The Scarlet Lion (47 page)

   "Don't be a fool," William said gruffly. "It's the grief in you talking."

   Will vehemently shook his head. "It's the sense of decency I've been holding down in deference to you. You have sworn your oath to John and you are fettered to it, but I have given him no such allegiance and I never will. Even if I have to end my life as an outlaw or take service in Outremer, I will not bend my knee to such as him—ever!"

   "You are speaking out of your backside."

   "Well, perhaps my backside has more integrity than John. If you want to save the hide of your grandson's murderer, then so be it, but do not expect me to ride at your side!"

   "You do not know that—"

   "I know enough." Will heeled his horse around and spurred to a canter, scattering the alms-seekers and pilgrims.

   William palmed his face. "Christ," he muttered through his fingers. Isabelle came to his side and took his arm, clinging to him for support.

   "Is this it?" he asked bleakly. "Have I lived this long and fought this hard to see it all end in strife and downfall? Am I to spend my last years warring with my sons the way that King Henry warred with his until they killed him?"

   Tears trickled down Isabelle's face. Her family was unravelling before her eyes and so fast she was unable to turn in time to meet each fresh assault. From being invulnerable, she was suddenly laid open wide. "You told him not to be a fool, but you talk like one yourself," she said in a grief-shaken voice. "He has the same integrity as you, and you are no Henry. At least if John does founder, we have our heir in the other camp, and if John keeps his throne, you will be a buffer between him and Will…" Her voice steadied as she strove to find a way out. Keep busy; keep searching. "If it comes to the worst, there is always Outremer, as he says." She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Do you think he's right?" she asked after a moment. "Do you believe that John had a hand in this?"

   William gave an exhausted sigh. "We have made more enemies than John in our lives. Yes, I think him capable, but whether he gave the order is another matter. If I had proof he had done this to Alais…to us, I would bring him down, even if I had to harrow hell to do it, but without witnesses and unless someone admits to the deed, how are we to know?"

   "Like Prince Arthur," she said bitterly. "How are we to know indeed?"

Thirty-five

CAVERSHAM, BERKSHIRE, JUNE 1215

Isabelle cuddled her three-year-old grandson in her lap, taking comfort from his solid weight and warmth. His brother Roger, aged five, was deeply absorbed with Joanna and Ancel in a game of pretend with toy wooden knights.

   "They are just like you were at that age," Isabelle reminisced with a smile.

   "I still have my
poupées
in a chest," Mahelt replied. "If I bear Hugh a daughter, then she shall have them when she is old enough."

   "You will have plenty of new ones to add."

   Mahelt looked wry. "Yes, but I wouldn't be able to decide whether to give Hugh and my father-in-law ass's ears or the tail of an ox…and the same for Will."

   "And your father?" Isabelle asked. "How would you have him?"

   Mahelt screwed up her face. "Not in a hauberk," she said. "I would have him here with you and taking his ease by the hearth as he ought to be."

   Isabelle laughed sourly. "When has your father ever taken his ease? It's not about to happen. Even if peace is agreed between the King and the barons, there's trouble brewing in Wales. Your father says that holding everything together is like trying to keep water inside a sieve." She heaved an anxious sigh. "I worry about him. He might be hale and fit, but he should not be burdened in this fashion. Your brother ought to be taking on some of the responsibility but there is no hope of that as matters stand."

   Mahelt bit her lip and looked uncomfortable. Her own husband and father-in-law were numbered amongst the rebels. It was only through the respect the Bigods had for her father that she was permitted this visit to Caversham. "If there is peace today…"

   Isabelle nuzzled her grandson's soft blond hair. "Even if everyone agrees to a truce, I doubt we will see much of your brother. The most we can hope for at home is a truce too."

   Mahelt gave her a piercing look. "It's because of Alais, isn't it?"

   Isabelle nodded. "Will thinks John planned her death for revenge on us and blames me for not keeping a close enough watch on the household. His hatred and anger are all that keep him fed and none of us can reach him." Her voice was bereft of emotion because all emotion had been wrung out of her in the six weeks since she had found her daughter-in-law expiring on the floor in a pool of blood and Will had ridden off to join the rebels. William as usual had shown an impassive face to the world, but in the privacy of their chamber, he had wrapped his arms around her and, taking her to bed, had loved her with a shuddering fierceness that had left her gasping, breathless, and weeping enough tears for both of them.

   Mahelt laid a comforting hand on her mother's sleeve and Isabelle wondered if the tide was turning. Was she becoming the child instead of the mother? "I will always feel guilty," she said, "and it has nothing to do with Will. No, don't argue with me. You'll have more chance of changing your brother's mind than mine. She should have been protected; she wasn't. As to John…" She set her grandson down on the floor as he began to struggle in her arms. "I always said I would put nothing past him, but he would have to be mad to set upon us in this fashion when we are one of the few props he has remaining, and whatever else I lay at his door, he is not mad." She leaned against the cushioned back of the bench and rubbed her temples where a dull headache was beginning to throb. "Had John wanted to destroy us, he would have done so in Ireland. In our position it is as easy to make enemies as friends and suspicions are nothing without proof. The best we can do is be vigilant."

                             *** In the meadows of Runnymede on the banks of the Thames, William drank the King's Gascon wine. It was as smooth as a courtier's tongue, but with an underlying sharpness hinting that it wouldn't last much longer in the cask. The scribes were busy at their portable lecterns, quills scratching across vellum sheets as they made copies of the charter of liberties that John had agreed to put his seal to that afternoon.

   Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, a man who had had a long and bitter tussle with John over his appointment, removed his mitre and scratched his pate. The linen lining of the gorgeously encrusted headwear was dark with grease and sweatily crumpled. Everyone was sweltering in their court robes as the sun beat down. The King had retired to the shade of his great pavilion and dropped the flaps for a private discussion with Pandulf, the Papal Legate.

   "Well?" said Langton to William, who was stirring the lush grass with the toe of his boot. "I am uncertain whether to call that a success or an unmitigated disaster."

   William found a smile. He liked Langton, indeed preferred him to any of the previous Archbishops of his acquaintance. Hubert Walter had been expertly efficient but lacking in humanity; Richard of Dover had just been filling a gap; and Becket…well, let Becket rest in his blessed sainthood. "At least it is a document with points set down for all to see, and copies to be sent around the country. That much is well done."

   "Indeed, Marshal, but when some lords leave while the words are still wet on the parchment, saying they do not trust the King to stand by the charter, and when the King closets himself with the Papal Legate, then it does not bode well for peace. You know he will try to avoid obeying the clauses because they will curb his excesses."

   William conceded the point with a shrug. "That is his nature, but I believe he now has a notion of how strongly his barons feel about them. Granted, some men are natural troublemakers who will nail their blazons to any kind of disruption, but there are many decent and honourable men also."

   "Your son and your son-in-law among them?" asked Langton with an acerbic smile and looked towards another pavilion outside which stood a group of young men including Will and Hugh Bigod, deep in conversation.

   "Yes, them too." William gazed at them. He had spoken to Will a couple of times during the sessions, but it had been like talking to a stranger.

   As if sensing his father's scrutiny, Will looked up and across, and for a moment their eyes met. It was like sword clashing upon sword and William almost flinched, but, being a veteran, held his ground until Will dropped his stare. A young man, short of stature, dark-haired, and tawny-eyed, leaned to murmur in Will's ear and Will responded in a monosyllable.

   William eyed Baldwin's stepson William de Forz with dislike. The young man had arrived in England to claim his maternal inheritance and had been heaped with so many favours that no one could doubt whose son he was. Even so it was not enough for his overweening ambition and he had chosen to bite the hand that fed him and join the rebels. Despite their earlier dispute over Alais's dowry, de Forz and Will had become bosom companions. De Forz had been scathing about the security at Pembroke, which had allowed an assassin the liberty to walk in, murder his half-sister, and escape. He had slighted William for continuing to support John and his attitudes were very much to Will's taste at the moment.

   "Your son grieves deeply for his wife," Langton said with perceptive compassion.

   "Yes," William murmured, "we all do." Excusing himself, he walked over to the group of young men. Will regarded him with a shuttered expression. Hugh Bigod looked discomforted. De Forz wore a supercilious smile.

   "There is food and lodging for you at Caversham if you wish it," William addressed his son. "I will not hold you to anything save a family visit.

   A flush crept up Will's neck and mantled his face. "I have urgent matters to attend to in London."

   "Should you change your mind, the door is open," William said with a trenchant nod. He was not going to beg.

   "I won't." Tight-jawed, Will delivered William a formal bow before turning away to the groom who was holding his horse. Still half smiling, de Forz followed him.

   Hugh continued to look worried. "I'll watch out for him," he said gruffly.

   William gripped his son-in-law's shoulder in gratitude. "I know you will."

   Hugh's brow furrowed. He was plainly trying to think of something positive to say. "At least with you in one camp and him in the other, you're keeping a balance."

   "Is that what it is, Hugh?" William asked bitterly. "If so, it's doing nothing for my peace of mind."

Thirty-six

PEMBROKE CASTLE, SOUTH WALES, SPRING 1216

France?" Isabelle stared at William in shock. "You're going to France?" She heard her voice rising and abruptly closed her mouth.

   William nodded and showed her the letter, the royal seal dangling from its base. "John wants me to lead a delegation to treat with King Philip." His voice held an eager note that Isabelle had not heard in a long time.

   "Can't he send someone else?"

   He looked at her askance.

   "Why does it always have to be you?" she demanded. "You have done enough. You have sufficient burden on your shoulders keeping the Welsh in check."

   William sat on a cushioned bench, winced, and raised one haunch to remove the toy wooden horse that had almost been his undoing. "Because I am the one King Philip is most likely to heed," he said patiently. "I have known him all of my life. We have often dined together in friendship as well as having faced each other across a battlefield. Besides, I owe him homage for the Longueville lands. It won't be for long—a fortnight or three weeks at the most." He gave her a halfamused, half-impatient look. "I may be growing old, but I am not yet in my dotage."

   Isabelle sighed at him. "No, but sometimes I feel as if I am. William, I cannot keep up with you, and half the time neither can your men."

   His amusement increased. "You're being diplomatic."

   "I just worry that you have too much to do already. The Welsh…"

   He made an irritated sound. "The Welsh will have to wait. They've bitten off all they can chew for the moment, and even if that includes Cilgerran, I can't afford the time and men it would take to push them back. Pembroke and Striguil are not seriously threatened. That is the best I can hope for now." He gave her a sombre look. "It's a case of doing first what must be done first and leaving the rest until there is time…and we both know I am borrowing it hand over fist these days."

   "William…" She spoke the word as an entreaty, then again closed her mouth and folded her arms tightly around herself. "Don't."

   "What?" He met her gaze with clarity. "Three score and nine," he said. "I don't need an exchequer cloth to do the sums."

   "Then you should be hoarding the flame, not going all out to burn it down."

   He laughed and shook his head. "I doubt that hoarding it would make a difference. What would I do except get under your feet and spend my time reminiscing in the hall about my days on the tourney fìeld when I could take out a crow's eye on the point of my lance? My wits would grow dull and my belly would overgrow my belt like a bag pudding." He pinched his midriff, where the muscle was still taut from hard exercise. "It's not as if I can yield responsibilities to Will and spend less time in the saddle, is it?"

   Isabelle winced as if salt had been sprinkled into an open wound. Going to his travelling coffer, she threw back the lid. It had got wet last time out, and although it had been dried out, oiled, and polished, it still smelled musty. She made a mental note to put some cinnamon bark amid the folds while she was packing his clothes. "I wrote another letter to Will this morning," she said, "wherever it may find him." She had made it her task to write to their son through her scribe once a week. The letters were brief notes of family matters: what his brothers and sisters were doing; how everyone was faring; how they missed him. She knew that on balance he was probably burning them unread, but it helped her to feel less powerless. There was always the minor chance that he was reading them, in which case she was keeping the connection alive.