The Scarlet Lion (10 page)

   "Yes," Aoife said scornfully, "of a leg wound taken in battle that never properly healed. One day it festered too far, poisoned his blood, and made me a widow within a week. Still, your man looks as if he'll be robust enough once he's over the seasickness; certainly he must have plenty of steel in his lance to have given you six children."

   Isabelle reddened. "I cannot tell you what William is like," she said, striving for dignity. "You will have to find that out for yourself."

   Aoife tossed her head. "Well, I hope he is cunning, astute, and prepared to nail his courage to the mast. Many lords will baulk at being under his yoke. Several of your father's former knights are not happy that he is here." She waved her hand in an exaggerated gesture of dismissal. "Ah, you do not want to know. If you did, you'd have come to Kilkenny long ago."

   Isabelle sat up, stung by her mother's words, which had a ring of truth. "We had more than Leinster to consider," she said defensively. "In the first days of our marriage, William was helping to govern England with the King away on crusade, and then he was acting as one of his commanders in Normandy."

   Aoife gave a scornful sniff. "Hah," she said. "Your husband has a Norman heart, not an Irish one."

   "My husband was prepared to risk crossing the Irish Sea on the edge of winter to come to Ireland," Isabelle retorted. "You do not know his heart."

   "I may not 'know' it but I still have eyes to see," Aoife said irascibly. "Your father made his life here, but William Marshal is in Leinster as a matter of duty and marking time, not because he loves the land or wants to dwell here."

   "And he will do that duty, Mother," Isabelle replied, "by Ireland and by you to the utmost of his ability. He is an honourable man."

   Unable to get the better of the argument, Aoife gave a small shrug and a pout. "So you say, and I suppose I will believe you for now."

   Isabelle wondered at her mother's disposition. Had she been sour and scratchy like this before? It was so long ago and she had been a child then, with a child's thoughts and perceptions. "You say we do not want to know about the troubles we face, but you are wrong; we do and that is part of why we are here. You cannot hint at such matters and then wave them away. Tell me."

   Aoife smiled thinly. "There speaks my Irish daughter within the fine Norman lady. So you have no qualms about walking into the lion's jaws?"

   Isabelle reached for the mead jug. "Oh, I have qualms, Mother, but knowing will prevent them from running amok."

   Aoife plumped the cushion at her back and settled herself in the chair. "You must know of a man called Meilyr FitzHenry?"

   Isabelle nodded. "He's John's justiciar for Ireland." She half closed her eyes. "I think I remember him at Kilkenny when I was small." Her mind filled with the hazy image of a muscular dark-eyed man with pugnacious features and a black beard.

   "He was a coffin-bearer at your father's funeral. Followed him here from Pembroke—beached at Bannow Bay with him and carved his standing in Leinster with the might of his sword."

   "Why do you ask if I know of him?"

   "Because he considers your husband an interloper and a threat—a Norman courtier whose abilities have been exaggerated down the years." She raised her hand, palm outwards like a shield. "Do not frown at me, daughter. I am only telling you what I have heard. I know Meilyr FitzHenry well but not William Marshal."

   Anger swept over Isabelle on William's behalf. She suspected her mother had enjoyed using such words about William, but since she wanted to know the rest and preferred to avoid a quarrel with Aoife on their first moment together in seventeen years, she checked her temper. "Meilyr FitzHenry owes us fealty for Dunamase and other Leinster lands," she said frostily.

   "Hah! Even if he does, it makes no difference; Meilyr considers himself lord in this land and he'll brook no outsider telling him his business." Once again Aoife reached for the mead jug. "Of course, the de Lacys in Meath have no time for the lord Meilyr. You may be able to buy or persuade support out of them."

   "Walter de Lacy is son by marriage to William de Braose," Isabelle murmured, eyes still narrowed in consideration, "and de Braose is our ally."

   "Just so. How else should a mill grind corn except by turning the wheels within wheels?" Aoife filled her cup to the brim again. "The native Irish lords hate all Normans, but will follow the one they dislike the least and whom they think will give them the most." Setting her full cup aside, Aoife went to the coffer at her bedside. "I have something for you, daughter." Her movements wallowed, suggesting the mead was taking its toll. She removed a bundle of fabric from the coffer and shook it out. As old sprigs of dried lavender and chips of cedar bark fell from its folds, Isabelle saw that it was a woollen gown, the cuffs, neckline, and hem heavily embroidered. The colour was a deep saffron-gold, favourite of Irish royalty, and the style was somewhat outmoded, given the current fashion for tight lacing and extravagant sleeves.

   "It belonged to your grandmother, Môr," Aoife said. "It is yours to wear now, as a daughter of Ireland." Her breathing had grown swift again and her eyes were hungry.

   Isabelle rose and accepted the gown, feeling a sudden prickle of tears. This was her heritage; this was part of her belonging. The colour would make her look deathly ill, and in England and Normandy the women of the court would view the outmoded cut of the garment with disdain, but none of that mattered. It had been her grandmother's and her mother had saved it to remind her daughter of who she was. She spread her palm over the wool and found it to be surprisingly soft. A slightly musty smell clung to its folds, blending with the aromas of the lavender and cedar.

   "Indeed," Aoife said, taking Isabelle's hand to draw her attention, "you should wear it especially when the Irish lords come to talk to your husband, because it will remind them you are a woman of this country. Keep your children at your side since they are King Dermot's great-grandchildren and proof too that Richard Strongbow's blood lives on—particularly the second boy with that red hair." Aoife's features hardened, emphasising the harsh lines of advancing middle age. "My father paid the Normans to come to Leinster and help him win back his lands from the Irish lords who had stolen them from him, and they came and in their greed, they too stole what they could. They are still helping themselves today. If we want to survive, we have to make alliances with the strongest of them. It is said you are married to a great man, by all accounts a champion. Well then, use it to your advantage, daughter, and stand your ground."

   The mead swirled in Isabelle's blood. In the light cast by fire and candle, her grandmother's gown in her hands, she felt the connection so strongly it raised the hairs on her nape and she could almost see her Irish ancestors gathered around the fire in their saffron robes, watching her, weighing her in the balance, asking if she was worthy. "Yes," she heard herself saying, with a strange, deep surge that came from her solar plexus. "I will do everything in my power to hold these lands and make them great."

   Aoife smiled and looked satisfied. "Ah," she said. "Men are children even when they are grown. They never realise how strong we women are."

Eight

KILKENNY CASTLE, LEINSTER, IRELAND, NOVEMBER 1200

Isabelle studied Meilyr FitzHenry through her lashes. He had arrived in the early afternoon as the household was sitting down to dine. Before the gathered company, which included Hugh le Rous, Bishop of Ossory, and several of William's senior Irish vassals, he had sworn fealty to herself and William for his lands. Now he sat at the high table with them. He was a strong, barrel-chested man, fighting too much belly and a hairline in rapid retreat. As a grandson of the first King Henry through a bastard branch of the family he was kin to King John, who had granted him the post of justiciar. His smile was nailed to his face and as stiff as boiled leather, but at least he was here. She and William had half expected him to ignore their summons to Kilkenny to pay homage for his lands. By attitude and gesture, although not in so many words, he had made it plain he would not tolerate the Marshal faction usurping the position he had striven to carve for himself over the past thirty years.

   Between mouthfuls of duck in pepper sauce he expressed surprise to see William in Ireland at all. "Surely your seneschal is competent to tend to matters in Leinster," he said. "You must have more important concerns elsewhere?"

   "Each is important in its own turn, my lord," William answered smoothly.

   "Leinster is my birthright and my dower," Isabelle added to Meilyr, her own voice sharp with irritation.

   He pursed his lips as if he had a mouthful of sour wine. "Indeed, my lady, but you have been long away and times have changed."

   Isabelle gave him a hard look. "That is strange, for I was under the impression they had not, nor did you wish them to do so, my lord."

   Aoife cackled with approval, but when Isabelle glanced at William, he gave an infinitesimal shake of his head and lifted a forefinger against the side of his goblet in warning. Isabelle swallowed her annoyance. He was right to remind her that while FitzHenry was beholden to them as a vassal, he was also Ireland's justiciar and a servant of the King.

   "Your impression is mistaken, my lady," Meilyr said, "but you are newly arrived and bound to be unfamiliar with the way matters stand."

   "You will find I learn swiftly," Isabelle retorted. "I know very well which way the wind blows." She flicked a glance along the high table towards their vassal Philip of Prendergast, whose indifferent expression did nothing to conceal the fact he was monitoring the conversation intently. His wife was Isabelle's half-sister, born to her father's Welsh paramour thirteen years before Isabelle's birth. Her hair was de Clare red and she owned a feminine version of Richard Strongbow's thin, fine features. Her manner was pleasant but contained and she had made no attempt thus far to set her relationship with Isabelle on a familiar footing. For her part, Isabelle was prepared to be welcoming, but she was wary too. Matilda had wed Philip of Prendergast when Isabelle was still a swaddled infant and they had no bond in common beyond their father's seed.

   "The wind blows from many directions in Ireland, and changes on a whim, my lady," Meilyr said and, having dismissed her with a perfunctory toast of his cup, turned away to William. "How long do you intend remaining in Ireland, my lord?"

   Isabelle tightened her lips and marked the insult on a mental tally.

   William leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Eager as you are to be rid of us, my lord, I am afraid we are going to be in each other's company for the winter at least. I won't risk a sea crossing before the spring and in the meantime I intend making the acquaintance of my vassals and neighbours."

   FitzHenry gave a sour shrug. "You will find the weather much wetter than that to which you are accustomed. Sometimes it rains for months on end and the sea mist covers the land in such a dense blanket that you cannot tell friend from foe. You will need warmer tunics than those you have brought with you."

   Isabelle ground her teeth at his insolence but William merely raised an eyebrow and replied with composure, "Fortunate then that my coffers contain clothes to cope with most weathers."

   "Most, my lord?" FitzHenry said with a hint of scorn. "I have all."

   "No man has all." William waved his hand in a gesture that swatted aside veiled threat and ambiguities. "I esteem your reputation, Lord Meilyr, and I hope you have a similar regard for mine and my wife's, since we are your overlords. I am as content as you for the relationship to be one of formality rather than friendship, but I tell you this…we will have your respect."

   Isabelle coloured with pride and vindication at his words.

   Meilyr tried to outstare William but the latter was accustomed to such contests at court and returned Meilyr's gaze implacably until Meilyr took refuge in his wine cup. "My homage you are entitled to," he muttered after he had drunk. "Respect is different. It has to be earned."

   William nodded. "Just so," he agreed. "And it cuts both ways. A reputation is one thing. Living up to it is another."

***

Once she had dismissed their attendants, Isabelle sat down on their bed. William was already in it and occupied with threading his prayer beads on to a new length of silk cord, the old one having broken. Although his eyes were slightly narrowed, he could still see well enough in the dim light of a single candle to perform the task without too much of a struggle.

   "I don't trust Meilyr FitzHenry," Isabelle said.

   He didn't answer at first, and she was on the verge of repeating her statement when he looked up from his task. "Yes, he will bear watching," he said quietly. "He is brim full of his own importance and appears to believe that being justiciar gives him the power to do as he pleases. I think we gave him pause for thought tonight—and Prendergast too. He strikes me as one who will play both sides of the castle wall."

   "I thought so, especially since his wife is my kin." Isabelle gnawed her lip, considering. "FitzHenry bears the bigger grudge though. Whatever you say to him, he still believes himself the true power in Leinster. I don't remember much about him from my childhood, but I know my mother had little time for him in our hall."

   William focused on his threading. "Your mother has little time for most things Norman. Certainly she makes it plain she has none for me."

   "That is not true," Isabelle was stung to reply. "She can be difficult, but no worse than Queen Eleanor in one of her moods." Even as she spoke, she mentally scolded herself. She hadn't meant to say that—didn't want Aoife to become a source of friction between them.

   "No, but Queen Eleanor has known me since I was a young knight and our appreciation of each other has always been mutual, whereas your mother and I…" He let the sentence tail off.