The Scarlet Lion (22 page)

   "Mama doesn't want me to go to court." He flicked wood shavings off his coverlet. "She wants to keep me with our household."

   Tripes rolled over, flopping his paws, and Richard rubbed his belly. "Do you want to go?" he asked with curiosity and interest. He rather liked the idea of travelling to court himself, but it frightened him too.

   Will shrugged. "Our father was my age when he left his home to become a squire and then a great knight. Of course I want to go. He knows I do—that I'm ready, but Mama doesn't like the idea of the court."

   Richard gave him a keen glance. "They don't have a choice anyway because the King wants you for a hostage as well as a squire."

   "I don't mind. It's not as if I'm going to be thrown in a dungeon, is it?" Will said with bravado. Although he did want to go to court and begin his full military training, he was also apprehensive, but would never admit as much to a brother only eighteen months his junior. He had occasionally seen prisoners awaiting trial in the dungeons when the family stayed at Gloucester Castle over which their father had jurisdiction. He would hate to be locked up in one and there had been some dark rumours about King John and his treatment of prisoners—rumours that he wasn't supposed to know about. "Our father says the court will be good training. I've learned all I can at home."

   Mischief lit in Richard's eyes. "Mama's worried you're going to learn all about whores and dice and drinking. I wish I was going with you."

Will found a grin. "You're too young," he said.

***

Isabelle watched Will mount his horse in a single lithe motion without need of a block. He had a new, dappled palfrey for his ride to court. The saddle cloth had a border of green and gold braid woven with the red Marshal lion. The breast-band was tasselled in green and gold too. A new scarlet cloak with squirrel lining was pinned at his shoulder and his boots had garnet fastenings. His hands grasping the reins as he turned the horse were competent and strong. He had a groom to attend him, and a body servant. William himself was escorting him to court and handing him over to John.

   Isabelle steeled herself. She had said her farewells earlier, in private; she had embraced him and kissed him on either smooth-skinned cheek and had felt the return of that embrace dutifully given. William was right. He was ready to leave the nest for the wider world, but her heart bled at the thought of giving him to John for the finishing. She was bidding farewell to her firstborn. The boy still dwelt in his eyes, but she could see the man waiting to take over, and knew that when she set eyes on him again, he would be irrevocably changed.

   She watched them ride away and felt as grey as rain. Will didn't turn, but his father did, giving her a look over his shoulder that made her ache to the bone. They still hadn't resolved their differences. They had talked and they had lain together, but the spaces between the words had been chasms, and she had been too numb and resentful to think about leaping across them. They had wounded each other and, despite a semblance of unity, nothing had healed.

Eighteen

PORTCHESTER, HAMPSHIRE, MAY 1206

Wearing her court gown of blue samite and the brooch set with sapphires that Queen Eleanor had given to her as wedding gift, Isabelle curtseyed formally before King John. She had prepared for this moment, rehearsing it in her head, practising her control until her shield was complete and nothing showed on her face but bland placidity. She would rather die than give John the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he had struck at the heart of her family.

   He and the Queen sat on thrones draped with matching silk embroideries. Two painted stone leopards crouched either side of the chairs and behind their heads a magnificent banner embroidered with the royal Angevin lions sparkled with light. The knights of John's household guard stood close to their sovereign, swords at the ready; the other men in the room—bishops, barons, and magnates—went unarmed except for their finery.

   John was again preparing to embark for Poitou, but this time had not tried to force his barons to accompany him. Instead he had asked for their aid. William had tactfully provided him with a number of knights and serjeants. While he refused to go in person, he was prepared to make a delicate compromise and at least give John a conroi of fighting men.

   "Countess, it is a pleasure to see you at court. You should visit more often," John addressed Isabelle pleasantly.

   She murmured an appropriate response and kept her gaze lowered. Let John think her a dutiful and submissive wife if it saved her from having to interact with him.

   William glanced at her. He had already made his obeisance to John and for the moment an uneasy peace existed between them, rather like the truce in his marriage. Patched up, holding, but unlikely to last.

   John smiled benevolently at Isabelle. "It is fortunate you are here, Lady Marshal. Your son will want to see you, I am sure, and make his farewells."

   Isabelle's head came up and her eyes widened. William made a surreptitious gesture of warning. "His farewells, sire?" he asked, stepping into the breach.

   John feigned surprise. "I assumed you knew he was travelling to Poitou in my entourage?"

   "No, sire, I did not," William answered. "I thought you would be leaving him behind."

   "You underestimate your son's talents, Marshal. He's a fast learner."

   Isabelle fought not to show the fury and fear John's words had ignited within her. She knew the more agitation a victim revealed, the more pleasure John derived.

   "I am his father; I know how swiftly he learns, sire," William answered calmly. "I am pleased you find him so invaluable that he is a necessary part of your entourage."

   John's smile was mocking. "Don't worry, Marshal, I won't let anything happen to him—even if you do have three more sons to carry your line and the means to beget more."

   Isabelle made an involuntary sound and sent John an eviscerating look through her lashes.

   John smirked at her, his own stare bright with lust.

   "Sire, I am reassured to hear that you will keep him safe," William said. "I wonder if you might extend the same trust that I yield to you and grant me leave to visit my Irish lands."

   John regarded the clean white borders of his fingernails. "You should know better than to ask, Marshal. I need you in England while I am gone—I need your governance." He looked once more at Isabelle. "I'll arrange for that son of yours to dine with you and your lady tonight. Perhaps he will be able to convince her that I am not about to use his guts for girth straps."

   William bowed and fixed a smile on his face because as a courtier he was an adept. "And perhaps I can convince her not to do the same to yours," he replied. His timing and delivery were flawless and John laughed, appreciating the barb, but his eyes were calculating, and William's, despite his relaxed stance, were wary.

***

Isabelle's fears for Will were making her sick with worry, but she tried not to show it when he came to their pavilion later that day. She could not believe how much he had changed in nine months. He was never going to have William's height and breadth; he took after his slighter grandsire, her father, but he was strong and supple. The muscles beneath his linen tunic and shirt were hard and adult and he was going to need new garments to accommodate the extra girth.

   "Oh, it's so good to see you!" she cried, embracing him. "We've missed you!"

   He gave a flat shrug. "It was difficult at first," he admitted, "but I've become used to it." His voice was deeper, the masculine apple in his throat more pronounced and his stubble more than fluff. Isabelle felt unbearably proud and unbearably sad. As Will and his father embraced, again she saw the closeness and the distance and knew that the latter was bound, for a while at least, to grow.

   While they were eating, she broached the delicate subject of Poitou and discovered to her chagrin that John was right. Will was eager to go, like a young warhorse champing at the bit. She had to bite her tongue on caveats and nay-sayings, knowing they were born of her anxieties, not her son's. Gilbert was fascinated by the detail that the King had books to read for pleasure and had even had chests made especially to transport them. Richard listened with rapt attention and envy as Will spoke of Gibbun, John's great white Norway hawk and how he had been allowed to handle him in the mews and fly him at the lure on the practice ground.

   William observed and listened with his arms folded and a knowing half-smile on his lips. "You shouldn't forget to mention the length of time you have to be on duty and all the fetching and carrying you have to do. You never eat when everyone else does because you're serving the meal, carving the meat, carrying the wine and finger bowls. You have to sleep with your ears open lest your lord should call you in the night and you have to come to his presence fully dressed and with your senses alert. Then there's all the polishing and caring for armour and being courteous whatever the provocation."

   Will shrugged. "At least I'm not bored," he said, and then looked guiltily at his mother.

   Isabelle sighed and shook her head. "Knowing your ancestry, I suppose I should expect no less." She smiled. "But as a mother I would rather have you bored than endangered."

   "At least he won't be endangered by dairy maids where he is now," Richard said impishly and received a good-natured cuff from his father.

***
"Well," William said to Isabelle when Will had returned to his
duties and they were preparing to retire for the night, "have
your fears been allayed?"

   Still clad in her chemise, Isabelle got into bed. "I am glad to know that he is doing well," she murmured. She suspected John was deliberately trying to wean Will away from them, although she didn't say so to William. She had enough selfknowledge to realise that some of her misgiving was caused by protectiveness and resentment.

   William yawned. "Good." He thumped the bolster into a comfortable shape.

   "Do you think John will give us permission to go to Ireland?"

   "It'll be like pushing a cart full of boulders uphill with our hands tied behind our backs, but yes, he'll give it…eventually. I loaned him a hundred marks today, and he borrowed two tuns of wine for his table. He's affable enough for the moment."

   "Well, that's because he thinks he has the better of us. You might not be accompanying him to Poitou, but he's got our heir, which is the next best thing—and he'll play it for all he's worth."

   "Of course he will," William answered with laboured, patience. "Don't worry. Will's in good hands. Longespée is going too. He's promised to look out for him."

   Isabelle sighed. "I know." She closed her eyes and tried to blank thought from her mind so that she could sleep.

   Beside her, William did the same but with little success. Outside he could hear the voices of some of the mesnie knights, gathered round the fire near their pavilions. Conversation; muted laughter. The scrape of Richard's breaking adolescent voice as he joined them. William was tempted to go and lose his troubled thoughts in wine, jest, and camaraderie, but knew his presence would change the atmosphere and deny him the very thing he sought.

   The sight of Will closing fast on manhood and the husky sound of Richard's voice had suddenly made him realise how late it was. When he had married Isabelle, there had seemed acres of time to plant seed and harvest, but suddenly there was only a small corner remaining and too much to accomplish. He had once asked God for the grace to see his children grow up and now the eldest were almost there. He could still do most things he had done at thirty: wear his mail shirt without going short of breath; go blade to blade with any man and win. His reflexes might have slowed a little, but since they had been faster than lightning in his youth, they still served him well. Experience and reputation made up for the rest.

   There remained much to accomplish in Ireland. He knew he had neglected it for far too long. The foundations had been laid but he needed to go there himself and oversee the building— while his faculties were entire. Normandy was lost to them for the time being. Even if he had secured the lands for his heirs, it would be stupid to go there and risk John's ire so badly that he forfeited his English estates. Best for now to leave Longueville in the hands of a steward until Richard was old enough to take up the reins.

   Normandy was the landscape of his young manhood and it was in the past; there was no point wallowing in nostalgia. Eleanor and Henry, Richard and the Young King were in their graves. Restlessly he turned over. Isabelle's back was turned and all he could see was the heavy mass of her hair gilding the coverlet and the pale shape of her linen-clad arm. She was twenty years younger than him. Queen Eleanor had lived fourscore years and he had no delusions that, barring a miracle, he would be here should Isabelle have such a span. He had a duty to ensure while he lived that the lands she held in dower were secure for her future—her widowhood. Since Leinster was the richest part of that dower it behoved him to do something about it.

   She turned over in a rustle of bedclothes and opened her eyes. In the dim candlelight their changeable flecked blue was as dark as midnight. "You are not sleeping," she said.

   "Neither are you." He put his arm around her and she

moved into his embrace. It was one that held comfort and familiarity. Sensing the boundaries, he did not overstep them. Despite his recent personal examination of his faculties and the awareness that all were still intact, tonight was not an occasion for hammers, anvils, and the forge.

Nineteen

FRAMLINGHAM CASTLE, SUFFOLK, JANUARY 1207

Mahelt's wedding gown was of silk of Damascus, shot with hues of silver and green and sparkling with crystals and pearls. The peacock tones suited her complexion and ruddy brown hair. A silver belt at her waist emphasised its narrowness and the lithe curves of recent womanhood.