The Scarlet Lion (19 page)

   He helped her down from the horse himself and kissed her with enthusiasm. His lips were cold, but the creases of pleasure around his eyes made her glow. "Welcome to Cilgerran, my lady!" He swept her a playful bow, making her laugh. "I am afraid there is not much to offer in the way of comfort at the moment, but that can soon be remedied." He turned to his sons, rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, and took a backstep. "Holy God, I thought you were both men-at-arms!"

   Will flushed with pleasure and Richard gave a bright grin.

   "You protected your mother well on the journey, hmm?"

   "Yes, sir," they said in unison, and William tousled their heads.

   "Come," he said. "Gome and look at what we've gained."

   Gathering her skirts, Isabelle followed him up to the gatehouse tower and stood beside him and their sons as he pointed out the pertinent defensive features and landmarks.

   Both boys nodded seriously as they absorbed the lesson and occasionally joined in. Isabelle could see them imagining themselves as commanders in years to come.

   "You had no trouble from the Welsh?" she murmured.

   William gave a wolfish smile. "We came upon them so fast that the garrison hadn't even time to arm up before we were through the gate. The only victim was an old packhorse that foundered under its load." He turned to address his sons. "Cilgerran was once part of the de Clare lands belonging to your mother's kin, but it has been more than seventy years in Welsh hands. Now it belongs to de Clare again…and to Marshal."

   Will's eyes were agleam as he folded his hands around his belt. William chuckled. "I do believe he has inherited your sense of possession, my love."

   "
My
sense of possession?" Isabelle said indignantly. "What about yours?"

   William laughed buoyantly and squeezed her waist.

***

In the lord's chamber on the upper floor of the guard tower, Isabelle drew an antlerwork comb through her hair. She had dismissed her maid; the hour was late, but she and William were using the lees of the day to snatch some privacy before slumber.

   "So," she murmured as she worked. "Now that the King has given you Cilgerran, do you think he hopes you will forget Longueville and Orbec?"

   William shrugged. "It might be part of his reasoning, but we were in agreement that with Rhys ap Gruffydd dead and his kinsmen occupied with feuding over who gets what, it was the perfect opportunity to tackle them for Cilgerran." He gave her a perceptive look. "We'll keep Longueville for our sons, I promise you that—even if I have to do homage to King Philip for them."

   "It will be dangerous."

   He came to her, took the comb, and began to draw it through her hair. "Yes, it will, but the alternative is losing them. I hope I know John's nature well enough to deal with it." His tone was easy and the movement of his hands measured and gentle. She didn't think it was artifice aimed at placating her, or that he was comforting himself, but rather that he had made his decision and was prepared to deal with whatever consequences arose.

   "Speaking of our sons," she said, "we need to find good foster homes to send them for squiring. Will is more than ready, and Richard not far behind."

   He combed and smoothed with the flat of his palm. "So often I have seen women striving to hold on to their children and refusing to cut the cord that binds them to the womb, but you have the foresight to let them go."

   Isabelle drew away and faced him. "You dress me in false robes," she said. "I want to hold on to mine too—desperately. My heart is in my mouth every time there is fever or sickness in the castle. I fear for my sons when they go to train with the men or ride their ponies at the tilt, or venture out hunting with three serjeants and a tent. I don't show that fear to them because it would fetter their growth into manhood, but I feel it all the same. While I have the little ones to nurture in my arms, it is not so bad…and perhaps when I am the mother of grown men, it will ease a little too, but to be the mother of boys growing into manhood…Ah"—she threw up her hands—"pay me no heed. This season of the year makes me maudlin with all its grey."

   William gently turned her round and continued his combing. "You have the wisdom to let them go," he said, "and that is worth its weight in gold. I fear for them too, but even less can a man show it…and my heart quails for my daughters. It will be the hardest thing I have ever had to do, to see Mahelt go in marriage, even though I have done my best for her." He worked in silence for a moment, and then added quietly, "I confess though, that I have ever loved this season."

   "You have?" Isabelle gave a small, incredulous laugh.

   "Not for the cold and the chilblains and riding abroad in the wet, I can do without those, but it is a fine time to coddle oneself by the hearth with one's family—or linger abed."

   "So you say, but at the slightest opportunity you're off on campaign like a hound on a fresh scent."

   "Well, this one was short," he said defensively. "The Welsh were expecting me to be sitting by my hearth in November, so how else should I take them by surprise?"

   "Eminently sensible," she agreed, looking wry. "And Leinster?"

   "Jack will do what he can for now. I'll deal with the situation regarding Longueville, and then we'll go to Ireland—providing it's not in the winter season," he added quickly.

   "No," she said, "I wouldn't do that to you again…or myself come to that." Taking the comb from him, she laid it on the coffer. "Come to bed," she said. "It's late. Let all else wait until morning."

   He gave her a slumberous look. "And being as it's November, we can linger there awhile."

   She smiled knowingly. "If you want."

Sixteen

NOTTINGHAM CASTLE, MARCH 1205

The goldsmith knew his client and he knew how to sell. The rings he had brought for King John's delectation shone against a backcloth of padded dark-red silk. Inside an artful border consisting of rings of incised gold were cushioned others of more intricate detail: gimmels in the form of two clasped hands; circlets formed from numerous twists of gold wire; flowers of pearl and opal. At the centre of the display lay the most enticing examples of the goldsmith's skill: the rings set with gemstones that had travelled across distant empires, deserts, and wide salt oceans to reach this destination. Indian rubies and sapphires, diamonds from the mines at Kulur, lapis and turquoise from the Persian interior: all scintillated like coloured raindrops upon their silken couch.

   John lifted a particularly large and brilliant sapphire ring from the middle of the display and slipped it over the knuckle of his left middle finger. He held out his hand, studying the effect for a moment, before looking at William.

   "You want my permission to do Philip homage for Longueville?" he said impassively.

   William had steeled himself for this meeting and was prepared to receive short shrift. He was also prepared to persevere. "Sire, if I do not, I will lose my lands in Normandy. I had a year's grace to decide what to do, and it is almost at an end. I have to act. Perhaps if I was able to secure King Philip's willingness to consider a truce between you and him…?"

   "Pigs will fly before that happens, Marshal," John said brusquely. He showed the ring to his young Queen and asked her opinion.

   Ysabel made an admiring sound and slanted John a look compounded of desire for the rings and apprehension at what she would have to do before he would add one to her jewel casket. "Is there one for me?"

   "Greedy wench," John retorted playfully and ran his hand over her buttocks. She suppressed a shiver, turning it into a laugh. She was learning, William thought, but not the right things.

   "Even so, I am requesting your permission to go to France and at least speak with King Philip," he said.

   John narrowed his eyes. "I have created you Earl of Pembroke. I have given you Cilgerran, and more grants and gifts than my scribes have parchment to list. Yet still you want more. I may begin to think you have more avarice than my wife…and she at least is pretty to look upon. When she kneels before me to ask my indulgence, I know I am going to receive something to my liking in return."

   Ysabel flushed and moved away from John, although her gaze flickered with telling trepidation towards his crotch.

   William pretended not to see. "Sire, I am grateful for all that you have given me, but it would be a great pity for my children not to retain their full patrimony for want of a few words." He made sure to emphasise the end of the sentence, knowing John would understand the inflection. "A few words" were what had given him his kingdom.

   The young Queen had been offered a box of brooches by the goldsmith and was picking amongst them like a glutton trying to decide which sweetmeat to try first. With eyes fastened on her, John heaved an impatient sigh and waved his hand in brusque dismissal. "Oh, go, do what you can to salvage your estates—within reason."

   William bowed, and silently thanked the young Queen's desire for gee-gaws and John's desire for his wife. "I will need a letter of authority to show to King Philip."

   "Yes, yes," John said irritably. "I'll see to it."

   As William bowed from the room, John approached Ysabel. "They are all as insatiable as starving wolves ringing a stag," he said, "even the sainted William Marshal, who tries to pretend he is above all that." He ran his hand over the taut curve of her buttocks again, imagining his fingerprints standing out as red brands upon her firm, white flesh.

   Ysabel tried to pull away, but he drew her tight against him and leaned to bite her earlobe. "He was one of my brother Richard's most trusted knights and companions. My mother loved him, God rest her soul. He is of the same ilk as Richard was, you see, a
prudhomme
, a man of high courage and heroic deeds. Such men are…" His mouth contorted as if filled with verjuice. "Let us say that while he is useful to me, I keep him, but his self-righteousness makes me sick." He dismissed the hovering goldsmith with a flick of his fingers. Taking a large brooch set with amethysts and pearls, he pinned it at her bosom, then set his hands to her shoulders and pushed her to her knees.

                             *** Isabelle watched her youngest daughter, Eve, crawl across to the bench and with determination reach up, grasp the edge, and pull herself to a standing position. The infant showed every sign of having inherited her father's agility and coordination. The instant the swaddling bands had been removed at three months old, she had commenced exercising her limbs like a soldier warming up on the practice field. Within days she had been rolling over; by five months she was sitting up, and now at eight months, could crawl on all fours almost as fast as a cat could walk. Eve looked round at her mother and laughed at her own cleverness, showing four small white teeth. She bounced up and down, flexing and straightening her little knees, and Isabelle laughed too at her antics.

   A squire put his head round the solar door. "My lady, the Earl's barge is mooring up at the wharf," he announced.

   The words shot through Isabelle like a lightning bolt. The waiting had been fraught and interminable. She had tried not to think, because that way lay worry and sleepless nights, the latter uncomforted by the emptiness on the other side of the bed. Caversham had been swept from top to bottom, the servants chivvied to within an inch of their lives. She had completed an altar cloth that had been waiting her needle for months, and dictated so many letters, writs, and charters that her clerk had had to send to London for more parchment.

   Scooping Eve into her arms, Isabelle sped from the manor down to the riverside. A cool April breeze ruffled the water. On the far bank a pair of swans and four new cygnets paddled and dabbled amid the reeds. William was stepping from their barge on to the jetty. He was wearing his heavy, fur-lined cloak as a protection against the cold wind off the river and talking to Jean D'Earley and Jordan de Saqueville as they too left the barge. Isabelle searched her husband's face, but could read nothing particular into it. His expression was quiescent. He was thinner though, and lacking the vigour and ebullience he had possessed at Cilgerran.

   Seeing her waiting, he strode to her side, kissed her in greeting, and, taking the baby in his arms, pressed his lips to her cheek, making her squeal with laughter. She saw him drink in the sight of Caversham as if he was dying of thirst, and her trepidation increased. Forcing herself not to start pestering him, sensing his current need, she gave him space to greet the other children and involve himself in their chatter whilst servants brought washing water and food.

   Mahelt wanted to show him her new acquisition. Her pet linnet had died shortly before William left for France, instigating a week of deep grief. She had buried it in the herb bed, scattered the tiny grave with rose petals, and said prayers for its soul even though the priests said that birds didn't have them. Secretly she thought they might. In the linnet's stead she now had a three-legged dog. Father Walter had discovered him wandering the outbuildings, starving and flea-ridden. Having a soft spot for animals and made curious by the dog's missing limb, he had brought him to the bower. The sight of the emaciated, scabby brown and white mongrel had hit Mahelt straight in the raw, aching space left by the death of her linnet and that was that. "Tripes" as Father Walter had named him, saying that it was the Latin for "three-legged," had rapidly become a staunch member of the household. Since his name was also associated with offal, everyone felt it was entirely suited.

   Once bathed and rid of the worst of his fleas, Tripes slept on Mahelt's bed and followed her everywhere, adoration shining out of his limpid brown eyes. Fed on the choicest tid-bits and scraps, his ribs no longer stared through his coat, which was developing a sheen like sun on snow.

   William eyed the dog dubiously while it wagged its tail at him like a branch in a high wind, then licked his fingers. "How does it piss?" he asked with a straight face.