The Scarlet Lion (52 page)

   When Isabelle ushered him into the castle's domestic chamber, he seemed relieved when the door closed behind them, shutting out the world. He eyed the Marshal children warily and they eyed him back with similar reserve, having been warned by their mother that this was England's future King and they were to behave themselves.

   Henry was too tired to eat more than a few morsels of sops in cinnamon milk and Isabelle didn't press him. She had Ancel show him the privy and when he returned gave him warm water scented with rose oil to wash his hands and face. Removing his day clothes, she had him don a warmed nightshirt. He was a narrow slip of a child with milk-white skin and none of his father's stockiness. His pale complexion showed no trace of outdoor play and his fine frame had none of Ancel's hard wiriness, developed from days of rough games and weapons practice.

   Thoughtfully, Isabelle saw him to the bed that had been readied for him. It was screened from Ancel's by a woollen curtain. The straw mattress was topped by a second one stuffed with feathers. The sheets were soft bleached linen and the coverlet was made from green silk, powdered with moons and stars in gold and silver threads, as were the bolsters. She had bought the fabric from a charming, persuasive Bristol cloth merchant, who swore it had come from a sultan's treasury in Damascus. Henry was as captivated by the design as Isabelle had been, and ran his fingers over it with tactile, covetous pleasure.

   "One day, I am going to have a chamber with a ceiling like this," he said, a determined, almost avaricious note entering his voice.

   "I am sure it will look very fine," Isabelle said, wondering if the child would survive to manhood and have the funds for such a project. Had he been one of her own, she would have gently pushed the hair off his smooth, white brow, but she wasn't familiar with his upbringing and was uncertain whether such a move would be welcomed. "This must all seem strange to you," she said.

   Henry looked at her through his lashes. In the candlelight, his eyes had darkened, their startling daylight blue quenched. "I didn't want to leave my brother or my sisters or my mother," he said.

   "I know you didn't," Isabelle murmured. "You have been very brave."

   He considered this, a flush tinting his pale cheeks. He was clearly not immune to flattery. "Will I still be able to see my brother now I've to be King?"

   It was the slight wobble of his chin before he controlled it that tipped Isabelle's resolution over the edge and she reached out to stroke his golden hair. "Bless you, child, of course you will—and very soon."

   "I miss them," he said in a forlorn voice that made Isabelle ache with maternal tenderness.

   "It would be strange if you did not. I know we are not your family, but we will do our best to make you feel at home."

   He looked at her and withdrew a little into himself, stroking the shiny coverlet over and over. "You won't blow out the candle, will you?" he said. "I…I don't like the dark."

   "No, it'll burn all night," she soothed, wondering how much it had cost him to admit to that. "Ancel is only behind the curtain and someone will be listening all the time. Do you want me to sit with you a while longer?"

   "Yes," he said, his whisper so soft that it barely stirred the air.

   He was asleep when William arrived from the hall where he had been talking to the men. Isabelle pressed her forefinger to her lips as William came to gaze at the sleeping child. Henry's delicate features were cast in shadowy gold by the candlelight. After a moment William sighed and moved away into the main part of the room.

   Isabelle tiptoed after him. "He is a beautiful child," she said. "No one could look at him and not melt."

   "It's one of the few advantages he has," he replied, sitting down and easing off his boots with a groan of relief. "The Legate is going to anoint him King in the cathedral on the morrow. It'll be a long day for the child…and everyone else."

   "You are not going to wait for Ranulf of Chester?" Isabelle asked sharply.

   "It would be more diplomatic, I admit, but we dare not. Louis will know by now that John is dead. This is the best opportunity he will have to seize the country for himself— while he thinks we are in disorder. We have to make Henry's coronation a fait accompli before Louis seizes the title for himself. Chester's a realist. He'll understand why we couldn't delay. As soon as he does arrive we'll smooth his dignity and discuss what to do next. Even though we crown Henry King, we can do nothing more without Ranulf's support."

   "Then come to bed," Isabelle coaxed. "I know you have more worries than there are eel traps in the Severn, but there is no need to dwell on them tonight. If you are to see Henry crowned and make important decisions, then you must rest." She was filled with concern for him, but as they prepared to retire for the night, she felt a glimmer of optimism too. With John dead, the road to the future was open again, and the possibilities endless, including those of reconciliation, both the far flung and the closer to home.

                             *** The coronation in Gloucester Abbey was a dignified but forlorn affair, bereft of much of the pomp and ceremony of Westminster, although the barons present did their best with what they had. Henry's crown belonged to his mother and thus had not been lost in the Wellstream estuary. It also had the advantage of fitting his head. It was a gold circlet with simple gold finials, set with pearls interspersed with sapphires. Henry's robes were of cloth of gold that had travelled with him from Devizes and his hose were woven of scarlet samite, bound with gold garters. His throne was the Bishop's chair, the back draped with a silk cloth. The Papal Legate placed the crown on Henry's head, his hands trembling as he lowered the diadem on to the child's golden hair.

   Henry was trembling too, Isabelle noticed, and judged that it was part excitement and part the result of the cold. There was a keen easterly wind and the abbey stones seemed to have absorbed its chill.

   Following the ceremony, Henry was borne in procession back to the castle. The townsfolk lined the streets and cheered, but their numbers were small when compared with London and there were no flowers to strew in the path of the royal party as there had been at John's coronation on a May morning, or Richard's in sweltering August heat. Nor was there much in the way of alms to scatter among the crowd. William had donated silver from his own coffers for the event, but given the current situation, he literally could not afford to distribute too much. Isabelle had provided food for the poor in the outer ward, and seen to the distribution of cloaks and blankets to the most needy, but it was a far cry from the largesse and splendour of a coronation at Westminster.

   Once within the castle, Henry's gilded regalia was replaced with lighter garments, although he insisted on keeping on the red silk hose and gold ties. A coronation feast of sorts was held, again lacking in numbers and elaboration, but at least with a variety of courses including roast boar, haunch of venison, swan, peacock, and great silver salmon seethed in verjuice. The new King was very taken with the gilded nuts and the almond sugar subtlety in the shape of a crown, complete with edible gems of coloured sugar paste.

   Once the formal feasting had ended, Isabelle saw Henry and Ancel to the domestic chamber above the hall. Ancel took a chess set out of one of the coffers and the boys went to sit in the window embrasure and play. Glancing at the newly anointed King as he assembled his pieces, Isabelle was reassured. Henry was still pale and heavy-eyed, but he had weathered his coronation and eaten well at the feast. From her contact with him thus far, he seemed a fastidious child, strongly aware of his rank but sufficiently disturbed by the recent turmoil in his life to be rendered more humble than was his natural wont. She hazarded that given different circumstances he could be petulant and sulky. For the moment he was being so sweet and obedient that her women adored him, and the barons were relieved, if a little wary. The word "backbone" had not been said aloud, but she had seen it mooted in more than one pair of eyes. Personally Isabelle thought the boy had plenty of backbone. Indeed, she hazarded that he could probably outdo a mule for stubbornness on the wrong day, if he chose.

   The door opened and William entered, accompanied by his nephew Jack, by Jean D'Earley, and by Ralph Musard, a senior knight of the mesnie. The latter had a spectacular auburn moustache that looked as if Musard had frightened a cat, stolen its tail, and attached it to his upper lip. William's expression was gravely thoughtful as he gestured the men to be seated on the benches set around the hearth and beckoned Isabelle to join them. She shot him a look filled with question and fear, but he shook his head at her and pointed to the bench. Mystified, anxious, she moved to sit down at the end beside Jean.

   Folding his arms, William faced his audience and said, "Derby, Aubigny, and Warwick have approached me saying they will back me to govern the country on our young King's behalf."

   Isabelle's breath hissed through her teeth. Jean, Jack, and Musard exchanged rapid glances with each other, then stared at William.

   Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees and his gaze intent. "What did you reply?"

   "Nothing," William said. "I told them I needed time to think and consult with my advisers and my wife."

   An eager light appeared in Jack's eyes. "You are a man of high reputation and great honour. Everyone trusts you and knows you will be even-handed. There's a saying that a man who does not finish what he sets out to achieve has reached only the point where his efforts are in vain. Perhaps this is what God meant you to do. I say take the post and trust in His guidance."

   William nodded impassively. He had expected Jack to urge him to the regency. "Ralph?"

   Musard stroked his bristling ginger moustache with the fondness of a besotted pet owner. "I agree with Jack, my lord. It will increase your standing amongst the barons and I believe it will be of great advantage to the house of Marshal and all its retainers. Benefits are bound to filter down to all."

   "A valid point," William said. Musard could always be relied upon for fiscal plain speaking—the reason he had asked him to the council. If made regent he could indeed advance his own retainers. It would only be natural to give high positions to men whom he knew and trusted. "What do you say, Jean?"

   The latter glanced at Isabelle, then straightened his spine and cleared his throat. "My lord, I think you should let the Earl of Chester and the Bishop of Winchester take the burden. You have enough to do already. It's true you will be able to benefit your men, but others will think this too. You'll be plagued by people clamouring for patronage and privileges—and much of it at your own expense because we all know the royal treasury is nigh on empty."

   Jean's words confirmed William's own doubts and anxieties. "You have given me both sides of the coin as I knew you would, for which I am grateful. There's a lot to think about. I need to talk with my wife, who has also heard your advice, and to sleep on the matter. We'll know better where we stand when the Earl of Chester arrives and we hear what he has to say."

   When the knights had gone, William turned to Isabelle, who was still sitting before the hearth, gazing into the flames, her cheeks heat-flushed. "Jean's right," she said. "If you choose to steer the ship, you will have a difficult passage and to very little gain."

   William sighed and held out his hands, palm down, to study them. His fingers were long and firm, with no sign of a tremble, even if the skin upon them was shiny and freckled. A large sapphire ring, given to him by old King Henry, adorned his right middle finger. "How much strength do I have left in these?" he asked. "Governing England is a task for a younger man such as Chester."

   Isabelle gave him a troubled look. "Chester might have the strength to undertake the task, but men relate better to you. They are more likely to cooperate if you ask than if he does."

   He sat down beside her. "So you too think I should take it on?"

   Isabelle shook her head. "I think the same as Jean. You have done enough. Jack and Ralph want you to put yourself forward because they see wealth and prestige for themselves, but Jean is thinking of you, the man, and so am I." She looked at him with her heart in her eyes. "I don't want to be the wife of England's regent if it's going to make me a widow. I don't give a fig for all the wealth and prestige in the world. It's useless without you."

   He pulled her to his side. "Do you remember our wedding day?" he murmured. "You didn't know me beyond a glimpse, nor I you. You were a slender girl with enormous blue eyes, hair the colour of a cornfield, and a mouth that drove me to distraction because all I wanted to do was kiss it."

   Isabelle laughed through her anxiety, and gently nudged him. "I thought you were struggling to find the courtesy to cope with a naive adolescent."

   "Innocent yes; naive no. From the moment you gave me that look, I knew you were as sharp as an awl."

   "I gave you a look?"

   William chuckled. "As shrewd and assessing as a wool merchant at a fleece auction. 'Do I go with him willingly? Do I trust him? How soon is he likely to die if I don't like him?'"

   Isabelle blushed because it was indeed what she had been thinking at the time.

   "I was hoping you weren't shrewish, or vain and simpering with feathers for brains. I was worried about how you would respond to marrying a man more than twice your age and well used by life."

   Isabelle bit her lip. "You are not more than twice my age now," she said.

   He sobered. "What I would give to have back the years we have spent," he said.

   "They have not been wasted years." Isabelle managed to keep her voice steady. She wasn't going to cry again. "I value every one more than gold."

   "But you can keep gold, whereas time slips through the fingers like grains of sand. If there was a way to stop the march…" His breathing caught. "Ah, enough," he said brusquely. "I need to sleep. It's going to be a long day tomorrow whatever decision we come to."