The Scarlet Lion (7 page)

   Isabelle smiled pleasantly at Lady Maude. Courtesy cost nothing, and the de Braose family were their natural allies in Wales and Ireland. De Braose and his wife had been married for thirty years and although they bickered a great deal, they still shared a common ambition and obviously liked each other well enough in bed since their youngest child Bernard was only two years old. Isabelle admired Maude for her endurance and the fact that all of her children were healthy and thriving—no small feat. Whatever face she presented to others, Maude de Braose was known to be a proud and doting mother. "Thank you," Isabelle said. "Your own husband has been rewarded too."

   Maude showed her teeth in a yellow smile. "Indeed, but then our husbands are responsible for putting John on his throne. Without them, our new King would be whistling for his kingdom. He is in our debt for his golden crown and, if we are shrewd, we may reap yet more benefit for our services."

   Isabelle felt her spine prickle, as if something dangerous stalked in the periphery of her vision. "All I desire is my rightful due: the restoration of my father's lands."

   "Opportunities arise and you take them," Maude said with asperity. "Your husband understands this well, or he would still be a common hearth knight bedding down in the straw near the hall door instead of the great magnate he is now."

   Curbing a sharp retort, Isabelle murmured the excuse that she had to visit the privy and gratefully freed herself of Maude de Braose's abrasive presence. On her return, she was quietly misappropriating the top turret of the Tower of London and a small boat fashioned of coloured sugar paste from the subtlety on the sideboard when Ida, Countess of Norfolk, arrived, intent on a similar mission for her own offspring. Within moments the women were giggling together as conspiratorially as girls.

   Crenellations and sundries purloined and secreted into napkins, the talk naturally turned to children in general terms, although with exploratory undercurrents at work on both sides for it was never too early to begin investigations and enquiries concerning marriage alliances. Isabelle had noted the Norfolk heir standing beside his parents at the coronation: a tall, graceful youth with dark-gold hair and vivid blue eyes. Isabelle's delicate enquiries drew forth the information that no, young Hugh was not yet betrothed and his parents were open to negotiation— should a likely bride present herself.

                             *** It was past the hour of midnight matins when Isabelle and William returned to their houses at Charing by barge. William was to attend the new King's council in the morning, but for now John had retired with his latest amour: a London merchant's daughter with fat golden braids and breasts the size of cow udders.

   Isabelle listened to the rhythmic plash of the oars in the water as the two bargemen leaned forward and pulled back. A lantern shone at the prow, and glimmers of light answered from other travellers late on the river. A wistful smile lit her face as she thought of another boat journey she and William had made ten years ago on the way to their marriage at the cathedral of St. Paul. The time had flown so fast that it seemed not a moment since he had come to claim her from the Tower where she had been lodged as the King's ward. The memory of their wedding prompted her thoughts, and she turned to him. "I was talking to Ida of Norfolk earlier," she said.

   He gave a reminiscent smile. "I remember when she first came to the court as the King's ward. She was as delightful as a kitten but sweet and shy with it too. Everyone wanted to play with her, but it was inevitable she'd end up curled in the King's bed, and even more inevitable that he'd get her with child."

   Isabelle gave him an assessing look. Ida's son, born of that liaison before her marriage to Norfolk, was William Longespée, the young Earl of Salisbury and Marshal kin by marriage. "Did you ever wish she was curled in yours?" she asked, her question prompted by the timbre of his voice as he had spoken of Ida.

   He flashed her a grin. "Roger of Norfolk's a very lucky man," he said, "but not as lucky as I am."

   Isabelle acknowledged his diplomacy with amusement-filled eyes. "Roger of Norfolk has a rather handsome son," she said. "I was thinking about Mahelt. A marriage bond with the Bigods would be useful, especially as Ida's firstborn son is the King's half-brother."

   William shifted on the bench. "Worth considering," he said in an offhand way, "although perhaps not yet."

   "No, but for the future." Isabelle gave him a knowing look through the lantern-lit darkness. William adored Mahelt and she him. As their only daughter she held an unchallenged place in her father's affections and it would be as difficult for him to see her go to a husband as it would be for Isabelle to watch her sons leave the bower to become knights and soldiers.

   The oarsmen altered stroke and began pulling in towards a landing stage, its weed-covered struts glistening in the lantern's light. "I didn't see John's wife at the feast today," she said to change the subject. "I assume he does not intend making her his Queen?"

   William shook his head. "He married Havise for her lands; they've never shared a bed. De Braose says John's going to set her aside and look to Portugal or Spain for a consort. He needs to protect his southernmost borders and what better way than an alliance with such kingdoms?"

   Isabelle wondered what Havise of Gloucester was feeling. Since Havise and John had only paid lip service to their marriage, Isabelle could not see her being distraught over an annulment, but she might regret being denied the opportunity to be Queen.

   The barge bumped against the jetty. "I suppose we'll be returning to Normandy," she said with a resigned sigh.

   William stood up, legs planted wide to keep his balance. "It has to be secured for John, and Anjou as well, but I will ask his leave to go to Pembroke and Leinster, I promise."

   Isabelle forced a smile as she took his extended hand. She knew he was honour bound to serve in Normandy first. It was the reason John had clasped the gilded belt of an earl at William's waist, and why they had Pembroke at all, but she wondered if they were ever going to see it, much less use its port to sail for Ireland. Perhaps she ought to have their own cook build her a castle of marchpane with an Irish sea of whipped and coloured egg white and, after populating it with Mahelt's
poupées
, make do with that.

Six

LUSIGNAN, POITOU, SUMMER 1200

The July heat had settled into balminess as night fell and William was sitting outside enjoying the slight breeze rustling through chestnut and lime. Crickets chirred softly and moths performed dances of death around the lamps and torches lighting the trestle tables set up in the castle gardens. He drank the rich red wine, nibbled candied fruits, and watched a group of dancers weave the steps of a carole to the lively music created by lute, pipe, and tabor. He might have joined them, except he felt lazy tonight. It had been a long day in the saddle, the same as yesterday, and the exertion would likely continue on the morrow. A royal progress by its nature entailed a different destination almost every night. Much of John's travelling through his lands had been a show of military strength, a display of the power he could bring to bear should it become necessary. William had sweltered each day in his hauberk, sword girded at his hip, even though he wasn't expecting to fight. The only women in the entourage were courtesans and laundresses. No wives were present on what was essentially a military parade.

   They had arrived at Lusignan late in the afternoon to find the castle grounds aflower with gaudy pavilions, stalls, entertainers, and folk clad in their richest garments; however, the festivities were not in John's honour. Hugh le Brun of Lusignan was celebrating his betrothal to the daughter of his neighbour, Count Aymer of Angoulême. Since the houses of Lusignan and Angoulême were traditional enemies, it was an auspicious occasion—although not for John, who had relied on the antagonism to play one off against the other. United they were a danger to him.

   William had no love for the name of Lusignan and would rather not have accepted hospitality from one of their number, but a courtier's diplomacy made him restrain his aversion. In his youth, his uncle had been murdered before his eyes by a Lusignan and he himself had been wounded and imprisoned. Time had created distance, but he had never forgiven or forgotten. The slick scar tissue on his right thigh was a constant reminder.

   John was sitting on an arbour bench beside Aymer, talking earnestly and smiling a lot. Aymer was listening with arms folded, a look of deep interest on his narrow, sun-browned features.

   "Fine night for making plans and trysts," remarked Baldwin de Béthune, Count of Aumale, joining William at the trestle and refilling his cup from the wine jug standing there.

   "If you're of that mind," William agreed with a smile. He and Baldwin had served together as young knights in the mesnie of King Henry's eldest son, had ridden together on the tourney fields of France and Flanders, and carved reputations for themselves. Both were now established as powerful lords with retinues and young knights of their own. "Aymer and the King seem to have plenty to discuss."

   "Bound to now that Aymer's set the fat in the fire by betrothing his daughter to Hugh of Lusignan. Hardly in John's interest, is it?"

   "It's awkward," William agreed. "If the houses of Lusignan and Angoulême unite instead of fighting each other, they'll create trouble for John."

   "Very awkward, although our King doesn't appear unduly bothered."

   "Oh, he's bothered," William said, eyeing John. "I've seen him approach women at court like that when he's intent on seduction. You'll notice de Braose is keeping Hugh of Lusignan occupied while his master makes his play."

   Baldwin glanced towards de Braose's large striped pavilion, its interior luminous with lanterns and loud with the noise of hearty masculine camaraderie. "John's going to have to offer a lot to make Aymer of Angoulême sell his virtue."

   "He can but try. What does he have to lose?"

   Baldwin grunted.

   "How's your daughter?" William replenished his cup.

   "Thriving," Baldwin said with a shrug, "or I suppose so from the little I know of infants. And your own new little one?"

   "A typical woman already." William grinned at the mention of his second daughter, born nine months to the day from John's coronation. "Seducing you with her eyes one moment, and bawling at you the next. Named for her mother who's an expert at both."

   "I will tell your wife how you malign her," Baldwin threatened with a chuckle.

   William sobered. "I may tease, but she knows her place…as the light of my life."

   Baldwin laughed again but looked envious. "I am glad you and Isabelle have that kind of harmony," he said. "I rub along with Hawise, but neither of us pines much for the other. Then again, at least we don't hate each other to perdition like Ranulf of Chester and his wife."

   "No," William agreed wryly.

   A group of youngsters entered the garden from the direction of the keep and William's attention was caught by a girl who was as light and leggy as a young cat. She was just beginning to develop a figure: breasts the size of green apples were outlined by her close-fitting silk gown but her waist and hips were still flat and boyish. Her rich golden hair was tamed in a single braid woven with silver ribbons and she had large, wide-set eyes that in daylight were probably blue but just now looked almost black. She flickered William and Baldwin a startled look as she met their scrutiny, twisted to avoid the young squire who was trying to tag her in the game, and bumped into John, who had risen from his discussion with Count Aymer.

   The girl obviously knew who John was, for she gasped and swept him a graceful curtsey. John raised her to her feet, and taking her right hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed her fingertips. He studied the gold ring she was wearing. "That's a pretty bauble, sweetheart," he remarked.

   "It is my betrothal ring, sire," she replied breathlessly.

   "Is it now?" John's voice was a caress. "How would you like to exchange it for a crown?"

   She widened her eyes at him and gnawed her underlip uncertainly. "We were playing chase," she said, clearly feeling such a remark was safer ground than that of her ring. She looked over her shoulder at her young companions who were watching her with apprehension.

   John's smile showed the merest glint of his fine teeth. "One of my favourite games," he said, and with a sardonic glance towards William and Baldwin, stood aside to let her pass.

***

The court stayed a second day at Lusignan and John went hunting with the lords Hugh and Aymer. The latter's daughter remained in the bower with the women, shut away from masculine eyes, but out of sight did not mean out of mind. William was not fond of hunting himself, but joined the pack because it was expected of him. However, his indifference to the chase gave him plenty of opportunity to observe the different kind of pursuit being played out between King John and Count Aymer with Count Aymer's absent daughter as the bait, and all under the nose of the unsuspecting bridegroom.

   That evening after dinner, William sat in John's chamber, drinking wine and playing dice with Baldwin de Béthune and William, Earl of Salisbury. The latter was married to William's cousin, Ela. He was John's bastard half-brother, and his mother was Ida, Countess of Norfolk, with whom Isabelle had struck up a firm friendship at the coronation. Salisbury had his mother's beauty but rendered in a strong, masculine version, enhanced by vigorous dark curls and eyes of warm brown-hazel fringed by soot-black lashes. He was known as Longespée because he used a sword several inches longer than usual. Rumours abounded that the appellation didn't refer to his sword alone and Salisbury, a glint in his eye, had done nothing to curb them.

   Throwing up his hands, he pushed away from the table. "You've wrung me dry, Marshal. My pouch is as flat as an old whore's tit."