The Scarlet Lion (32 page)

   "You are men of standing and dignity and it has been in my mind for some time to bestow you grants and privileges in Ireland to hold of me as tenants-in-chief—if you are willing to be accommodating." With a smile and an enquiring look in his eye, he gestured the attendant to refill the cups. It was one of the best wines: mulberry enhanced with spices.

   Prendergast's gaze darted to see who else was listening. A muscle ticked under one of his eyes and John saw his breathing quicken and knew his fish was hooked. Jack Marshal's expression, however, was one of surprise threatening to develop into unease.

   "I remember your father very well," John said to him smoothly. "He died defending Marlborough as my castellan and he always served me loyally and well. But for a twist of birth, you could have had all of your father's lands. He was the heir, after all. Instead they are held by your uncle and will pass in time to his son, not yours."

   Jack Marshal shrugged. "It is the way of things, sire. I am not the only eldest son who has missed his inheritance due to being bastard born."

   John spread his hands. "Indeed not, but a soldier of your standing has the potential to go much further than the modest lands you have gained through marriage. I would be willing to bestow enough on you to enhance your dignity. The same goes for you, my lord," he said to Philip Prendergast. "Your wife is the eldest daughter of Richard Strongbow. Like my kinsman Meilyr, you were settled in Leinster long before the Earl of Pembroke planted his feet on its shores. As lord of Ireland, I am in a position to reward you for your services… what do you say?"

                             *** "Jack, come here. What do you think?" William walked around the horse that the coper was offering for sale, studying it from various angles. It was a handsome blue-roan with the arched neck and powerful quarters of Spanish breeding. In the summer its hide would have the lustre of sword steel but just now the sheen was covered by a thick winter fell of hoar white. The coper, however, knew how to turn out a beast for the inspection of noble clients. Not a speck of mud or dung marred the plush coat. Its hooves had been oiled and polished, its mane and tail combed until they glittered like waterfalls in frosty light.

   "For war?" Jack's tone was dubious.

   "No, for breeding and hacking. My palfrey's getting long in the tooth. If I put him to a Flanders mare, he might produce destrier stock."

   "Ah, good then." Jack moved in to perform the obligatory examinations, looking in the stallion's mouth, checking his legs, picking up his feet. Watching his nephew, William wondered what was wrong. Jack was hesitant and ill at ease and he wouldn't look him in the eyes.

   "I think he's worth considering," William said conversationally. "He has excellent conformation and his temperament seems balanced—although as with all things, one can be surprised."

   The words sent a red flush creeping up Jack's throat into his face. He straightened from examining the stallion's forelegs and turned to William. "Sir, I have a confession to make."

   William nodded at a suspicion confirmed. "Since it is to me and not to God, I assume it concerns me and I am not going to approve."

   Jack bit the inside of his cheek. "The King has offered me lands in Ireland and the position of his marshal there in return for the service of five knights."

   The news dismayed William but hardly came as a surprise. He folded his arms. "So what are you confessing? That you've accepted them?"

   Jack looked affronted. "No, sir. I said I needed time to think. I thought it only honourable to speak with you first."

   "Do you want the lands?" William asked, then laughed at himself. "Hah, of course you want them; you'd be a lackwit not to, but what else does the King desire of you besides the service of five knights, hmm?" A bitter smile twisted his lips. "I should not be surprised. John is exacting his revenge for my homage to King Philip for Longueville." He looked hard at his nephew. "How far are your loyalties going to be split, Jack? What will you give to me and what will you give to John?"

   Jack tried to return William's stare, but could not and had to look at the ground. "I do not deny he offers me something I cannot afford to refuse, but I will still serve you to the best of my ability."

   William gave a caustic laugh. "You'll find that serving two masters is a double-edged sword." He waved his hand. "Go, take his bribe. I won't disown you."

   "But you will think less of me," Jack said miserably.

   "I think well of you for coming to tell me. That takes courage and I do not blame you for accepting his offer. You choose your path and you walk it without looking back. I doubt the others will come to me to justify themselves. I'll have to find out for myself who's been offered what—probably from public jibes and sneers in the hall."

   Jack's flush deepened to scarlet. "You know about the others?"

   "It's obvious, is it not?" William growled. "The King is not going to bribe my nephew and leave them out of it. It's as much about diminishing my dignity as taking away my power."

   Jack looked morose. "You should have done as Jean D'Earley said and taken their sons hostages before you left."

   "It wouldn't have made any difference since the King has my sons." He sighed and felt a grey tide of weariness settle over him. "So, whom has he been inveigling and who has succumbed?"

   "Most of them." Jack looked embarrassed and apologetic. "Prendergast, de Barri, Latimer, both de la Roches, Adam of Hereford, Richard de Cogan, D'Angle, FitzMartin, and de Haverford…"

   William was braced but it was still unpleasant to hear the names. John had done a thorough job and all of the Irish vassals had shown their true colours. "I will not say that you are in good company," he said with a dour smile.

   "What are you going to do?"

   William grimaced. "What can I do? I am besieged. I have to hope the walls I have built are strong enough to survive. You have done your duty in coming to me. From now on you had better stay clear of my company unless you want to find yourself trapped behind the wrong walls."

   "My lord, I—"

   "Begone," William said with a wave of his hand. "I have the patience of a soldier, not a saint."

   Jack bowed deeply, with reverence, and then hesitantly walked away. William briefly closed his eyes, swallowed, and turned back to examining the horse. The coper's expression was empty but it didn't mean his mind was too. William knew full well the news would be the main source of entertainment at the dinner hour. He told himself it didn't matter; it was one brief manoeuvre in a long and complex game. "Saddle him up," he commanded the man. "I want to see how he rides."

Twenty-five

MARLBOROUGH, WILTSHIRE, DECEMBER 1207

Breath misting in the icy air, William gazed around the chamber where he and his siblings had played as small children. He could still vividly remember the red wall hangings, the gold fringing on the bolster cushions, the broad bed with its winter coverlet of wolfskins where he and his brothers had slept. All still clear, but only in memory now except for the painted scrollwork designs on the white plastered walls. They were still the same. The chamber was currently the domain of the King's scribes and clerks who were huddled over piles of parchment, nibs scratching away, hands and noses red with cold despite the charcoal braziers that provided localised patches of heat.

   There was glass in the window embrasure now. In his childhood, the apertures had been open to the sky, or screened off by shutters in the coldest weather. If he half closed his eyes, he could almost see his mother sitting on the window-bench at her embroidery with her women, one eye cocked to her full nursery of four boys, two girls, and two older stepsons from her husband's first marriage. All scattered now: married in far distant parts of the country, dwelling in France…dead. His father had been castellan here, but had lost Marlborough with King Henry's favour when William was a youth. Years later, the keep had been restored to the family. His brother John had been given custody and, in his turn, he had lost it while rebelling against King Richard—had died in the great hall, defending the place, his heart and his hope giving out. Now King John held it in royal custody and came here often like a dog marking its territory. But although old scents and colours faded, the memory of their original intensity lingered. If the room was cold, it was because Marlborough had more than its share of ghosts, the living and the dead.

   The curtain covering the doorway suddenly flurried as if blown upon and Meilyr FitzHenry strode into the room. He was booted and cloaked for hard travelling, and was accompanied by Thomas Bloet, a knight of the King's mesnie, who was similarly attired.

   Meilyr stopped abruptly when he saw William and his hand flashed to his sword hilt. Remaining composed and still, William eyed his treacherous vassal with loathing. Meilyr's sallow complexion darkened. He took his right hand off his hilt, replacing it with his left and swaggered over to the scribes.

   "What are you doing here, Marshal?" he sneered. "Hoping that one of them will take pity on you and tell you what they've written?"

   "What I am doing here is my own business," William said impassively. He nodded greeting to Thomas Bloet who looked ill at ease but was courteous enough to return the gesture.

   Meilyr held out an imperious hand to one of the busy scribes. "You have writs for myself and Sir Thomas."

   John de Grey, Bishop of Norwich and the King's senior administrator, gave him several documents tagged with the royal seal. His expression was neutral—eloquently so, and William was glad. He and de Grey saw eye to eye on a number of issues.

   "A pity you are not returning to Ireland with me, Marshal," Meilyr said, his tone and his smile implying the delighted opposite. "But do not worry. I will deal with all outstanding matters." He waved the documents under William's nose. "You know these are summons to your men, don't you? If they do not come to the King, all their lands will be forfeit?"

   "I know full well what is written, Meilyr," William said in an impassive voice.

   Meilyr's smile was gloating. "I will be sure to wish your wife well when I come to Kilkenny."

   William dug deep and managed to hold himself together. "You do that," he said huskily, "although do not expect my wife to do the same for you. Her notions of propriety may not be as well developed as mine, but you will find that her notions of possession are. I will also remind you that you are my vassal and I have the right to deal with you as I see fit within the writ of the law—whether you are the King's justiciar or not."

   Meilyr handed the sealed letters to Thomas Bloet to bear as official messenger. "You are fuller of hot air than an empty pie, Marshal," he sneered. "Pray continue; the scribes will be glad of the warmth. I cannot stay to take advantage; I've work to do in Ireland and there's a ship waiting." He left the room as he had entered, brisk with energy, his stride brimming with confidence. William half expected to hear him whistling with pleasure. Thomas Bloet followed him, but hesitated on the threshold and gave William a swift, apologetic look. "I go where I am sent," he said.

   "I know," William replied. "No one in my household will abuse a messenger for the news he bears…You are the King's man, not my enemy…unlike some."

   Bloet gave a knowing hand gesture and went out after Meilyr.

   William hesitated. De Grey had returned to overseeing his scribes and was obviously not inclined to comment. Letting out a hard breath, William left the room in the wake of Bloet and FitzHenry. While they mounted fast coursers and took the road to Bristol, William headed for the chapel to pray for God's help in the weeks to come.

***

"Not long now, my lady," said Maeve the midwife, who had been gently examining Isabelle's belly. "The head has descended into the pelvis and he's curled up neat and ready, so he is."

   Isabelle struggled upright on the bed. There was so much baby there didn't seem as if there was room for anything else. Her back ached constantly and she was at the stage where no position was comfortable, no matter how many cushions she placed at her back. A trading galley had brought the news that John's Queen had been safely delivered of a son at Winchester, named Henry for his grandsire. Isabelle hated John, but she wished the young Queen and her baby well and intended sending a christening gift when she was able. The sister-bond of childbirth and motherhood was a powerful one.

   "How long is 'not long'?" she asked as she took the loose blue gown handed to her by Lady Avenel. The panels in the sides were fitted above the waistline to give space to her girth.

   "Could be today, could be a fortnight and more," Maeve said. "No telling." A look of disapproval crossed her face. "What I do know is that you should have retired to your confinement a long time since."

   "Oh, tush." Isabelle waved impatiently at the woman. "I do no harm by dining in the hall and talking in the council chamber. I cannot afford to retire for a month and sit on my bed waiting for the child to be born." She gazed ruefully at her belly. "I may resemble a great milch cow, but I have neither the patience nor the inclination to placidly chew cud and think of nothing." She raised her hand to forestall Maeve, who had drawn breath to do battle. "And do not say I should rest for the child's sake. If everything is progressing as it should, which you say it is, then providing I do not take one of my husband's destriers from the stable and go riding out at the gallop, clad in mail, I think you can assume my common sense hasn't deserted me."

   Maeve rolled her eyes in horror at such a notion, then sighed and shook her head. "As you wish, Countess," she said, but the tight purse of her lips continued to mark her disapproval.

   Her ladies and the children in tow, Isabelle descended from her chamber to the great hall to eat—something she made a point of doing every day. Her sons and daughters had to learn to dine in a formal atmosphere and observe the manners and courtesies that would serve them in later life. They had to learn duty and obligation and Isabelle was making sure that they were well prepared.