The Scarlet Lion (20 page)

   Mahelt reddened. "He squats," she said primly.

   William's lips twitched.

   "He killed a rat yesterday. He's better than the kennelkeeper's terriers." Her voice filled with protective challenge.

   "Sweetheart, I am sure he is, in the same way that I could always defeat certain knights on the tourney field with one hand tied behind my back."

   Mahelt gave him a severe look and he laughed and tugged one of her ruddy brown braids. "Ah," he said, "it's good to be home."

***
"So," said Isabelle when she could contain her impatience no
longer, "are you going to tell me what happened, or is it so bad
that you have buried it beyond recall?"

   Sybire, now nearly four, sat on his knee, her head resting in the crook of his arm. Eve was using his other knee to cling to and stand up. The rest of their offspring were gathered in close proximity, waiting their opportunity for his attention. Tripes was lying across his feet.

   "Why are you smiling?" Isabelle asked as he responded to her with a tired but eloquent grin.

   "I was thinking that the Queen's first question to John in this situation would be: 'What have you brought for me?' You are the same, but instead of rifling my baggage for silks and jewels, you demand information."

   She folded her arms. "You tread dangerous ground saying that," she warned. "I might take offence, and then you would have to placate me with a rope of pearls worth at least fifty marks."

   "Point taken. Next time I will bring you information
and
jewels." His expression sobered. "King Philip is still refusing to treat with John unless John produces Arthur, and that is never going to happen." He gave her a reflective look. "He was willing to accept my homage for our Norman lands though, so at least some good has come of it."

   Knowing him well, Isabelle sensed the tension beneath the deceptively calm surface. "Yes," she said, "but there is more, isn't there?"

   A squire presented a platter of hot, crisp wafers dusted with cinnamon and grated loaf sugar. "It makes less appetising hearing than this food." He took a wafer and broke it to give half to Sybire. "I had to do liege homage to Philip for the lands, and John is not best pleased…Careful, sweeting, it's hot."

   Isabelle looked at him in dismay. "You had his written permission though." She was not reassured by William's hearty appetite as he demolished his half of the wafer and reached for another. Personal troubles seldom put him off his food. On occasions when her stomach was stuck to her spine with anxiety, he would be devouring a piled trencher with relish.

   "Yes, but he chooses to believe he did not give it and there are always enemies at court willing to shake the tree in the hopes of seeing us fall."

   "Then what does he say he gave you?" Isabelle demanded. "You have his written permission as proof!"

   William swallowed and reached for a third wafer. "John seems to think it was permission to do Philip homage for Longueville and give him the required military service owed by the Norman lands."

   "But liege homage is different?"

   "It means that if John takes an army across the sea to war against Philip, I cannot be a part of it because I am Philip's vassal—I owe him my absolute loyalty on that side of the sea."

   Isabelle exclaimed in dismay.

   "What was I supposed to do?" he snapped. "Let it all go? It's like dancing on swords. You stay nimble and you pray." He lifted Sybire off his lap, detached Eve from his leg, and went to gaze out of the open shutters on the late spring afternoon. "I haven't sullied my honour with regard to either Philip or John, no matter what John says."

   The rise and fall of his shoulders and his defensive tone of voice told Isabelle that despite his words, he felt he had pruned his honour close to the bone. John was one to hold grudges. It worried her that sometimes prayer and nimble feet were not enough.

Seventeen

PORTSMOUTH, JUNE 1205

The sky was bereft of cloud and the sun would have been unbearably hot without the refreshing breeze blowing off the sea. Coins of light dazzled away to the horizon and the deep blue water was festooned with galleys, nefs, and cogs bobbing at anchor offshore. Other shallow-draughted vessels were drawn up on the shingle and soldiers toiled up and down laden with weapons and military supplies. Sailmakers laboured over swathes of canvas with their needles and shipwrights were manufacturing and mending industriously. The smell of hot pitch from newly caulked seams wafted across the shore and the tapping of hammers and the chunk-chunk of adzes on wood were constant points of sound against the roar and wash of the sea.

   John was preparing an expedition to Poitou from which he intended to launch an offensive against Philip of France and had summoned his vassals to assemble at Portsmouth. Reclining on a pile of furs at the top of the beach with his young household knights, he dined on cold roast capon and watched the work go forward, a restless, petulant expression on his face. Frequently his gaze turned towards William, who was sitting nearby with Baldwin de Béthune, not directly with the royal party but close enough to be an offshoot. William's stomach was sour but the feeling was not caused by the notion of impending seasickness. Although he had obeyed the summons to Portsmouth, he knew he couldn't set foot on any ship heading to make war on Philip of France.

   Halfway down his fourth cup, John rose to his feet and plodded across the shingle to William, his hearth knights in tow like hunting dogs following the lead hound.

   William stood up and bowed.

   John took up a belligerent stance. "Marshal," he said, "I am still wondering why you allied with Philip of France behind my back. It seems to me entirely dishonourable, yet you always make a show of how honourable you are." His tone was light, sarcastic, and dangerous.

   William felt the hungry stares of the hearth knights as they scented blood. John's malice was tangible. "Sire, I have made no alliances behind your back. You gave me permission to treat with King Philip. What I did was by your leave."

   "By Christ, it was not!" The great vein at the side of John's neck bulged with his fury. "I did not give you permission to swear liege homage to him. You will accompany me to Poitou, Marshal, and when I order you to take up arms against the King of France, you will do so."

   In the heat of the day, William felt the sweat in the creases of his palms and the hard pulse of blood in his wrists. "Sire, I cannot do that. I would be breaking my oath to King Philip if I took up arms against him."

   John flung round to his bachelors. "I call on all of you to witness that here, before us all, William Marshal condemns himself out of his own mouth," he snarled. "I call him traitor!"

   Sensing the development of an interesting situation, other lords gathered around the altercation. Several, like William, had no intention of going to Poitou—not because they had sworn oaths to King Philip, but because it was service abroad and they did not see why they should be called upon to fight in a war in which they had no vested interest.

   Aware that they were his only chance, William drew breath and raised his voice. "My lords, look at me! Today I am an example and mirror for all of you. What happens to me now will be your fate on the morrow. I had permission to seek an understanding with King Philip concerning my Norman lands. I have a fair copy in the King's own words, yet he chastises me and says that he did not give it."

   "God's sweet bleeding hands, I will not stand for this!" Turning his back on William, John withdrew a short distance to confer with his knights. A hothead named John de Bassingbourn detached himself from the group and marched up to William. "It's a well-known fact that any man who fails his lord as you have done loses his right to hold land of him," he hissed into William's face, the words spoken so close and with such contempt that he sprayed William with spittle.

   Muttering under his breath, Baldwin de Béthune shouldered his way forward and seized de Bassingbourn by a fistful of his tunic. "Hold your tongue!" he commanded. "It is not for the likes of you to judge a knight of the Marshal's stature." He spread his free arm to encompass the battle-camp where more soldiers had stopped work to stare at the squabble. "Amongst all these men, there is no one capable of proving with his body that the Earl Marshal has failed his lord. Would you challenge a man twice your worth who is here because of his loyalty, not his treachery?" He released de Bassingbourn with a shove, his voice filled with revulsion. "Do not presume to stand in judgement of a man whose peer you will never be."

   William grasped the top of his scabbard with his left hand and stared at de Bassingbourn without blinking, aware that half of the battle lay in attitude. Down the years, his reputation had become legendary, and if he had to trade on it, he would. He was the only man ever to have unhorsed King Richard and it was the kind of detail men remembered with respect and fear. De Bassingbourn dropped his stare and turned away, shamed and angry, but too much aware of the value of his own life to challenge William to a trial of arms. John said nothing, for there was nothing to say; the wind had been snatched from his sails and it was obvious he wasn't going to win the argument. Flinging round on his heel, he crunched from the beach, his knights following in his wake in small avalanches of shingle. From a safe distance, many cast threatening glares over their shoulders.

   Baldwin wiped his brow and gave a shaken laugh in which there was no humour. "My God, William, you like living dangerously, don't you?" he said and, stooping to the flagon they had been sharing, filled his cup with a trembling hand. "I thought for a moment that de Bassingbourn was going to take you on."

   William lifted his hand off his sword hilt and breathed out hard. "What else could I have done? John gave me permission. I have patent copies under his seal."

   Baldwin gave him a significant look. "So you keep saying but I don't think he expected you to do full liege homage, and you knew that…Admit it to me at least." He gulped a mouthful of wine and handed the cup across.

   "Christ, Baldwin, I don't know what he expected," William said. "He was naive if he thought Philip would take less, or perhaps he didn't want to see at the time." Lowering the cup, he wiped his mouth on his cuff. "I'm trapped in a dilemma, as is everyone who has lands in Normandy and England." With sudden frustration he punched his arm towards the ships on the glittering swell and gave vent to his anger. "Do you think this fleet is ever going to put to sea? You've heard the dissent in the tents and taverns. The only men who will embark with the King are his hearth knights and mercenaries. The Archbishop doesn't want him to go—he's publicly admitted it—nor the justiciar. You know the trouble we suffered in England when Richard was on crusade. John has a stable full of bastards, but no legitimate heirs of his body. If he dies fighting in Poitou, we may yet see a French king on England's throne." He cast Baldwin a challenging look. "Will you take ship with him, my lord of Aumale? How many here will follow him when it comes to the crux?"

   Baldwin sighed and rumpled his receding hair. "I know and I agree with you, although I haven't confronted him like you have." He grimaced at William. "You've incurred serious disfavour. Best watch yourself."

   William forced a smile. "Do you still want your daughter to marry my son?"

   Baldwin made a derisive sound through pursed lips. "Don't be an ass. You've weathered storms before; you'll survive this one. My daughter will marry the heir to Pembroke or no one."

***

Isabelle loved picnicking outdoors on hot summer days. She hadn't discovered the delight until her marriage, and it was partly the memory of that first lazy July spent in dalliance with William that drew her to the pastime when a moment could be stolen from the cares of the world. Opportunities these days for idle recreation and privacy were rare. Even at sleepy Hamstead, William's birthplace and quietly rustic by the standards of their other holdings, the bustle of their household resembled a court. William had told her all those years ago they should enjoy their solitude while they could, that it would be like this, but she had been eighteen years old then, with no idea of the intensity to come.

   Nevertheless, she refused to be defeated. Today she had overseen the packing of the baskets of food with stubborn determination. She had taken William by the arm and dragged him away from chamberlains, stewards, and clerks, insisting that a few hours would make no difference to his burdens. He had acquiesced readily enough, indeed almost with relief, she thought. The children were accompanying them, and an entourage of knights, squires, and nurses, but it was still pleasant to ride the horses along the meandering riverbank, and listen to the wind through the sedges and the plod of their horses' hooves on ground that had dried out after the rain of three days ago. Tripes scurried along the path fleet as a deer despite his three legs, nosing amongst dandelion and grass, being more circumspect of nettle.

   As the sun beat down, William removed his cloak and she saw his shoulders relax. The set of his mouth softened. He began to look about and Isabelle watched him absorbing his surroundings as the tension within him uncoiled. The last month had been difficult. He was out of favour at court, but how far the King's displeasure would go and how long it would last remained to be seen. John had been livid to the point of white rage when most of his barons had followed William's lead at Portsmouth and refused to embark on the expedition to Poitou. The limited number who did agree to sail were scarcely enough to fill one ship and he had had to abandon his plans, almost weeping with rage and humiliation as he did so. He had placed much of the blame at William's door and cold-shouldered him at court.

   Ranulf of Chester had been out of favour recently too, for supposedly conspiring with the Welsh, although Ranulf swore he was innocent and had gladly given up property and hostages to prove his sincerity. The argument had blown over and Ranulf's credit had been restored, but John's mood towards his barons was volatile. It hadn't helped matters when Hubert Walter had died three weeks ago. His influence and authority had been both stabilising and far-reaching. He and William had not always seen eye to eye, but they had respected each other and been able to work together on most matters, compromising where necessary. Now a new archbishop would have to be chosen and a new working relationship established.