The Scarlet Lion (9 page)

   Isabelle was beginning to feel queasy too, but tried to put on a brave face for the children's sake. It was her desire that had brought them here and she felt responsible. Mahelt fell asleep in her arms, her skin ghost-pale against her rich bronze-brown hair. Isabelle tucked a corner of her cloak tenderly around her daughter's narrow shoulders and stroked her wan little face.

   Towards dusk the weather worsened. Isabelle had experienced some rough crossings between England and Normandy but the plunging and yawing of the
Sainte-Marie
in the crests and troughs of the Irish Sea far outweighed them. The wind screamed like a wild creature howling for blood and souls and the ship kicked and shuddered as if she had been seized in its dripping jaws and was being ground between its fangs. Savage gusts hurled great slaps of water over the strake shields to spew across the open deck. The linen canvas of the shelter had swollen and tightened in the deluge but still the fibres didn't keep out the rain and sea water. The pale sides of the tent trickled and dripped until the occupants were soaked and shivering. The shouts of the sailors were lost in the roar of the wind and the tremors of the ship as every beam, strut, and caulked seam was battered by the ferocity of the storm. Isabelle could tell from the wide eyes and clenched knuckles of her women that hysteria was not far off.

   Mahelt woke and began to cry, but her sobs were no competition for the inhuman scream of the wind. Will was vomiting now and even Richard had grown quiet and pale. William was curled in a shivering, foetal ball, eyes closed, lips pressed tightly together, complexion deathly. They dared not kindle a lantern, and as nightfall engulfed what remained of the light, all sense of time vanished before the harrowing rise and plunge of the
Sainte-Marie
as she battled the Irish Sea for her survival.

   The family's chaplains, Eustace and Roger, knelt with hands clasped and led prayers for the ship's safe deliverance, but the voices of the suffering passengers were snatched by the storm and cast into oblivion.

   The ship's master spared a brief moment to visit them, bellowing that he was going to reduce the sail and try to run before the storm. He nodded with grim approval at their prayers, shouted something about being fortunate if you were born in the caul and returned to his crew.

   "What's 'born in the caul'?" Richard wanted to know.

   "It means that you are born inside the bag that held you in

the womb," Isabelle told him, "and that you'll never drown."

   There was a hesitation while he digested the information, and then came to the logical conclusion. "Does that mean we're going to drown?"

   "Of course not," she said with more hope than conviction. "God will help us if we pray to him."

   William dragged himself up from his prone position and Isabelle groped for his hand. His palm was clammy and the usually strong, dependable grip weak and shaking. Fear swept over her, not for their wider peril, but for William. Was it possible to die of seasickness? He swallowed and strove to speak. Isabelle leaned closer to him, trying to hear what he was saying.

   "If we…if God spares us…I make Him an oath to build a church where we make landfall to thank Him for His mercy." He gulped, gulped again, and retched. "And a headland beacon that all may see the coast."

   Isabelle squeezed his fingers with her own to show she had understood.

   Throughout the night, the passengers prayed as the fierce gales and high waves continued to pound the
Sainte-Marie. The cre
w fought to keep her running before the wind without broaching, which would have sent her straight to the bottom. The chaplains' voices grew cracked and hoarse. Everyone huddled together, exhausted, terrified, and frozen to the marrow.

   At last, as dawn broke, the wind dropped and changed direction, veering to the east. A pearlescent sun rose through dissipating indigo clouds ragged as witch's hair and the sea calmed to a sullen grey swell. The
Sainte-Marie wallowed on the wate
r like a dockside whore after a night with new sailors in port. Her mast sported a deep crack; her sail was shredded to rags, and her timbers waterlogged where the caulking of moss and pitch had sprung leaks. Her exhausted crew were taking it in turns to bail the lake of water sloshing in her bilges, but she was alive—just. William was in no state to do anything but lie and shudder under a blanket, but Jean D'Earley and a couple of the knights were fit enough to assist with the bailing, and Richard too, his fear rapidly receding in the face of daylight and improved weather. Given a cooking pot as a bailer, he set to with a will.

   It was dusk of that evening and the wind threatening to get up again when the
Sainte-Marie
finally limped into the deep-water channel of Bannow Bay and beached up under the cliffs. Staggering ashore more dead than alive, William knelt and, seizing two fistfuls of the gritty sand, renewed his vow to found a church and a lighthouse in gratitude to God for the safe deliverance of the ship, her passengers, and crew. Everyone else followed his example, although Isabelle was the last to kneel, for she was preoccupied and overwhelmed by the physical reality of setting foot in the land of her birth for the first time in seventeen years. Suddenly it was real. The sea journey had completed the transition from "One day" to "Now," and as she finally sank to her knees, her face was streaming with tears.

***

Guarding a crossing over the River Niorte, Kilkenny Castle was an unprepossessing timber fortress protected by a palisade and a stout set of wooden gates. It had been burned down during a skirmish twenty-eight years ago, and subsequently rebuilt, but never improved upon as a defensive site.

   Still recovering from the ordeal of the crossing, William was as weak as a kitten. The nausea had ceased, but his stomach muscles were torn from the constant retching, his throat was raw, and the thought of food still made him gag. In such a state, he noted the condition of the stronghold and its deficiencies, but with a passive eye. Something would have to be done, but not now when he could barely manage to sit a horse, let alone think about taking up the reins of government. Dismounting was slow agony to his tender gut, but he insisted on doing so unaided, irritably waving away his knights when they tried to help.

   His deputy, Reginald de Quetteville, was waiting in the courtyard to greet him. William had sent him to Leinster to oversee the lands more than ten years ago, knowing full well that the man could no more handle the situation than a mongrel pup was capable of running down a wolf. It had been a token gesture to fill a gap. Like the fortress itself, de Quetteville was of sound construction, but not adequate to the purpose.

   De Quetteville's welcome was anxious. He spoke too rapidly and stammered. Barely comprehending, William replied in monosyllables.

   "Whatever measures you have provided for us, I am sure they will be satisfactory," Isabelle intervened with a diplomatic smile at the man. "For the moment, all we need is warmth and rest." For emphasis, she set her arm around Mahelt, who was ashen-faced and shivering.

   "Yes, my lady, of course…" Ears burning with embarrassment, he led them towards a long timber building with a thatched roof and low eaves. It resembled an old-fashioned English manor hall, the interior supported by wooden pillars between which the spaces had been divided off into living quarters. A fire of peat turves glowed in the centre of the room and an aroma of roots and onions wafted from the cauldron suspended high over the embers. Servants and retainers ceased their business to make obeisance as de Quetteville led the visitors to a partition wall at the end of the hall and took them through a door into a private chamber. Turf braziers warmed the room. A linen band of embroidery depicting a scene of invasion and battle went all the way around the white plastered chamber walls. At the back, between two brightly painted pillars, an alcove held a bed piled with furs and surrounded by red woollen draperies.

   De Quetteville started to speak, then stopped and hastily

bowed. "My lady," he murmured.

   William turned to look at the woman who had entered the room. She was of a similar age to himself with a fair complexion, limpid blue eyes, a small, sharp nose, and full lips. Her breathing was rapid and her complexion flushed as if she had come at the run. Her right hand was pressed to her heaving bosom, the other clutched her cloak and gown to hold them above the floor rushes. A veil of ivory silk covered her hair and artfully draped her throat. Even without de Quetteville's salutation, William would have known he was looking at Aoife McMurrough, daughter of King Dermot of Leinster, Isabelle's mother and grandmother to their children.

   Her gaze flickered over her visitors, paying cursory attention to William, dwelling briefly on the children, then settling hungrily upon Isabelle. Then, uttering a small cry, she ran to her daughter and grasped her in a fierce embrace, a torrent of Irish pouring from her lips between kisses and weeping. Isabelle, not normally given to excesses of emotion, burst into tears and clung to her mother.

   Finally Aoife collected herself and, dabbing her eyes with one of her sleeve ends, stood back, altering her language to strongly accented Norman French. "I don't suppose you remember your mother tongue after so long," she said, her voice tremulous with tears and a hint of reproach. "Your father would never let you speak it anyway."

   Isabelle swallowed and shook her head, tears shimmering down her face. "A few words, no more," she said in a watery voice.

   Aoife turned to William. "My lord Marshal, your reputation precedes you." Now her smile did not reach her brimming eyes, nor did she embrace; she merely extended her hand.

   He bowed over it, noting the gold rings, the carefully tended nails. A faint aroma of rose water and lamb fat set his queasy stomach churning again. "Not much of a reputation at the

moment except for seasickness, madam," he said.

   A flicker of disdainful amusement kindled. "Unlike Isabelle's father, you did not have ancestors who were sailors and Vikings, my lord."

   "No, madam. Their skills were with horses and the mustering of a military household on the move."

   "Useful for Normans, I imagine," she said dismissively. Her gaze fastened on the three wide-eyed children and her chin quivered. Isabelle swiftly pressed them forward.

   "William, Richard, and Mahelt," she said, lightly touching each head in turn. "We left Gilbert, Walter, and Belle at Pembroke. My lord thought them too small to make the crossing this time, and he was right." She gave William a look of apologetic admission. He managed a smile in response and forbore to comment that had he known what the crossing would entail, he would have stayed behind too and played nursemaid.

   Will and Richard bowed deeply to their grandmother as they had been taught and Mahelt swept a perfect curtsey before backing up to William and seeking the security of his hand. Aoife was so overcome that she had to utilise her sleeve again. "Ah, I am a fool," she sniffed, her voice quavery and choked. "What is there to weep about? My daughter is home at last and brings me the gift of a son-in-law and fine grandchildren…if only my father the King could see you all." She made a gesture of apology. "I am neglecting my duty. Come now, into the hall. There is food and drink laid out, and honeycomb for the children. You like honeycomb?" She smiled at Mahelt and held out her hand. William felt the reluctance ripple through his small daughter, but she was brave and, after a brief hesitation, let go of his hand and dutifully went to Aoife. He felt a pang of pride at her courage and her ability to see that duty mattered.

   "Good girl…how pretty you are, just like your mother."

   All William wanted to do was lie down on the wolfskin

covered bed and sleep, but he had received the impression that the lady Aoife had a cordial contempt for Normans and was reserving her judgement on him. Besides, she couldn't show off her daughter and grandchildren if they all retreated into this chamber and shut the door for the rest of the day. Digging within himself, he found the fortitude to follow her into the hall.

                             *** "How long will you stay?" Aoife asked Isabelle.

   It was late evening. The children were abed, and William had retired with them to recuperate, leaving mother and daughter to catch up the distance of years over a jug of mead.

   "I do not know." Isabelle sipped the brew which was sweet and tart at the same time. She had only been allowed it as a special treat when a child, and this brimming cup seemed almost too much even now. "Until the spring at least. William won't risk another sea crossing in midwinter." She looked rueful. "Were I to mention one to him now, I think he'd vow to remain here for the rest of his life rather than take his feet off firm ground."

   "Aye, well, all to the good since he owes this land more than his passing fancy." Aoife raised her cup to her lips. Isabelle was astonished to see how swiftly the mead slipped down her mother's throat. She had already consumed three measures as if drinking water. "Tell me," Aoife said, replenishing her cup, "what kind of man is your husband?"

   Isabelle eyed her mother. "Have you not heard the tales?"

   Aoife sniffed. "Sure, and many tales cross the sea to Ireland, but who is to say what is truth and what is not? I hear tell he is a great warrior whose men would follow him into the jaws of hell should he ask. Your father was like that too, but that was not always to the good. Is he of your father's ilk?"

   Isabelle noted the tension in her mother's wrist as she lifted the refilled cup and what was almost hostility in the sea-blue eyes. "In some ways, perhaps, but then I remember little of my father. I was very young when he died."

   The drawstring lines at Aoife's mouth puckered. "He was always bound to die," she said scornfully. "You marry a warrior: it comes as part of his baggage."

   "But he died in his bed, I remember that…" The silence, the tiptoeing around, the terrible sense of dread growing in her stomach. Standing at the bedside, having her hand taken in a fever-hot grip. Her father's gaunt, red-starred cheekbones and fogged eyes. The terrible smell of corruption. Women wailing and cutting off their hair…Oh yes, the memory was there, just waiting to be dredged up from the deep where she had consigned it.