The Scarlet Lion (31 page)

   Will lifted his head with a sudden jerk and attempted with only partial success to focus on his father. "Tell it to me here… They won't mind listening…" He wafted a hand vaguely round the trestle to encompass his companions.

   "I am sure they won't, but this is for your ears alone. Marie, go and find another suitor to play your games of catch the coney. This particular one's finished."

   She thrust out her lower lip in a red pout, but under William's unyielding stare removed her hand from Will's crotch, lifted herself out of his lap, and went to sit beside Gerard D'Athée.

   "If he's leaving the game, then he needs to pay what's owed." D'Athée gently shook the dice in his cupped hand. All his movements were measured and understated. The man himself was lethal.

   "My chamberlain will pay you," William snapped. "See him."

   Will lurched to his feet and sat down again abruptly. William had to seize his arm and drag him upright. Supporting most of his son's weight, he drew him staggering into the raw November air.

   "What'sh the news?" Will slurred owlishly. "What family matter?"

   "This," William said and fisted him in the gut. Will collapsed and hung on all fours, vomiting. "Get it out of yourself, boy, all of it." When Will had ceased retching William seized him again, dragged him to the horse trough in the yard, and dunked his head. Will took a wild swipe and missed, collapsing in a sodden heap on the hoof-patterned ground. William hauled him upright, lifted him over his shoulder like a huntsman with a roe buck, and bore him to his pavilion where he threw him down on the pallet his squire had prepared.

   "Sleep it off," he said as he drew a blanket and sheepskin rug over his son's lean frame. "In the morning, we'll talk."

   Lying down on his own bed, William pulled the feather quilt to his ears and within minutes was asleep.

                             *** Dawn arrived in a grey cloak that misted the tops of the trees and clad the white-washed walls of the palace of Woodstock in mizzle as fine as cobwebs. Standing outside his pavilion, William inhaled the dank air and sipped steaming liquid from the cup in his hand. A few folk were up and about, and the thick smell of damp woodsmoke from cooking fires was pervasive. His cook was busy at a trestle, preparing the bread that another attendant had just fetched from the palace bakehouse. Muttering about the shortcomings of apprentice bakers, the man sliced the blackened bottom off one loaf and dusted ash from the side of another. A flitch of bacon and a wheel of cheese sat on the trestle beside the bread, ready to feed William and his knights.

   From within the tent, William heard a groan and a tentative rustle of movement followed by the noise of a waterfall from the direction of the chamberpot. He started to smile and bit the inside of his mouth. A few moments later, Will parted the tent flaps and tottered outside, eyes squinting at the light, one hand clutching his midriff. His brown hair stood up in unruly clumps and his complexion was grey.

   "You look more like a corpse tipped off a bier than a young man fresh out of bed," William commented as he handed him the cup he had been holding.

   Will took it, sniffed, and gagged.

   "Honey and spring water," William said. "Your mother swears by it when she's breeding."

   "My lady mother can keep it," Will retorted, thrusting the cup back at William and huddling inside his cloak, his expression one of abject suffering.

   "I don't suppose you remember much about last night," William said.

   "I do. You hit me." Resentment flared in the young man's voice.

   "To make you sick so that you did not die in your own vomit. I'm not going to lecture you. Your malaise can do it for me."

   "You said something about a family matter. Was that a lie?"

   William looked out through the misty haze. "Depends what you mean by a lie. What I have to say to you is a private matter between father and son. Last night, I was more concerned with getting you out of the company you were keeping. If you must gamble, whore, and drink, then at least have control of your purse, your cock, and your capacity."

   Will said nothing, but his jaw took on a mutinous set that was becoming familiar to his father by now.

   William stood in silence for a while, watching Woodstock come to life. Old King Henry had housed his mistress Rosamund de Clifford here. There were extensive pleasure gardens that in summer drugged the air with the sensuous perfumes of lily, honeysuckle, and gillyflower. The threetiered pond was threaded by a silver cascade of water from the spring, and at the heart of the garden, amid trellises of dog roses, stood an elaborate fountain of pink-flecked marble quarried from the Purbeck hills. A beautiful, tainted paradise, dormant now in the late autumn chill. Those for whose joy it had been built were dead.

   "How long have you been bedding Marie de Falaise?" he asked Will.

   There was a long silence during which William avoided the temptation to glance round.

   Eventually: "A month or two," came the sullen reply. "How do you know her name?"

   "Because the court whores belong to the Marshal's department and because I've attended at courts of one kind or another for most of my life. I can remember Marie joining the royal train when Richard was king and you were still in swaddling." He drew a deep, irritated breath. "And no, I haven't sampled her wares. What I do know, though, is that skills like hers do not come cheaply and her heart dwells in her purse, not between her legs. What's more, it only beats for money."

   "She…I…"

   "There are those at court who want nothing more than to see the sons of William Marshal wallow in the gutter, and in your case, they appear to be succeeding," William said brutally. He watched a twist of smoke rise from the chimney in the great hall block and forced himself to silence. He had trained squires to knighthood; he was used to the challenges posed in raising young males, so why was it so difficult with his heir?

   Without a word, Will went to swill his face in the water pail by the tent flap, then plonked himself down before the cook's fire, his expression brooding. Sighing, William joined him on the crude wooden bench and, leaning forward, clasped his hands between his knees.

   "Just be careful, that's all I'm asking."

   Will looked at the ground. "It won't happen again," he muttered.

   William gestured to the cook's griddle where slices from the bacon flitch were sizzling in bubbles of melted fat. "You should eat. It'll settle your gut."

   Will's nostrils flared and he swallowed hard. "No," he said.

   "Did you enjoy the venison last night?" Without waiting to be served, William helped himself to a chunk of the rescued half-burned bread and a thick slice of bacon.

   A trace of humour glimmered in Will's eyes. "It was tough," he said.

   "Ah, pity." William bit into the bread and bacon with relish. Will clamped his jaw and looked green. Then his gaze travelled beyond his father and fìxed on the messenger who was striding towards their fire. "Hywel," he said, and suddenly, despite his malaise, he was as alert as a hound.

   William turned and his heart kicked in his chest. He had left Hywel in Ireland with Isabelle with the instruction that he was to be sent at once should anything happen. Choking down his mouthful, abandoning the rest of his breakfast, he rose to his feet and faced the young man, gesturing him to remain standing when he would have knelt. "What news?" he demanded, and snapped his fingers at his squire. "Ale," he said.

   Grey fatigue smudged Hywel's features and his eyes held shadows. A fading bruise dirtied one cheekbone. "My lord, Meilyr FitzHenry's knights attacked your lands seven days after you sailed. They burned your barns at Newtown, sacked the houses, slaughtered the people, and carried off booty. Twenty of your men were killed in the fighting…and my brother Dai… He…he was killed too." Hywel's voice quivered. He took the cup from the squire and gulped down the contents.

   William felt the hair rise at his nape and gooseflesh start along his arms. He set his hand to Hywel's shoulder. "Ah lad, I am sorry," he said. "For both your loss and the news you bring."

   Hywel's throat worked. With a visible effort he gathered himself to continue reporting. "Lord Jean caught the ringleaders attempting a grange closer to Kilkenny and brought them before the Countess. She…she has secured them in the dungeon. For herself, she says that she would rather see them hang, but she awaits your pleasure on the matter."

   That sounded like Isabelle, and in fighting spirit. "Secured" William was certain was diplomatic language. "Flung" was probably closer to what she had done. "Go on," he said.

   "Your men have kept their grip on your Irish lands and Lord Jean says that it will not be dislodged. Rebuilding has already started at Newtown and the Countess has acquired fresh stores for the granges from the Pembroke lands and has borrowed and bought from the de Lacy and de Braose estates."

   William gave a terse nod and silently thanked God for the steadfastness of his wife and deputies. With less courageous personalities, he could have been listening to an entire catalogue of disasters rather than a single setback, already recovered.

   "The Countess seeks assurances that you are unharmed and says that if you are well, then she is also well indeed."

   William thanked Hywel and, having offered more condolences, let him go and find his father. The young man had the unenviable task of telling Rhys that Dai was dead, that while one son had come to him, he would never see the other again. William clenched his fists. His need to be with Isabelle in Ireland was as fierce as a wound. He hated being stuck here in the midst of enemies and rivals, having to divide himself, having to fight a dirty political battle of wits rather than a clean one with sword and lance.

   "Bastards," Will said softly.

   "I knew Meilyr would have his men attack our lands the moment I was gone," William said, his eyes full of anger. "His sneer has been telling me that ever since I arrived at court."

   "I suppose it'll be on the other side of his face now," Will said with grim satisfaction.

   "I do not doubt it, but battles aren't won by a single skirmish. This is only the beginning…and I pray God to help me because only He knows where it will end."

                             *** "Your plans to curtail the Marshal appear to have suffered a setback, if the news from Leinster is true," King John remarked acidly to Meilyr. Having dined in the great hall, he had retired to his private apartments with his favourites and advisers, among them the Irish lords who had accompanied William Marshal across the sea. It pleased John to fête them. In keeping them by his side and barring William from his private domain, it also ensured that the Marshal had but slender access to his vassals.

   Meilyr scowled. "It is only a minor check, sire, and it wouldn't have happened if I had been there to lead the operation."

   "But the Marshal wasn't there either," drawled Gerard D'Athée who was sitting on a painted coffer, arms folded and thin features clad with a contemptuous expression.

   Meilyr bared his teeth at him. "No, but he brought his dissenting vassals with him and left behind the strength of his mesnie. He deliberately left his English knights in Ireland, and I know for certain that he has given authority to Stephen D'Evereux because he's wed to a de Lacy woman." He turned to John, his manner as pugnacious and fierce as a terrier with the scent of a fox in its nostrils. "Sire, if you give me permission to return to Ireland, I swear I will visit the Marshal lands with a rod of iron and personally see his ambition curbed. The same goes for de Braose."

   D'Athée gave a cynical snort. "If you can manage that, then not just your rod but your balls are made of iron."

   Meilyr FitzHenry glared at the mercenary. "They are," he snapped. "No man who followed Richard de Clare had anything else. My grandsire was King of England when the Marshals were no more than glorified stable boys with dung on their hands."

   D'Athée raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

   John knew it had been a deliberate ploy on Meilyr's part to mention their kinship, albeit that the line was a bastard one and Welsh on the distaff side. He could well do without the Welsh. "I do not doubt the state of your manhood," he said with a sardonic smile. "You have my permission to return to Ireland and use it to beat down some walls."

   Meilyr thanked him, then leaned forward, his expression filled with cunning. "Sire, I would have an even greater chance of success if you were to arrange to recall the men the Marshal has left in Ireland who owe you service."

   John eyed him with fresh interest.

   "Order them back to England under threat of confiscating their lands if they refuse," Meilyr elaborated. "Jean D'Earley is your tenant-in-chief and he has much to lose if he declines your summons. It will leave me a free hand to act in your interests— as your justiciar."

   John toyed with the sapphires and rubies hanging around his neck on a gold chain. Despite himself he was rather impressed. Meilyr was a man after his own heart. If the direct route was barred, then digging a tunnel and undermining the enemy was the next resort. In fact, sometimes digging tunnels was preferable. He couldn't lose. If William's knights abandoned Leinster to answer his summons, then it left the Marshal's Irish lands exposed and vulnerable. If they stayed, then John got to seize their English estates. Meilyr FitzHenry was expendable, whatever the belligerent little man's high opinion of himself, and if he fell in his attempt to unseat Marshal and de Braose from their positions of power in Ireland, then John had several excellent candidates to replace him.

   "Your notion has possibilities," he said. "I will have letters written and sent to the Marshal's men. My messenger can travel with you, since I am sure, as my justiciar, you will want to see them delivered."

   A vindictive light kindled in Meilyr's eyes. "It will be my pleasure, sire."

   Having dismissed Meilyr, John sat down to drink with Philip of Prendergast and Jack Marshal—men of high estate in the Marshal's entourage. When John chose to don the gown of affable, charming host, it fitted him very well and he enjoyed the wearing. He spoke of matters inconsequential: the weather, the fine buildings at Woodstock, yesterday's hunt, but all the time, like a cat in a garden, he was soft-padding after his prey. Towards the end of the second cup of wine, he pounced.