The Scarlet Lion (24 page)

   Rubbing his chin, John read rapidly and began to frown. He looked at the messenger and the knights. "The money?" he said.

   One of them produced a key, unfastened the padlocks, and pushed back the lid to show John numerous leather bags. The King hefted one, tossed it up and down in a harsh jingle of sound, then dropped it back in the chest. He studied the letter again, raised his head, and stared directly at Will, thus letting him know he was here because John wished it so, not because he had escaped notice.

   "Your father." John's upper lip curled. "Your sainted, chivalrous father, that
prudhomme
…and your haughty bitch of a mother too…"

   Will's stomach turned over at the expression in John's eyes.

   "Well," John said softly, "all great men can be brought to heel, and ground under it if necessary…and their haughty wives too."

   Will swallowed. "I do not understand, sire."

   "No, but I will make your father do so on his knees. Tell me, boy, why does he want so desperately to go to Ireland?"

   Will's palms were moist with cold sweat. "The lands are my mother's dower estates and they need attention, sire."

   "Do they indeed?" John tossed the letter on the trestle. "And why can't he stay in England and let his deputies administer them, hmm?"

   Will mutely shook his head.

   "Marshal will challenge my justiciar and therefore my authority on every point of law, and take matters into his own hands; I know him. My lord FitzHenry writes that he is most concerned on this matter."

   Gazing at the chest of silver, Will began to understand. He had been only ten years old on their first visit to Ireland, but he remembered Meilyr FitzHenry's anger at what he saw as their invasion of his territory. His attitude had obviously not mellowed and Will knew his father was going to Ireland with the intention of getting to grips with the situation. No surprise then that Meilyr had written to John and sent a chest of silver to add lustre to his argument.

   He became uncomfortably aware that John was looking at him with the speculative manner of a wolf considering a raid on a sheep pen. "You're a fine lad and doing well," the King said. "Your father gave you up willingly enough, but I should have asked for more." For a moment he mused upon the chest of silver, then he raised his head. "I sold my goodwill far too cheaply. Time, I think, to increase the price."

                             *** Spring sunlight washed the walls of Tintern Abbey in primrose gold and flooded the nave with a warm benediction of rays. Isabelle knelt at her mother's tomb in the choir and prayed. The effigy, carved from Purbeck marble and painted in rich colours, had been completed the year after her death. There was perhaps a hint of Aoife in the short nose and set of the mouth, but then again, it might be a trick of wishful thinking. Isabelle thought that her mother would have been pleased by the elegant drapes of the gown the stone carver had designed for her. Her vanity had always been a large part of her personality.

   "Mahelt isn't here today," Isabelle informed the effigy, setting her own hand over its praying ones. "She was married at the feast of Saint Agnes to Hugh Bigod, Roger of Norfolk's heir. I think you would like him—even if he is a Norman." She gave a tremulous smile. "She's a Bigod now and I will miss her sorely, but I know they will care for her as their own. William didn't want to let her go. He's always had a tender spot for her. She is so much like him." The cold stone warmed under her hand and Aoife's face gazed serenely heavenwards, yet Isabelle gained the sense that somehow she was listening.

   She voiced her concerns about Will's continuing absence at court, a worry she kept to herself given the differences between herself and William on the matter. It was curative to speak her troubles aloud and know she was not being indiscreet. Finally, drawing a deep breath, she told the effigy her other news, the bit she reserved until last. "We're returning to Ireland," she said. "As soon as the weather is right. William has the King's permission. He says he intends to prepare the ground so that my dower will be my sustenance should he not…should he not survive me. You were the Countess of Hibernia. Now I go to be the same. I swear I will do the best I can, and my children after me." A sudden swim of tears filled her eyes, but they were of healing and good sorrow, rather than mourning grief.

   Feeling more at peace than she had done in a while, Isabelle crossed herself and left the abbey, emerging into the spring sunshine and a world cladding itself in tender green. Belle, Sybire, and little Eve were crouched in the grass, picking the first daisies of the year, heads close together, shoes and gown hems dark with dew. Arms folded, sons beside him, William was talking to Abbot Eudo as he waited for her. He glanced up as she came out to him, and as always, Isabelle's heart leaped. Even now; even when there were gaps between them where no gaps had existed before, that look of his still stopped her breath. She went forward to speak with Abbot Eudo and murmur pleasantries. She saw alms distributed in her mother's name to the poor waiting at the gate, and she gave more to the Abbot for later use as well as two chests of cloaks and shoes to be shared amongst the crippled and needy. William stood by her as she did all this, quietly escorting, but taking no part, for Tintern was particularly hers, having been founded by her great-grandfather.

   When she was ready to leave, William took her horse from her groom and boosted her into the saddle himself, his hand lingering briefly at her ankle. "Ireland," he murmured. "I never thought I would say this, but I'll be glad to see its shores. I need…" He looked at her and made a rueful gesture. "…I need time, of which I never seem to have enough."

   "Time away from King John is always worth twice that of any other," she said, thereby earning a tight smile in response.

   "I was going to say the same about time spent with my wife," he answered gracefully and rubbed his thumb over her ankle bone before turning to his own palfrey. Isabelle watched him and felt her lids prickle. She blinked hard, shook her head, and turned a gracious smile of farewell to Abbot Eudo.

   At Striguil, the banners of Marshal and Clare flew from the battlements and decorated the freshly whitened walls. Shields bearing the arms of kin and allies had been fastened to the crenels: the gold background and red cross of Bigod, the blue and silver of Salisbury, the silver scallop shells on red of D'Earley. It was a sight to gladden the eye and fill the heart. The keep bulged at the rafters with soldiers and retainers, with supplies and equipment for transportation to Ireland. Baggage carts and sumpter horses thronged the bailey, ready for the morrow's leave-taking. From here, they would go to Pembroke and then embark for Ireland. Today was to be one of feasting and farewell.

   William's knights had organised a small tournament as a surprise. A wooden balcony had been decorated with evergreen and banners, and padded benches brought so that William and Isabelle could sit and watch the contests of arms. A blushing young knight craved a favour from Isabelle, and she gave it with a radiant smile and a kiss on the cheek.

   "A good thing I am not a jealous man," William murmured.

   "You should be," Isabelle retorted. "He's very handsome." She touched her lips. "And grown for his years, to judge by his stubble."

   "Never judge a man by his stubble," William said playfully. "It's what he keeps on the inside that counts."

   "I should hope he does in the presence of ladies," Isabelle retorted and drew Eve into her lap. Belle and Sybire presented favours too, both of them flushed with pride and full of giggles.

   "That's not a promise of betrothal!" William warned Stephen's son, young Thomas D'Evereux, as Belle tied a scarf to his sleeve, her small pink tongue protruding between her teeth in concentration.

   "Shame," japed D'Evereux. "We'll just have to elope."

   William snorted. "In that case you had better go practise your swordplay."

   D'Evereux bowed. "My lord," he said incorrigibly, kissed Belle's hand and departed.

   At ease for the first time in an age, William settled down to enjoy the day and watch the men perform for his benefit. "I was one of them once," he said nostalgically, "putting on a display for Queen Eleanor, or wearing the favour of the Young Queen Marguerite." He observed Richard sparring with one of his squires and was pleased to note his son's swift coordination of hand and eye. The lad was carrying puppy flesh, but he wasn't soft. "It was long ago," he said and felt a sudden pang of nostalgia.

   Isabelle laid her hand to his sleeve. "Not that long ago, my lord. If it weren't for the fact that they are doing this for you, I know you'd be down amongst them showing off too."

   William's eye corners crinkled with humour. "Would you have me join them?"

   She was seeking a diplomatic reply when Osbert, one of the chamberlains, came out on to the gallery. The tension emanating from him took the amusement out of William's gaze. "What is it?"

   Osbert rubbed his hands together. "My lord, my lady, Sir Thomas Sandford is here bearing a message from the King."

   Isabelle's stomach dived. Face expressionless, William thanked him. "Bring him here," he said quietly.

   "Holy Virgin," she muttered as Osbert left. "Can't he leave us alone? What trickery is he planning now? If he has done anything to Will…"

   William gripped her hand in a calming gesture. "I do not know what he wants, but there is no point in speculating. Whatever it is, you must not react; John thrives on the wounds he inflicts. Thomas Sandford is a good man and his brother serves us, but the King will still expect him to report back word for word and gesture for gesture. Be on your guard."

   Isabelle nodded and managed to compose herself. Swiftly but without fuss she summoned her women and had them remove the younger children to a different vantage point to watch the sport. Moments later, Thomas Sandford was ushered on to the gallery.

   "Welcome, Thomas," William said pleasantly as the knight bowed to him and to Isabelle. He gestured him to be seated on the bench.

   "My lord."

   "It is good to see you, but I hazard you have not ridden all this way to say farewell to your brother or take part in our tourney?"

   Sandford shook his head. "I wish with all my heart that I had, my lord. I will not lie and say that I am the bearer of glad tidings."

   William watched a couple of knights fight forward and back using sword and shield. He studied the footwork. It was all about speed and balance, a deadly dance. "I didn't think you were, Thomas," he said without taking his eyes off the men. "I hardly think the King would send a man all the way to wish me Godspeed. You might as well tell me. You know me well enough by now. Even if the news is the worst in the world, I won't take it out on you."

   Sandford didn't look relieved; if anything his anxiety deepened. "My lord, the King desires you to hand over your son Richard to him as surety for your good conduct in Ireland. If you do not, he will revoke his permission for you to go."

   "I see," William said without emotion.

   All the colour drained from Isabelle's face. "No." Her voice rang with passion and she slammed her hand on the gallery rail. "I will burn in hell before I give Richard to him as well!"

   William shot her a cautioning look.

   "I am sorry, my lady," Thomas said woodenly. "The King insists upon it as a condition of your going to Ireland."

   Isabelle made a mewing sound and, hand clapped to her mouth, excused herself.

   "Why should he insist on such a thing when I have sworn him my loyalty?" William asked, managing to keep his voice level. After a single look after his wife, he had ignored her precipitous exit.

   Thomas gave an uncomfortable shrug. "Because he has changed his mind, my lord. He does not want you to go. To be blunt, Meilyr FitzHenry has written to him saying that if he lets you loose in Ireland, he will never be its master again. He sent a chest of silver with his letter in proof of his own sincerity."

   William raised one eyebrow.

   "I am sorry," Thomas said unhappily. "I tell you this as a friend and because you are my brother's lord."

   "And indeed I am grateful for that friendship." William rubbed his chin reflectively. "Meilyr FitzHenry thinks that Leinster is his pie and he doesn't want to share it with the likes of an English soft-sword. I know from my nephew he has taken Ui Chennselaig for himself and is making other encroachments on my territory." He looked at Thomas. "If there's a thorn in your side what do you do: let it fester, or pluck it out?"

   "Do you desire me to answer that, my lord?"

   William shook his head. "No, I don't. Go, wash and eat— talk with your brother if you wish. There's a bed for you tonight in the hall. You will appreciate I need to discuss matters with my advisers…and my wife."

   "Yes, of course, my lord."

   He watched Thomas Sandford leave and when he had gone, covered his eyes with one hand and muttered an oath.

***

Isabelle sat on the bench in their private chamber with several of the senior knights, summoned from their sport. Jean D'Earley still wore his gambeson. There was a grass stain on the knee of his chausses and a streak of mud across his cheek. Jordan de Saqueville and Stephen D'Evereux had removed their quilted tunics, but wore their swords. Ralph Musard was dabbing at a trickling cut on his cheek. She had told them the news and after the exclamations of negation and horror they had fallen silent, waiting.

   William entered the chamber, quietly shut the door behind him, and walked to his chair, the one where he sat to take his ease, to be comfortable after a long day, to let the cares slip from him. Only now it was one from which he must give a hard decision and take burdens upon himself. Hitching his hose at the knees, he seated himself with deliberation.

   "I have told them the news," Isabelle said in a voice brittle with control and holding a trace of earlier tears. "The whoreson is bent on destroying us."

   Absently William rubbed his thigh where the ghost of an old wound sometimes pained him. "His mood is certainly fickle," he said.