The Scarlet Lion (18 page)

   "Those are harsh terms, sire," Leicester said heavily.

   "They are the only terms, my lord, and could be harsher still. I'm sure you'll find them acceptable if you think on them."

   The two Earls finished their wine and made to take their leave. On his way to the door, William paused to address Philip, speaking boldly because they had known each other for a long time. "Sire, I wonder why traitors whom you would have executed at one time are now allowed to flourish under your protection."

   For a moment William thought Philip was going to play the aloof, dignified monarch and dismiss him out of hand, but then the King of France shrugged, and petted the dog. "It is a natural thing, Marshal," he said, a fastidious curl to his lip. "Such men are like rags. One uses them as arse wipes and when one is finished, throws them down the latrine to be rid of them."

   William swallowed. Feeling unclean, his skin crawling, he bowed from the room. Leicester eyed him askance. "What was all that about?"

   William shook his head. "Nothing," he said, tight-lipped. After all, rumour and gut instinct were not proof. Philip's own mind might have been on Norman castellans such as Robert FitzWalter and Saher de Quincy, who had turned traitor to John and yielded up the towns they were supposed to be guarding— half the reason for the fall of Gaillard. He was dancing very close to that line himself tonight and it made him feel unclean.

   "Nothing you want to share, you mean," Leicester growled. "Half the business of the court is conducted under cover of darkness and in the shadows. Time was when honest men could meet in broad daylight and have their say." He adjusted his fur-collared cloak like a cat grooming ruffled fur. "Are you prepared to do liege homage to France for your Norman estates?"

   William sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know," he said. "We have a little leeway to think on it."

   "And by agreeing to think on it, we allow French garrisons into our castles and pay five hundred marks for the privilege." Leicester's expression was grim.

   "What's the alternative? Philip has us in a cleft stick and John on the tines of the Devil's pitchfork."

   Leicester heaved a weary sigh. "I am near the end of my days and glad of it," he said. "At least I will not live to see the loss of Normandy. It's going to take a miracle, you know, and I doubt that God has any in his pocket for John."

"I know," William said with resignation.

   Leicester looked obliquely at William. "The Bishops will disapprove of our private negotiations."

   "It is for us to decide what happens to our lands, not them," William said irritably.

   When he entered his chamber, a visitor, who had been seated on a stool waiting, sprang to his feet and strode to greet him with arms open wide. After a startled moment, William's expression lit with joy and he opened his own arms and clasped them hard around his youngest brother, Ancel.

   "Christ, how many years has it been? How many years!" Ancel thumped William's spine with a clenched fist, tears brimming in his eyes.

   "Too many. God's bones, it's good to see you…even if you are a Frenchman these days!"

   Ancel laughed and broke away, wiping his eyes. "And whose fault is that, brother? You set my feet on that particular path."

   "I did, didn't I?" It was more than twenty years since Ancel had joined William's company of tourney knights: an eager youngster with few prospects. A summer spent jousting in France and Flanders had brought Ancel to the notice of their cousin, Rotrou, Count of Perche, who had offered him a position in his mesnie. Long ago, William thought wistfully, when the summers had stretched to the horizon and that horizon itself was a promise of pastures new.

   "I thought you'd want to drink a measure of wine with your long-lost kin, so I had the squires purloin some from the King's table." Ancel indicated the brimming flagon set on a coffer.

   William nodded, resigning himself. To refuse would be churlish, and since he had been careful whilst drinking with Philip, he still had the capacity for a couple of measures.

   The wine proved to be more of the peppery red from earlier,

but still drinkable. William looked at his cup then raised it in a toast. "To ships that pass in the night, may they pass more often," he said to Ancel.

   "Amen to that," his brother responded in a heartfelt voice. "And may they never meet on the battlefield."

   William fetched a campstool from the side of the room, unfolded it, and sat down. "We're getting older," he sighed, "but I doubt any wiser."

   "Hah, you said that years ago before you were wed. By your own lights, you must be ancient by now."

   William's laugh was wry. "I feel it sometimes."

   Ancel grinned as if he didn't believe a word. "From what your servants say, I'm soon to be an uncle again, so there's no failure in that area, is there?"

   "That's Isabelle's doing." William rubbed the back of his neck. "She holds me to my duty. Apparently it's going to be another girl—something to do with her wanting to eat cheese all the time. I suppose it will make a balance—four of each."

   For the next hour, the brothers drank and exchanged news while the wine in the flagon diminished and the candles burned down to stubs. William sent a sleepy squire to fetch new ones.

   "Will King Philip agree to a treaty, do you think?" Ancel asked.

   "I doubt it," William said. "He has the whip in his hand and he's not going to put it down for the sake of pleading, not when the scent of victory is in his nostrils."

   Ancel looked sombre. "You stand to lose a great deal. What are you going to do?"

   "I…" William looked round as his squire returned with a bundle of wax candles tied with string. Jean D'Earley was with him, and his expression was sombre.

   William's first thought was that Hubert Walter and the Bishops had learned about the clandestine meeting between King Philip, himself, and Leicester and were already pursuing the matter as only churchmen could. "What is it?" He rose to his feet.

   Jean came to him and bowed. His gaze flickered to Ancel with surprise and then he bowed to him too. Ancel reciprocated. "My lord, there is sad news." He hesitated for a moment, obviously unsettled by what he was about to say, then he took a deep breath. "Queen Eleanor has died at Fontevrault. She passed away peacefully in her sleep last night…" He stopped speaking and looked anxiously at William.

   Ancel crossed himself. "God rest her soul," he muttered.

   William felt as if the words had formed a great frozen mass inside him and now pieces were breaking off and daggering through his veins. He'd known she was frail and of late had been ailing. It was not unexpected, but he was devastated.

   He sat down heavily on the campstool and stared at the painted brickwork pattern on the wall. "She took me into her household when I was a stripling hearth knight," he said after a long pause, his throat aching. "She stood by me; she raised me up. If I am Earl of Pembroke it is by her intervention. All that I have, I owe to her patronage." One of the guttering candles went out in a wisp of black smoke. The squire made to replace it, but William stopped him. "Let it be," he said hoarsely. The grief was a physical pain at his core. "I worshipped her when I was young," he said in a cracking voice. "And even when the glamour wore off, the shine remained and I loved her as a friend." He watched another candle gutter and go out. Those that were left caught the glimmer of tears on his cheeks. "The world will be a colder, darker place without her flame to light it."

                             *** There were candles at Fontevrault, hundreds of them burning in the chapel for the soul of Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, former Queen of England and France. William lit a single one of his own to her memory, and gave alms that it should be kept alight and replaced each time that it burned down to the wick. The frozen lump at his core had dissolved in the days since the news of her death had reached him, but it would be a long time before the meltwater ceased to chill his blood. Spring was here and, for the first time in his life, it was a spring that Eleanor's eyes would not also see.

   Her effigy had yet to be carved, but the Abbess told him Eleanor had requested to be portrayed reading a book. The nun's eyes sparkled with humour. "She told us she needed something to do to pass the waiting time until Judgement Day. She said, 'Let people decide for themselves the kind of book it is. Those who knew me well will not need to be told.'"

   Through his grief, William found a smile. The words brought Eleanor vividly to life before his eyes and he felt a healing touch of comfort, as if she had reached out to him and gently pressed his arm in greeting and farewell.

                             *** On the ship back to England, with the news for John that Philip was not prepared to make peace unless John produced Arthur or his sister Eleanor, William watched the sea hiss against the galley's side and tried to ignore the slow churning of his stomach. He had made an agreement with Philip, had promised him five hundred marks and yielded him custody of Longueville and Orbec, on the understanding that he had a year's grace to choose what to do. A year's grace in which, if he was fortunate, a treaty might be agreed between the two Kings, and if he wasn't, he would have time to ponder his decision.

   His nephew Jack joined him near the prow to watch the sun climb the sky. He had recently grown a beard and in profile so resembled his father, William's older brother, that William found it disquietingly like standing beside a ghost.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Jack said.

   "Yes." William folded his arms. "About Ireland. I want you to go there with authority as my seneschal and take command until I am able to return."

   Jack stared at him. "You want me to go to Ireland?" he said on a rising note.

   William nodded. "You're my nephew—a Marshal by blood. You're experienced in battle and capable of bearing the responsibility. FitzRobert is doing his best, but I need someone there with more authority than he has. I wish I could afford the time, but with the situation in Normandy as it is, I cannot give Ireland the attention it requires."

   Jack looked nonplussed. "I knew you were considering the matter but I thought…I thought you would ask Jean. I know he is…" He changed his mind about whatever he had been going to say. "He is your nephew too, through marriage to my sister, and his children share your blood."

   William eyed the young man and wondered at the words beneath the words. "I did consider asking Jean," he said, "but I decided you were better suited to the task. If you do not want to go…"

   Jack cut him off, shaking his head, smiling—albeit a touch bleakly and thus looking even more like his father. "No," he said. "I will be honoured to be your seneschal…and I won't let you down, I swear."

Fifteen

CILGERRAN, SOUTH WALES, NOVEMBER 1204

The weather was mild for mid-November, but it was wet. Fine drizzle off the Irish Sea had misted the coastline, moved inland, and beaded everything in a hoar of droplets. Isabelle's Spanish mare was mizzle-grey and against her dappled neck the bridle bells gleamed like raindrops turned to silver, and chimed softly with an eerie, otherworldly sound.

   Isabelle wore a heavy cloak of double-layered wool, and a hood of the same, pulled up over her wimple. Thus far, she was managing to remain moderately dry. She could have repaired to the baggage cart and travelled under cover, but from girlhood she had preferred to ride when possible. Will and Richard escorted her either side, attired beneath their cloaks in quilted gambesons of the kind worn by the serjeants, and useful protection against weather like this. She had left the other children at Pembroke, for they would have added too much to the size of the baggage train and she did not know what conditions to expect at the end of their journey. The baby, Eve, was almost three months old and Isabelle had handed her over to a wet nurse, thus leaving herself free to travel.

   Glancing at her eldest son, she felt a twinge of poignant amusement as she saw his posture and the way his gaze sought ahead through the rain. She could tell he was pretending to be a knight, one hand at his hip, the other guiding the horse. He was testing his wings, preparing to leave the nest. His father had been considering various kin and allies with a view to fostering Will to knighthood once he reached fifteen years old. William of Salisbury had offered, although Isabelle was not certain that she wanted the King's half-brother caring for her eldest son, even if her husband thought it a good idea. Baldwin de Béthune was another candidate, and the one that Isabelle preferred, especially as Will was to marry his daughter. It would be useful for him to train to knighthood in Baldwin's entourage and become familiar with his future bride. Richard was only eighteen months behind Will. They would have to find somewhere to place him as well. She thought tuition at Framlingham might suit, under Roger of Norfolk.

   Suddenly Will sat erect in the saddle and pointed, his voice rising in pitch. "There it is," he cried. "There's Cilgerran!"

   Squinting hard, Isabelle made out a ditch and ring-works through the misty rain. She could see neither tents nor pavilions outside the fortifications so assumed the men were inside the protection of the palisade. Outriders were cantering out to meet them, dark ghostly shapes at first, becoming more distinct as they drew closer.

   William's herald, Henry Norreis, greeted Isabelle with his customary ebullience and escorted her and the boys up the steep slope of the earthwork defences and through the castle gates. Guards paced the palisade wall walk, spears at the ready and attitude alert. As she had suspected, the bailey was full of pitched tents. Cooking fires steamed in the soft drizzle, giving off a pungent aroma of woodsmoke and onion pottage, and soldiers were busy around them, mending equipment, eating, arming, or disarming, depending on their state of duty. Her gaze went beyond a blacksmith in a covered forge busily turning out horseshoes and settled on William as he hurried down from one of the palisade walks to greet her. He was wearing his old padded tunic, but not his hauberk. His hood was down, his hair was wet and windblown, and he looked eager and refreshed. A pang went through her, compounded of strong affection, a glimmer of lust, and more than a touch of exasperation. Her husband was always invigorated by practical military projects. She sometimes worried that he was growing too old for such pursuits, but he had just run down the stairs as easily as any of his young knights and his eyes were alight with pleasure as he strode to greet her.