The Scarlet Lion (41 page)

   William laughed and pressed his knight on the shoulder. "A little flattery never goes amiss," he said, "but I spoke the truth." He sobered and stared towards the walls of the castle. "He means to have them, Jean, and my heart is heavy at what the outcome might be."

   "Mine too, my lord, but we have done what we can."

   "Have we?"

   Jean nodded. "And what we must."

   William's eyelids tightened. "What we must." His voice was bleak. "Those are barren words these days, Jean."

   The sound of shouting and the drum of hooves caused him to turn and watch a band of native Irish warriors riding into the camp, bareback as was their wont, guiding their mounts with rope bridles.

   A slender, innocuous-looking man joined William and Jean. His garments were serviceable but drab and his leather satchel was scuffed and had seen better days. Men would look at him and then through him. "You should be bending the knee, my lord," he said.

   "And why should we be doing that, Feargal?" William asked with a glance at his most accomplished spy. The man cost a fortune to employ, but the information he provided was usually of more value than gold.

   Feargal scrubbed a forefinger beneath his sharp nose. "That's Cathal Crobderg O Gonchobair, the King of Connacht, coming to pay homage and offer support." He looked around, his face screwed up in assessment. "A mighty gathering, for sure. Pointless though."

   William's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"

   Feargal hitched his belt. "You're laying siege to a husk, my lord. Hugh de Lacy and his de Braose kin are gone. Three days now and across the sea to Man or Scotland." He eyed up the siege weapons. "You won't be needing those, or only for show. The garrison won't hold out beyond the first strike from a trebuchet. Their treasure's gone."

   William stared at the walls of the keep. John was going to foam at the mouth with rage at being thwarted yet again of his prey. Cracking a nut, no matter how easily, was pointless if there was no kernel. The next few hours were not going to be pleasant, but for himself he could only feel relief that the de Braoses had fled ahead of John's army. Whatever happened now, it wouldn't happen in Ireland on his doorstep and while his conscience wasn't entirely clear, he could at least hold his head above the mire.

                             *** Slumping on the window-seat in a turret chamber of Dublin Castle, William took the cup of wine from his squire and, with a hint of irony, toasted Baldwin de Béthune. "To peace," he said. "May it last longer than a day."

   Baldwin saluted a response and leaned back with a sigh. "Amen to that."

   Around them the room was busy with servants bearing the royal furnishings down to the bailey. The King's bed had been dismantled and attendants were lumping spars of wood out of the room on their shoulders as if practising for some bizarre Easter Cross-bearing ritual. Florence, the royal laundry maid, puffed past with a basket full of linen, her cheeks shining like polished red apples. John was preparing to return to England and the court was on tenterhooks. John himself had retired to another chamber to wait out the moment for embarkation with a fìrkin of wine and a selection of books.

   "Been successful for him." Baldwin eyed William thoughtfully. "The de Lacys brought to heel, new charters for Ireland with better advantages for him. Maude de Braose and her son his prisoners…" He broke off to contemplate his wine.

   William plucked at a loose thread on the window-seat cushion and gazed at the embroidered pattern of a snarling lion with red claws. In his mind's eye he was not seeing the beast, but John's face when his messenger brought the news that Maude de Braose and her son had been captured in Scotland and handed over to his deputies. Even now they were on their way south to Windsor. There had been gloating triumph in the tawny gaze. The fingers had curled in pleasure on the finials of his great chair the way that a cat might curl its claws in its prey.

   "The only fly in his ointment is that he didn't capture William de Braose with them," Baldwin added, "but he can live in hope—which is more than can be said for de Braose."

   An attendant came to take the cushion and gave William a sidelong look of suspicion as if blaming him for the loose thread on the exquisitely worked embroidery. "He won't give himself up to the King, I know that much." William rose to his feet. Still at large, de Braose had pledged in messages to the King to find the money he owed, but everyone knew he wouldn't. His debts at the exchequer amounted to more than the entire annual revenues of England.

   "Then what's he going to do?"

   William shrugged. "What would you do if you were de Braose?"

   Baldwin turned his mouth down at the corners. "Head for France, sell my sword, tell everything I know."

   "Precisely, and then we'll have the French down on us like the hammer of God, not to mention the Pope champing at the bit."

   Baldwin looked bleak. "Small wonder you choose to stay in Ireland with your lady and raise your children. No interdict here, and the King's business finished so he won't be returning soon."

   William acknowledged Baldwin's comment with a sceptical grimace. "I'll enjoy what peace I can and pray that it lasts. My chaplain tells me that miracles still happen."

                             *** A corner of Marlborough's stable yard had been the arena for a cockfight between a serjeant's rust and iridescent rooster and the cook's scarred but undefeated black who was named Rollo after the first Duke of Normandy. Will, having a penny to spare, had wagered on the mangy Rollo, reasoning that cunning and the will to live were worth as much as the strutting, glossy arrogance of the challenger.

   It had been a fierce battle, as witnessed by the clotted feathers blowing around the yard and the dirty jewels of blood spattering the dust. The cook had taken away the rust and iridescent rooster, plucked him, drawn him, and dropped him in a stew pot to simmer. The black cockerel, torn, bloody but triumphant, was resting in a corner of the kitchen on a cushion made from the down of former victims, one cocked eye as bright as a jet droplet, the other a sightless milky opal.

   Jingling his winnings, Will sought Richard and found him lying on his pallet in the chamber shared by the squires, his hands clasped behind his head and his gaze on the rafters. It was rare to see his cheerful, energetic brother so contemplative, although Will assumed he was just taking a brief rest from throwing himself at life.

   "Here." He tossed the pouch of money on to Richard's broad chest. "Old Rollo won again; Chanticleer's for dinner. Take half for yourself."

   Richard hefted the pouch indifferently and made no attempt to investigate the contents.

   "What's wrong?"

   Richard rolled on to his stomach and put the money on the pillow. "Maude de Braose and her son are dead," he said.

   Will stared at him. "What? How do you know?"

   "I heard the King talking to a messenger from Windsor… You know John threw them in the dungeons there…"

   Will swallowed. "Yes, I knew," he said.

   "Well, he left them to starve to death. The…the messenger told the King that the son had died first and that…that there were bite marks on his arm where she'd…where she'd…" Richard fought his gorge. "I moved away from the curtain then. Even if I was on duty I didn't want to be caught listening to that for my own hide's sake."

   "Filth," Will muttered, filled with sick disgust. "John is filth. I hope the barons rise against him for this."

   "There's more. I haven't told you everything yet."

   "I thought you'd moved away from the door?" Fear widened Will's gaze. "It's not about Jean or Jordan, is it? He hasn't starved them to death too? Holy Christ!"

   Richard shook his head. "No," he said quickly. "Not that. It's nothing to do with our men. I heard this from a laundry maid and she heard it when she was gathering up the King's soiled linens. William de Braose has taken refuge with the French and told them everything he knows about what happened to Prince Arthur. He said that John murdered Arthur while in a drunken rage."

   Will's taut expression relaxed. "That's old gossip," he said, scoffing because he was pretending he was manly and unafraid. "It's been going round since before we were made hostages." Taking the pouch from his brother's pillow, he poured out the money and set about dividing it up.

   "Yes, but de Braose has never spoken openly before. If he's told Philip the full details as an eye witness, it gives Philip the excuse he needs to come and take England from John."

   Will raised his head from his counting, a spark of interest lighting in his eyes. "You think that'll happen?"

   "I don't know; it might." Richard shrugged. "Our father will be honour-bound to answer the King's summons if he does come. You know him; he'll hold to his oath of fealty whatever happens."

   Will made a face. "Let's hope he has the good sense to hold to it by staying in Ireland."

   "More chance of cooking one of Saint Colman's teal," Richard said, referring to the Irish legend about certain sacred birds that if killed and put in the pot would remain raw no matter how long they were boiled. He scooped up his share of the coins and, clenching his fist around them, left his bed and went to the door.

   "Where are you going?" Will asked.

   "To give this in alms for the soul of Maude and her son," Richard said, his expression filled with pity and distaste. "At least some beggar can have the food she was denied."

Thirty-one

PEMBROKE, SOUTH WALES, SPRING 1213

William was preparing to exercise his new warhorse, a handsome four-year-old with a liver chestnut hide so dark that it shone like polished jet.

   Isabelle watched him feed the stallion a crust of bread on the palm of his hand, then grasp the reins, set his foot to the stirrup, and swing astride. The weather was fine and dry and he showed no sign of the limp from an old injury that had plagued him in the winter cold. As always, he looked as if he was part of the horse. She tried not to worry, or at least not to show it. He would not thank her for coddling him when he was hard and fit enough to control a mettlesome young stallion. Gilbert and Walter were playing squire to their father, Gilbert holding William's lance and Walter his helm and new shield, the paint pristine and gleaming without a scratch or dent.

   It was Isabelle's first return to England in six years, although William had been back on sundry occasions without her to deal with matters pertaining to the earldom and the King. For herself, Isabelle would have been content to remain at Kilkenny, tending Leinster and her household. She thought William had seemed satisfied too. For the first time in his life, he had been able to stay at home and not miss the development of his offspring from babies, to toddlers, to swift, sturdy children. But even in the midst of the idyll, even while building a prosperity of towns and commerce for Leinster, she had sensed a vestige of restlessness within him. The warrior was quiescent, but waiting.

   A return to England meant though that she would be able to see Mahelt and her grandchildren, the latter for the first time. Mahelt and Hugh had two infant sons now, and Isabelle was keen to see her daughter and her small family. It had been far too long a parting.

   Currently the feudal host of Ireland was camped in Pembroke Castle's outer bailey and the surrounding fields, including five hundred knights and additional serjeants and foot under the command of John de Grey, Bishop of Norwich and Ireland's justiciar, all assembled in answer to the King's summons for aid.

   William took the lance from Gilbert and, giving the horse the lightest nudge of spur, rode down the tilt towards the shield on the end of the quintain post. He struck the shield dead centre and the post whipped round at speed, the sack of sand on the other end wobbling heavily up and down, but William was gone and already turning to approach from the other side.

   De Grey joined Isabelle to watch the display. "Your husband, they say, was something to see in his tourney days, and I can well believe it, my lady."

   Isabelle's lips curved. "He still is," she said proudly. Despite occasional differences of interest and opinion, she liked de Grey. In contrast to many churchmen, he was at home in the company of women; indeed appeared to take pleasure in it. He was direct, urbane, and intelligent—a man with whom she and William could work. Her smile faded. "He will need all of his prowess and luck unless I have misunderstood the situation in England and Wales." William was leaving Pembroke for Dover on the morrow and Isabelle did not know if or when she would see him again. The French had declared war on an excommunicate king, and their army was massed on the Normandy coast, only waiting the moment to strike.

   De Grey clasped his hands behind his back. "I hope we will need these troops only to provide a show of strength, Countess. If the King makes peace with the Pope, then the French will incur the wrath of Rome, not its support, if they do invade."

   "I pray you are right," Isabelle said in a heartfelt voice. The dispute with Rome had been rumbling for as long as she and William had been in Ireland and like an approaching storm had continued to escalate until it seemed that deluge and destruction were inevitable.

   William trotted the new stallion over to her, leaned down from the saddle, and swept five-year-old Ancel on to the destrier's back. The child was fearless around horses and already an accomplished rider of his own piebald pony. As the fifth son he was going to inherit little if anything in terms of land, and it was already accepted within the family that he would follow in William's footsteps and carve his own career with horse and lance.

   Isabelle watched father and son trot around the bailey and tried to set aside her misgivings. So much for a life of peace and quiet to enjoy the setting of the sun, she thought, and not for the first time silently damned John for what he was. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of this was that the hostages he held might finally be released.