                             *** William tasted the wine that King Philip's attendant had poured for him. Smooth and rich with an almost peppery taste at its heart, it was better than anything his own cellars had to offer. John had sent him to the French court at Bec, together with the Earl of Leicester, the Bishops of Ely and Norwich, and Hubert Walter, to try to negotiate an honourable peace—thus far with little success. They were staying in the Benedictine abbey and had taken over the guest house for the meeting.

   Philip of France was close to forty years old, a plain-looking, slender man with the eyes and mind of a fox and the cautious air of one sniffing the air at a den entrance. He had always been jealous and afraid of his vibrant Plantagenet neighbours and now he had John cornered, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

   William and Robert of Leicester had striven without success to bring him to agree to a treaty; Philip had listened courteously but had thus far declined. Hubert Walter, who did not have lands to safeguard in Normandy, was less disposed to be conciliatory than William and Leicester and was saying little, except to emphasise that, despite his losses, John was still strong enough to cause trouble.

   Philip stroked his beard in contemplation of the arguments laid before him. "Show me Prince Arthur and I will consider negotiating a treaty," he said in a mild, reasonable voice. "Without him, there can be no way forward except through war. I hear disquieting rumours about his disappearance, but no one has the courage to come forward and say what we all know. If I did have proof there would be no safe place on this earth for your King." He made a lofty gesture. "If not Arthur then give me his sister. Fetch the girl out of her nunnery and let her hold Anjou and Brittany. Let John do that and I might be willing to talk. Otherwise, by my faith, I will destroy him and take apart his towns stick by stick and stone by stone." He curled one hand towards himself and studied his fingernails. "Those are my final words on the matter, my lords. Let my cousin of England deal with them as he may."

   They were bowing from King Philip's presence when William noticed a knight waiting amongst the hangers-on outside. The last he had seen of this particular Poitevan was a year ago at the Tower of Rouen when he had disappeared about the same time as Prince Arthur. It was disturbing to find him now in the French camp. The knight met William's stare, then avoided it and, turning on his heel, walked rapidly away.

                             *** It was near midnight and the two Bishops and the Archbishop had retired to bed. However, King Philip was keeping late hours and William and the elderly Earl of Leicester were keeping them with him. The peppery wine had been replaced with one that was slightly effervescent and Philip's cook had provided strips of toasted bread with a sanglier terrine. Attendants moved unobtrusively around the royal bedchamber, trimming the lamps, replacing candles as they burned out, replenishing flagons and platters.

Philip was wearing a bedrobe of fur-trimmed embroidered

silk over hose and shirt. Luxury abounded, but it existed to boost Philip's status rather than to please his senses, which he had never allowed to rule him in any form. "I have no quarrel with you, my lords," he said. He had an open look on his face that might or might not have been genuine: it was difficult to tell. "You are men of honour and worth. Should you choose to give me your homage, I will not turn you away."

   "Sire, my oath of allegiance is to King John," William replied.

   "As is mine," Leicester said in a rusty voice. Excusing himself, he coughed and spat phlegm into the floor rushes. His health was failing and the damp spring was playing havoc with his lungs.

   "And I respect your loyalty, my lords," Philip said, "but think upon the kind of man you are sworn to follow." He rubbed his palms together." At least none of my nephews has disappeared without trace."

   Leicester eyed him darkly. "If you have proof involving John in Arthur's disappearance then show it to us."

   Philip snorted. "John was at Rouen when Arthur vanished. If he is not the commander of his own castle and what goes on there, then tell me: who is?"

   "Sire, sometimes men act of their own accord and for their own motives," William said sharply.

   Philip took several fastidious sips of the effervescent wine. A sleek gazehound that had been dozing by the hearth padded over to him to have its ears fondled. "But a king has ultimate authority, my lord Marshal." He paused for a moment to fuss over the dog, then looked at his visitors through calculating, half-closed lids. "When Normandy falls, and make no mistake it will, any baron desiring to retain his lands there will do me liege homage for them."

   William exchanged glances with Leicester. Swearing liege homage would oblige them to fight for Philip should he summon them, and that might involve opposing John. It also meant changing allegiance for their Norman lands and holding them of Philip. "Sire, that is impossible." William shook his head at the enormity of what they were being asked to do. "It would be an act of treason against our first-sworn lord."

   Philip opened his hands. "I know you are both loyal to your King. You have served the Angevins to the best of your abilities, but we are men of the world. We have our own interests to serve too." He lifted a cynical brow. "Indeed, neither of you would be standing here without that element of self-interest, would you? I say, why should you lose your lands because of your King's folly and sinfulness? It is not your fault Normandy is almost lost. You have fought well and done your best in difficult circumstances."

   William drew breath to speak, but Philip held up his index finger to forestall him. "I am not unsympathetic to your dilemma and I will give you time to think on the matter, my lords. For a consideration—shall we say five hundred marks?—I will grant you a year's respite to make your decision. During that time you will hand over your castles to me and I will garrison them with my troops. Should you do me homage within the year, or should your King produce Arthur and come to terms with me, I will grant you leave to restore those castles to your authority. If not, then without your liege homage, your lands and castles are forfeit."