The Scarlet Lion (62 page)

   "Isabelle…"

   She looked round, took the cup from him, and sat on the bed. "I know I should not coddle you," she said with selfirritation. "I always do, and you have always resented it…even from the first. I know how you hate this…"

   He leaned back. He was so tired. The world was turning to grey shadows, splintered with agonising red lances, but he needed to stay awake and aware. "Whether I hate it or not, I have no choice but to accept God's will, but the most difficult thing I have ever faced is letting go and bidding farewell."

   She leaned over and kissed him, her face wet with tears, but the salt she tasted on her lips came from him.

   Will returned from the hall and bade the chamberlain close the door. "It's done," he said, coming to William. His hands gripped his belt and his posture had an air of authority that William was pleased to see. It hadn't just been for the sake of openness he had sent Will to make the exchange. It had also been a symbolic transferral of the power of the Earl of Pembroke. Will would have the title before the long days of summer clad the trees in their full spread of green.

   "Problems?" he asked, being economical with his words for the sake of his failing strength.

   "Only what you would expect," Will said with a shrug. "The Bishop of Winchester tried to overturn what you said in this room, but no one would pander to him and he was put in his place. Most men were relieved at your giving the King to the Legate. That way, none can claim to be higher than his peer."

   William nodded. "Then it is good. I will not say it is perfect, but in the circumstances, the best I can do." He closed his eyes. "Now the matter is settled, I can put my own affairs in order and take thought for my soul."

                             *** Isabelle watched William's slumber. The meeting with the King, Legate, barons, and bishops had so exhausted him that even without the syrup of white poppy to deaden the pain he was able to sleep. "I feared for him when he was talking to them," she murmured to Will, knowing her voice would not disturb her husband. He seemed to rest easier when there were people around. "His face turned so grey that I thought he might… might die there and then." She gave an involuntary shiver.

   "He's stronger than that," Will said. "Even with all their faculties, other men would not have been able to do what my father did just now when he is so ill." His voice rang with pride and it brought fresh tears to Isabelle's eyes to hear him.

   "At least now, as he says, he has given up the mantle of governance. The rest of the time is for him." Will went to the flagon and poured wine. "I have been thinking that we should keep vigils round his bed. Three for the night watch, three from dawn until the afternoon, and three until the midnight hour. I know all will be willing to do so. It will show how much we honour him and mean that he is never alone."

   "I think it an excellent idea," she said tremulously, "and one he will appreciate, providing you tread softly on his pride."

   "I will do all that is needful, and I will do it out of duty, out of honour…and for love." He took a deep drink of the wine and she saw the dark beard stubble move upon his jaw and throat. "I have not always understood him, nor him me, but we stand on common ground now"

***

That evening, as the spring dusk was falling, Mahelt arrived with Hugh and their offspring. Isabelle kissed her grandchildren, embraced her son-in-law, then opened her arms to her eldest daughter.

   Mahelt gave a soft gasp and hugged her mother fiercely. "It's not true!" she said in a voice raw with pain. "Tell me it is not true!"

   Isabelle patted Mahelt's back. They had ridden through a shower and the dark green wool was damp under her palms. "With all my heart I wish I could, but I cannot. He is sleeping just now, but when he wakes, he will want to see you all. Your sisters are on their way too…"

   Mahelt pulled away wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand. "Mama, I am sorry. I should have asked after you, not wailed on your breast like an infant."

   Isabelle smiled tenderly at her daughter. "But you are my infant," she said. "Even if you are a full-grown woman with infants of your own."

   Mahelt laughed unsteadily. "Even so, I am here to help. Mama, are you all right?" She stood back and held her mother's upper arms, her gaze anxious and assessing.

   Isabelle sighed and shook her head. "No," she said desolately, "I am not all right, but for the moment I am coping, and that is all I ask…to cope."

   Mother and daughter embraced again, and this time the exchange was of equals, woman to woman.

                             *** Isabelle was leaving Caversham's chapel after mass when Jean D'Earley arrived. His horse was blowing from being hard ridden. Sweat shone on its dark hide; salty tide marks streaked the line of breast-band and saddle. There was no sign of his escort, so Isabelle assumed he had outridden them. William had sent him into Wales a fortnight ago to deal with matters in Netherwent and she was surprised to see him back so soon.

   Jean dismounted and strode over to her, a linen package grasped in one hand and his gaze filled with anxiety. "My lady, is all well with the Earl?" The manner of the question, the way he did not greet her first, revealed his fear and the reason for his haste.

   "His condition is no better." She touched his mud-splashed sleeve. "But he yet lives and he will be glad to see you."

   Jean's shoulders sagged with relief and he rubbed one hand over his face. "Thank Christ. All the time I was travelling, I was praying I would not be too late." He looked down at the linen package in his hand.

   "What is that?" Isabelle asked curiously.

   He shrugged. "I do not know, my lady, but he was insistent I should bring it to him. It was at the bottom of his great coffer at Pembroke."

   Isabelle eyed the package and frowned. She vaguely remembered seeing it, but had never paid it much attention. Apparently, though, it was important. "I will see if he is awake," she said. "Go and refresh yourself, and then come to his chamber."

   Like a man newly woken, Jean blinked owlishly at his mudstained clothing, then gave a surreptitious sniff in the direction of his armpit. "Forgive me, my lady. I had no thought but to return to Caversham as swiftly as I could."

   "Nothing to forgive." She gave him a gentle push. "Go to." She watched him leave, staggering with tiredness and a little bow-legged from being so long in the saddle.

   "What do you think it is, Mama?" asked Mahelt.

   "I have no idea," Isabelle replied, "but obviously it means much to your father."

                             *** The package proved to contain two pieces of plain silk cloth, but exquisitely wrought, the weave so fine that it was a marvel to behold. The sight of them, unfolded across his bed, made William quite loquacious and brought a spark to his eye that Isabelle had not seen in several weeks. He rubbed the cloth between his fingers, a faraway look on his face. "I bought these lengths of cloth more than thirty years ago in Jerusalem," he said to the gathering of family and knights surrounding the bed. "They are a symbol of the covenant I made with God that I would strive to be worthy of Him. I made a vow that my body would be given to the Templars for burial. I still remember the heat, the flies, the dust between my teeth…and the promises I made. I've tried to keep them, even if I haven't always succeeded." For a while he was silent, contemplating the cloth. Isabelle wondered if he was becoming exhausted, but his colour was still good, without the waxen shadows she was coming to dread.

   "Jean," he said quietly at length, "in the name of the love you bear me and by the faith you owe me, take these into your keeping, and when I am dead cover me with them and cover and surround the bier on which I am borne."

   "Yes, my lord," Jean said hoarsely.

   "Good. I also want you to buy some lengths of plain grey cloth; the quality does not matter. All it needs to do is protect these silks from the rain and mud should my final journey be undertaken in foul weather." He spoke in a prosaic and matter-of-fact fashion as if dictating a routine letter to Walter or Michael and his even composure as he gave such exquisitely painful instructions made Isabelle bite her lip. Beside her Mahelt was openly weeping.

   "It shall be done, my lord," said Jean in a wavering voice, his eyes glassy with tears.

   William nodded briskly. "After I am buried, give the ells of grey to the brothers of the Temple and let them do with them as they wish."

   Jean swallowed. "My lord," he choked and started to refold the lengths of silk.

   William watched him for a moment, then looked at Isabelle. She pressed her lips together and returned his stare, her throat working. "Now," he said quietly, "I would like a little time alone with my wife. There are things I have to say to her…and she to me."

   Somewhat subdued, the audience left the room, Jean holding the pieces of fabric with great respect and yet as if he did not want to be anywhere near them. The door closed behind the last person, leaving William and Isabelle alone.

   She moved slowly to the bed as if she had been struck a mortal blow. "In all our years of marriage, you never told me," she said in a grieving, hurt-filled voice.

   He held out his hand towards her but she didn't take it. "The matter was between myself and God," he replied with an air of gentle patience that made her want to strike him and then feel guilty for harbouring such anger. "You always knew of my links with the Templar order."

   "Yes, but not this…It is one thing to conceal yourself from others, but not from me."

   He looked at her steadily. "I have shared more with you, Isabelle, than anyone in my life. When we were wed I told you that there were parts that were mine alone to me and you accepted it then, so why can you not accept it now?"

   She shook her head, feeling numb. "I do accept it, but I wish I had known."

   "Then while it is time for truths, let us have it all out," he said. "If I am to die a Templar, I must renounce all worldly matters, you must know that."

   Isabelle nodded wordlessly.

   "Go into the garderobe yonder, and bring out the cloak you will find in the third coffer along."

   Isabelle bit back a stinging retort asking what other "surprises" he had concealed in chests around their various castles and manors and went to do as he asked. The anger and hurt were a raw pain in her breast. She had thought, after thirty years together, to know everything about William, but was discovering that she didn't know him at all, and time had almost run out.

   The cloak was made of heavy, expertly finished but undyed wool and the weight of the garment made her forearms ache as she lifted it. Embroidered in red silk upon the left breast was the blood-red cross of the Templar order. Isabelle drew a shuddering breath and fought for composure, knowing if she began to scream and rage at him out of her own pain, she would be unable to stop. Trembling, she returned to him and laid the mantle upon the bed.

   "When did you have this done?" she asked unsteadily.

   He hesitated then said, "Before we set out on the tour of our lands last May. It was part of setting things in order. Once it was done, I did not have to think on it again. I wanted to be prepared."

   Isabelle sat on the bed and looked down at her hands. "When we went to Paris," she said shakily, "I wore my court shoes, do you remember? I attended King Philip in them; I walked and danced until the soles were worn through. I didn't tell you then, but I had intended them to be for my own burial—but I changed my mind. And now you show me shrouds that you have kept for thirty years and this mantle…I cannot…" She shook her head, overwhelmed.

   He sighed with resignation. "I knew if I told you, you would not take it well. I have never made any secret of the fact that I would take Templar vows at my death. It settled my mind to have this mantle made while I was still in good health. Like those shrouds it is part of my own preparation— private to me. I wish I could make you understand…"

   "I do understand," she said hoarsely, "but it still hurts."

   He brushed one hand gently over the cloak. "I wanted to tell you about this now because soon I will have to make it formal and public."

   She stared at him, beginning to feel a flutter of panic.

   "Once I take the vows of a Templar, I may no longer embrace you, nor you me. It is forbidden by the rule." His tone was gentle but inexorable.

   A part of her had always known this was coming, but knowing and preparing from a distance was not the same as having the moment arrive on the threshold. She thought the word "No!" but clenched her teeth and pressed her lips together so that it would not escape.

   "Isabelle…" He was gazing at her in concern.

   She looked at the rafters and bit her lip. Tears spilled over her lashes and ran down her face. "This is what you want?"

   "Yes," he said. "I vowed myself to the Temple thirty years ago, and the time has come to fulfil the promise I made to their order. For my honour, for my soul, this is the way it must be."

   She wanted to stamp and rail, to throw things and shriek that this was not the way it must be at all, but she controlled herself. It was his choice and she had to abide by that. She had loved him for all of her adult life and for that love she would go down his road.

   Slowly she rose from the bed and, removing her wimple, unpinned her braids and let them tumble down. Her hair was still thick, although more silver than gold these days. She unfastened the blue ribbons wound through the plaiting and combed out the twists with her fingers. Then she took off her belt and her shoes, and climbed on to the bed beside William. "I know you are in pain and I know that all things carnal and of the body are past," she said hoarsely, "but I want to lie beside you one more time, as your wife. If I have this, then I can face the rest."

   Moving gingerly because of the discomfort, he made room for her and then curved his arm around her shoulders, under her hair. "Isabelle," he said, and now she heard the anguish in his voice. "What I would give to push back the wheel of time and have this a different spring season with you a young wife in my arms and myself whole and strong…"