The Scarlet Lion (13 page)

   "It is too soon!" Isabelle gasped as Sybilla reached her and grasped her hand. "Holy Saint Margaret, it is too soon!"

   The contractions surged one after the other swift and violent as an equinox tide. With brisk efficiency, the midwives presided over the labour whilst outside the rain continued to pour as if the days of the Flood had come again. Isabelle's body became an instrument of pain, stretched and plucked, the tune strung on notes higher and higher until she thought she would burst with the agony. Weeping, clutching the women, she pushed and grunted, pushed with clenched teeth and tendons straining in her throat, until the midwives told her not to push, that the head was cresting. There was a blossoming fullness at the juncture of her thighs, a hot slippery flood, and the midwife held up a wizened, blood-streaked little creature that was making faint squeaking noises and was, praise God, alive.

   "A girl child," the midwife said, cleaning the newborn's nose

and mouth of mucus before wrapping her in a warm towel and, with the cord still attached, placing her in her mother's arms. "Small, but she'll do."

   Isabelle looked into the baby's pointed, kitten-shaped face. By her reckoning, her new daughter was early by a little less than a month, probably conceived on William's return to England last autumn before they sailed for Leinster.

   She murmured softly to the baby, who opened her eyes. A worried frown furrowed her already wrinkled forehead, making Isabelle smile, and then frown herself. Her dream and the baby's early birth had to be a sign from God, but she could make no sense of the portent, except to know it was a warning.

***

That night the rain stopped and Aoife died. Father Walter had heard her confession after vespers when it became plain that barring a miracle she would not see the morning. Aoife had lived long enough to hold her new granddaughter Sybire in her arms, and Isabelle had come, pale and weak from childbed, to clasp her mother's hand and pray for her in her last moments. With a supreme effort, Aoife gathered her strength and whispered, "Protect yourself from the wolves."

   The words had entered Isabelle's blood like melting ice and, as her mother ceased to breathe, she began to shiver, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. Murmuring in concern, her women took her back to her bed where they warmed the covers with a hot stone wrapped in a woollen cloth and made her drink scalding beef broth. Slowly her colour returned and warmth flowed into her limbs, but at her core she could still feel a frozen residue of terror, and mingled with it feelings of guilt, foreboding—and grieving loss.

                             *** It fell to William to escort Aoife's coffin to Tintern for burial and to preside over her funeral. The birth had not been long but Isabelle had lost much blood at the delivery of the afterbirth and was confined to her chamber on a diet of enriching foods to recover her strength, and it would have been unthinkable for a woman still bleeding from childbirth to enter a church.

   Mahelt took her mother's place at the bier, and solemnly lit candles, her seven-year-old gravitas both amusing and throatachingly poignant. William thrust the thought to the back of his mind that it was fine practice for the future. His older sons played their part too, acting as men of the family rather than small boys. Not so small, William amended as they distributed alms to the people who had followed the cortège in expectation of charity. Will was eleven, Richard nearly ten. A few more years and they'd be sent to train as squires in another household. Where did the time go?

   Standing outside the abbey, he watched cloud shadows pass over the valley floor so that one moment the abbey was quenched and dark, and the next it was gilded in a benediction of deep sunlight.

   Mahelt came to stand at his side and slipped her small hand into his. "She will be happy here," she said. It was a statement, not a question.

   "Yes," he replied, gently squeezing her fingers. "Or at least as happy as anywhere else."

Ten

VICINITY OF LONGUEVILLE, NORMANDY, JULY 1202

Bare sword in his hand, his destrier controlled on a tight rein, William circled the captured French supply train of ponies and carts. Several corpses littered the ground, blood glistening in dusty red veins and puddles on the road. Their more fortunate companions stood with their hands on their heads and fear in their eyes as they watched their Norman ambushers. William nodded tersely to his nephew Jack and sheathed his sword. "Strip them of anything you consider valuable, then let them go," he said. "There has been enough blood spilled and none of them are worth holding for ransom." He reined to face Jean D'Earley who was examining the baggage wains.

   "Mostly timber, my lord," Jean said. "Some wine and salt pork too."

   William rode over to study the shaped lengths of wood piled in the carts. Among them were barrels of grease, stout ropes, and heavy coils of iron chain. "Dismantled trebuchets," he said with a satisfied grin. They might not have struck a pay convoy of silver, but snatching a couple of King Philip's siege engines from under his nose was not a bad haul, not to mention rations for his troops. He knew how important food was to men who were seated outside castle walls, bored out of their skulls and waiting for something to happen. "Bring them along. We can

certainly make use of them."

   In a fine mood, the reconnaissance party gathered their spoils and turned back for the Norman camp. William felt sufficiently secure to remove his helm and push down his mail coif but still took the precaution of setting outriders and scouts to keep an eye open for trouble. Their closeness to the French lines meant there was always the danger of encountering an enemy raiding party such as their own.

   Jean had been investigating one of the pack-pony panniers and produced two wheaten loaves and a wheel of sheep's milk cheese veined with blue.

   "Dinner," he said cheerfully.

   William took one of the loaves, tore a chunk off, poked a hollow, and stuffed it with cheese. Fighting was hungry work. Thirsty work too. "Broach a cask of wine," he said between rotations of his jaw. "Let each man have a measure. There'll be plenty left for the rest of them in camp."

   "My lord."

   As he ate and drank, and the troop jingled along at a steady pace through the green summer countryside, William gradually relaxed, the agitation of battle sloughing off him, the tension leaching from his muscles.

   He wasn't surprised that the Lusignan family had rebelled against John. The humiliation of having Hugh's bride stolen from under their noses would have riled less warlike men and the Lusignans were not peaceable at the best of times. John, flexing his kingly muscles, had dealt with their protests in so high-handed a manner that they had appealed to Philip of France. Unable to pass up such a God-given opportunity to make trouble, Philip had invaded Normandy with an alliance of Bretons led by Prince Arthur. The latter was opining loudly to all who would listen that his claim to the Angevin lands and the English throne was much stronger

than John's.

   John had appointed William commander of the bailiwicks of Arques and Caux. Eu on their borders was under Lusignan control, Ralph of Exodoun being another member of the family, and his hatred of John just as implacable as that of his siblings. He had seized Drincourt and Eu, and overrun all of the area between the Rivers Bresle and Béthune. William had soundly retaliated, taking Lillebonne and the lands of the Count of Boulogne.

   John had vouchsafed William money to pay his garrisons, but it was still not enough. Baggage trains of silver arrived and baggage trains of silver departed. William had even had to resort to borrowing extra silver from the mayor of Rouen. Paid soldiers were far less likely to desert than men starved of their wages, but sometimes he felt like a small meadow pipit stuffing worms down the gullet of a ravenous young cuckoo. He had to find the wherewithal though, especially now that King Philip was camped before the walls of Arques and determined to take it.

   William devoured the last morsel of bread and cheese and washed it down with a swig of wine from the horn his squire had filled for him. There was the matter of Ireland too. The work on the new town was developing apace and he had replaced de Quetteville with his knight Geoffrey FitzRobert, who had a more forceful personality, but it was a temporary measure and not ideal. Only yesterday, William had heard disquieting rumours that Meilyr FitzHenry had been encroaching on Marshal territory to the north of Kilkenny. The situation required a firm military presence and sustained effort on his part, neither of which he could give just now, despite his promise to Aoife.

   Their return to camp was greeted with whoops of delight. William deposited the cart containing the siege machines outside his own pavilion and told Jean to see the salt pork and the wine divided equally between the men who had taken part in the ambush. It was a relief to shed his hauberk and gambeson. Stripping off tunic and shirt he was engulfed in the pungent odour of battle sweat. The French had fought hard for their siege engines and field rations.

   An attendant fetched a latten bowl of tepid water and a piece of white Spanish soap. William lathered his face and upper torso, discovering the odd bruise and strained muscle but nothing worse. He had been lucky this time. Neither he nor any of the men had suffered more than superficial injuries. He was drying himself on a square of coarse linen when his chamberlain approached. Osbert had clearly been poring over his accounts in the sun without his hat, for his wide forehead, his cheeks, and the bridge of his beaky nose were campion-pink.

   "Supplies have arrived from the Countess at Longueville, my lord," he reported. "I sent the pigs and the geese to the butcher and had the baggage chests and silver put in your tent. The messenger's waiting at the serjeants' fire in case there's a reply…oh, and Earl de Warenne requests you to dine with him and the Earl of Salisbury as soon as you may."

   William thanked him and, pushing aside the canvas flaps, stepped inside his pavilion. Closed off during the day, the atmosphere was damp and hotly heavy with the musty smell of earth and grass. A dozen small barrels and a couple of stout leather travelling chests stood beside his camp table, on which were spread several parchments, weighted down by stones, showing the positions of the French besiegers of Arques. William's spirits lightened. The silver would keep the troops in the field a while longer and he could indulge himself tonight by sending for the messenger and sifting the news from home. Longueville was not that far away—a day's ride in good weather, but given the current situation, God alone knew when he would see it.

   He opened one of the chests. Neatly folded at the top

was a tunic of soft, squirrel-coloured twill. A simple chain pattern worked in blue and yellow thread decorated the sleeves and throat.

   "The messenger says the Countess wants you to know the embroidery was worked by your eldest daughter," Osbert said.

   William smiled and felt the domestic warmth of his absent family reach out and touch him. The needlework was simple, but excellent for an eight-year-old. He suspected an adult's guiding hand, but all the same, it touched him deeply. He loved all of his children, but Mahelt, his firstborn daughter, held a special place within his heart.

   Having pulled on a clean shirt, he donned the tunic and pinned it at the throat with a round brooch. The chest also contained a new embroidered belt and two pairs of hose. There was a box filled with rose petals and violets boiled in sugar, and at the bottom, a bolster that smelled of attar of roses and had a lock of Isabelle's hair neatly stitched into the corner. William laughed aloud and shook his head. His wife knew exactly what would bring him comfort away from home. He placed the bolster on his camp bed, combed his hair, and crunching a splintered piece of sugar-boiled violets between his teeth, took the box outside to his squires who were tending to his equipment. "Here, Matthew, Bartholomew," he said, "a gift from my wife to accompany your labours."

   The youths' delighted gratitude ringing in his ears, he collected Jean and Jack and walked through the camp to the pavilion of William, Earl de Warenne, who was cousin to King John.

   The Earl had recently come into his inheritance and had invested some of it enhancing his dignity in the form of a new tent and sundry luxuries. The former was a large, circular affair of red and gold canvas, adorned with a fìnial in the shape of a snarling golden lion as a reminder to all of his royal connections. Elaborate crimson hangings screened his bed from sight. Salisbury and de Warenne were already eating at a trestle table covered with a white damask cloth, but as soon as de Warenne saw William, he beckoned him to join them and snapped his fingers to a squire.

   William took his place at the table, washed his hands in the proffered finger bowl, and dried them on the towel presented to him by another squire. A platter of roast capon and a small loaf were set before him, together with assorted green leaves dressed with a sharp strawberry sauce.

   "You have had a profitable day's work, so we hear," said William Longespée, earl of Salisbury, as William set to.

   "You might say that." Cheerfully, William regaled his fellow Earls with the story of the day's raid. "So that's two siege machines that Philip is short," he concluded, "and his mercenaries will go hungry, while ours are fed."

   Longespée rubbed his hands. "It will certainly help Arques. Your scouts are to be commended, Marshal."

   "I pay them well," William said. "When I was learning my trade, I was taught that it was the lord with the best reconnaissance and the swiftest response who had the better chance. Also the best supplied, and my wife is very good at that."

   "I saw your pack train arrive," Longespée said with a smile.

   William grinned. "She sends me scented bolsters and fresh linen and sweetmeats. She knows the things that matter."