The Scarlet Lion (56 page)

   "Hubert de Burgh would have fought to the last and Dover is heavily fortified," she said as she gently wiped away the latter with the side of her thumb. "I do not believe Louis would have taken it in so short a time. Either it was an isolated band at Montsorrel, or the reports are exaggerated. The French must still be in the south."

   "Mayhap. I'll find out soon enough." He rose to his feet and went to look out of the window. "I am hoping against hope," he said softly, "that Louis has done the unthinkable as a commander and split his troops."

   Seeing the tension in his shoulders she realised why he had come to speak to her. It was a hope so brave, so tenuous, that it was also a huge fear. Without concrete knowledge, it was as much speculation as the other scenarios.

   "And if he has?" She returned her needle to its ivory case and dropped it in her sewing casket.

   "Then we stand a fighting chance."

   Isabelle gnawed her lower lip. "It will depend where he has deployed himself and how he has arranged the split," she said.

   "Yes, it will, but even so any kind of division goes some way to our advantage." Turning from the window he paced the room to release the congestion of energy and frustration building inside him. "We should know by noontide at the latest."

   "And if he has divided his army, where will they go after Montsorrel?"

   That answer came slightly later than William had predicted, in the middle of the afternoon as the main meal of the day was being eaten in the great hall. William's appetite seldom suffered, whatever the situation, and he was determinedly forcing his way through a slice of pigeon pie and a dish of wild fungi when Hywel arrived, sweat-drenched and staggering from his hard ride. William forced down the mouthful he had been chewing and urgently beckoned him to the high table.

   "Yes, my lord!" Hywel gasped, bowing to William, his expression ablaze with the tidings he bore. "Prince Louis has divided his army. He remains in Dover, but has sent a thousand men north with the Count of Perche. They've retaken Montsorrel and gone on to Lincoln to aid the rebels besieging the castle."

   Isabelle saw the colour come up in her husband's face and the glow in his eyes. She felt his triumph with him, but she knew fear too. She had no delusions about the "fighting chance" of which William had spoken. He meant it literally.

                             *** The tower room in Newark Castle where John had died held no ghosts, for which Isabelle was grateful. She had half expected to be disturbed by the King's unquiet spirit wandering the nocturnal watches, but the atmosphere was quiet and if she had not slept particularly well the previous night, it was owing to spectres of her own rather than those left by the departed.

   It was the Wednesday eve before Whitsuntide, the air soft and poignant with the green scents of late spring. Beyond the river and the towering castle walls, the town itself heaved with activity as the young King's army rested for a day and prepared to march on Lincoln. Escorted by her chaplain, a household knight and two of her women, Isabelle went among their men and spoke to them, finding their mood tough and resolute. There was anticipation and nervousness, but no talk of defeat. The Legate had promised every man full remission and pardon for his sins if he fought for King Henry. The French, on the other hand, had been excommunicated and thus were bound for hell.

   Florence had taken advantage of the day's rest and the fine spring weather to scrub a pile of linens at the riverside with other washerwomen from the camp. Isabelle saw her from a distance, her heavy arms pounding the dirt from the garments as mercilessly as the troops swore they were going to evict the French from Lincoln. Her wimple was bound with a red ribbon today and Isabelle could hear her voice raised in a raucous washing song. Her high spirits were infectious and Isabelle began to smile.

   "You find the sight of washerwomen amusing, my lady?" Ranulf of Chester asked, joining her. His tone was brusque and she thought he seemed irritated. She knew he had been chagrined at being forced to retreat from Montsorrel. Folk were treating him gingerly at the moment. Ranulf had many fine qualities, but was renowned for his sulks and his fierce pride. He too had obviously been inspecting his men for two of his senior knights were with him and a couple of serjeants from the lower ranks.

   "Entertaining when it's Florence," Isabelle said, nodding towards the woman. "A dozen of her in our front ranks and the French would not stand a chance." She had made the remark in jest, so was taken aback when Chester scowled and reddened. "Have I spoken amiss, my lord?"

   He eyed her narrowly, then sighed out hard, his tension easing. "No, Countess, or not that you would know. I have been talking matters of protocol with other members of your family concerning our march on Lincoln."

   "My lord?"

   "Your eldest son desired to be in the front rank with the men of Normandy."

   "I see."

"Do you, my lady?"

   Knowing Chester's character, Isabelle laid a hand on his sleeve. "Indeed, my lord, I do," she soothed. "It is only right that more experienced men should take the lead, but you cannot blame the younger ones for their eagerness. As Countess of Pembroke, I am glad that my heir is keen and bold, but as a mother, I would rather not have him the first to charge out."

   Chester grunted and looked slightly mollified. "Well, you have your wish," he said. "It has been agreed I will deal the first blows—as it should have been from the start."

   "Then I am glad, my lord," Isabelle said sweetly. "It is only fitting a knight of your prowess and experience should do so."

   Following her encounter with Chester, Isabelle made her way thoughtfully back to the castle. She knew William would be busy about his concerns as battle commander and did not expect to see him for most of the day, but shortly before the dinner hour, he came to their chamber to change into his court tunic.

   As he washed his face and hands, Isabelle told him about her encounter with Chester.

   William blotted his face on a towel and sighed at her. "Ranulf is suffering from an excess of bile," he said. He thrust his arms into the shirt of fine bleached linen his squire held out for him, and pulled it over his head.

   "Did Will say he wanted to head the troops?"

   "In so many words. The Norman contingent came to him and said that since he was born in Normandy they would be pleased to have him lead them and deal the first blows. As soon as Chester heard, he objected." William took his tunic from the youth, his Irish one of cloth of silver, Isabelle noticed. Obviously he was intending to show Chester at dinner there was more than one magnate who could throw his weight around if he chose. "In fairness I can understand it from Chester's point of view," he said judiciously. "He's still smarting over having to retreat at Montsorrel. He was willing to let me take the brunt of the responsibility for the country because he knew men would follow me more readily, but he won't have my son, a former rebel, taking precedence when we reach Lincoln." He laughed but with annoyance. "I've even heard rumours that he thinks I should stay back and let him command the men—phrased diplomatically, of course, and mouthing concern for my age."

   Isabelle refrained from saying it might be a good idea. Chester was not the only one to have his pride. And more than pride: William was wholly competent to perform the task. Indeed, perhaps his whole life had been leading up to this moment. "It would be a disaster," she said quietly.

   He smiled as he latched a belt at his hips. The braid was woven with thread of gold and decorated with rows of overlapping bezants. "I wouldn't go so far as that, but if Chester had wanted this task, he should have taken on the regency himself. Let him ride at the front if that be his wish, but I will not relinquish the reins…not yet. He keeps threatening to leave us—to go on crusade—but I will not be browbeaten and he knows it."

   "And Will?" she asked. "What does he say of Chester's words?"

   His smile faded. "Will has been through the fire. To him it is no more irritation than a stray spark. He knows what's at stake is not worth a petty quarrel over who strikes the first blow."

   "Then I am glad for his good sense." She had been tidying her own garments while they spoke, changing her outdoor wimple for a veil of fine lavender-coloured silk, which her maid had secured to the delicate net beneath with gold pins, and now she was ready to accompany him to the hall. However, he made no move towards the door.

   "What?" she asked. Her unease increased when he came to her and took her hands in his.

   "I don't want you travelling on to Lincoln with the baggage train."

   Isabelle shook her head, feeling fear, pushing it down. "I have come this far; you will not put me aside now. It is my right to be with you."

   He gazed down at his hands upon hers. "If it goes badly for us and we must run, I need you to be free and clear. You will know what to do to rally our vassals. Perhaps it is selfish of me too, but I do not want to be worrying about your safety when I am in the thick of the battle. If I know you are not in danger, then my mind will be better fixed upon what I have to do."

   She stared at him with indignation. "But it will be all right for me to worry about you and Will from a distance, unable to be there if you are hurt or in need?"

   He was silent for a time and when he spoke his voice was hoarsely soft. "It is what will help me the most. God help me, I can bear to part from you here, two days' ride from battle, but I think it would break me if I had to do so before going in to fight. You may be strong enough, but I am not."

   His words melted her, even while she knew he was being diplomatic. "Do not be so sure about my strength," she said tremulously. "I need you to sustain it."

   Giving her a tender look, he stooped to kiss her. "And you have me, even at a distance. You have been further away than this—much further."

   She held him tightly, knowing he was right. During the fight for their Irish lands, they had been separated not only by the sea, but by differences of opinion that had threatened to shipwreck their marriage. But they had survived both and emerged the stronger for the tempering.

   A squire arrived at the chamber door to announce that the dinner horn had sounded and that the gathering in the hall awaited their presence.

   Isabelle released William and wiped her eyes on the absorbent cuff of her linen undertunic.

   He smiled ruefully. "We had better make haste," he said, "otherwise Ranulf of Chester will think we are deliberately being late to make a grand entrance and steal the attention."

***

The following morning King Henry's army assembled outside the castle and made ready to leave. The Papal Legate was riding to the royal fortress at Nottingham, which was more secure than Newark, and Isabelle was accompanying his entourage. She had already bidden farewell to William, who, as senior commander, was occupied among the men, but she still had their eldest son to wish on his way.

   "Have a care, Will," she said as she clasped him beside his stallion. "Don't do anything rash." Under her hands, the rivets of his mail shirt were cold. All the men were riding in armour as they drew nearer to the enemy. Those who couldn't afford the protection of mail were wearing tunics of padded leather and linen.

   Will smiled gravely. "I think I'm beyond rash now, Mother."

   "Well then, guard your father and don't let him overreach himself!"

   He gave her a steady look. "I will let him do as he wishes," he said. "He has the right, don't you think? Don't fret. We'll look out for each other. He'll have Jean and Ralph and my cousin Jack around him. It is what he wants to do."

   Isabelle found a wan smile. "I know that. He is on familiar ground and it is what he was trained to do. I am not afraid for him…but for myself." She gestured with her hand as if releasing a hawk into the air. "Go with God, both of you."

   "I pray so." Impatient to be away now, he hitched his scabbard to one side and turned to his stamping stallion.

   "Will…"

   "Mother?" He gained the saddle and leaned to adjust his

stirrup. Someone started to speak to him but he gestured them to hold.

   "Just tell him to remember the woman who waits. Send to me as soon as you have news, whatever its nature."

   His expression softened. "Immediately," he replied. "Hywel has his instructions on that score already, and a good fresh horse."

   Isabelle stood with the castle garrison, the men, their wives and children, to watch Ranulf of Chester lead the troops out of Newark, followed by her husband and son riding side by side with the Earl of Salisbury on their right, and Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, bringing up the rear with his three hundred arbalesters. The street vibrated to the clop of hooves, the rumble of carts, the tramp of feet. Her vision filled with the sight of mail and weaponry, blurring and blending as she stared too hard and her eyes began to water. She wanted to imprint the image of William and her son on her mind as a keepsake, but when she tried, all she could see was the hard carapace of their mail and accoutrements.

   After they had gone Isabelle was left staring at the empty road, the settling dust, the piles of manure which enterprising townsfolk were rushing to scoop up. At the back of her mind was the terrible thought that she might never see them alive again and all she would remember of this day were the heaps of dung in the road.

Forty-two

LINCOLN, MAY 1217

The flat plain to the north of Lincoln had been a battlefield over seventy years ago when the forces of the Empress Matilda had defeated King Stephen in vicious, hard-fought combat, and it was here, on the same blood-haunted field, that William and Chester halted the troops and drew up their ranks.

   Lincoln itself stood on a ridge above the River Witham, with the castle and the cathedral at the high northern edge and the town running down from the high ground to the river in a steep drop, all surrounded by the city wall. On the west side, the castle and town shared the wall. The French held the town and were currently besieging the castle. Its female constable, the indomitable Nicolaa de la Haye, was mounting a spirited defence. Despite a harsh pounding by trebuchets and constant assault from the French, the castle remained unbroached and defiant.