The Scarlet Lion (21 page)

   They stopped to eat where a stand of willows overhung the river. The squires hobbled the horses a short distance away and then set about unpacking the cold roasted fowl, bread, cheese, and smoked sausage. Tripes settled down by the food panniers, beads of moisture sparkling along his whiskers. Will, Richard, and the sons of Jean D'Earley and Stephen D'Evereux took their bows and went off for a prowl in the woods.

   "I doubt they'll catch anything," William said with a smile.

   "You don't know," Isabelle defended her son. "Will's a decent woodsman for all his youth. He can move as quietly as a deer when he chooses."

   William conceded the point with a wave of his hand. "They still won't catch anything," he said. "Not with four of them."

   Isabelle looked at him sidelong. "Will certainly caught one of the dairy maids the other day," she said. "My groom happened on them in the barn…"

   William had been about to bite into a chunk of bread but her words stopped him. He lowered his food and began to grin.

   "You won't be smiling so broadly if she gets with child," Isabelle said irritably. "Holy God, he has only just turned fifteen."

   He sobered. "It had gone as far as that then?"

   Isabelle shook her head. "To be fair, no, but only because they were interrupted, I suspect. You need to speak to him, remind him about duty and responsibility."

   William absolved himself from a reply by eating the bread. When Isabelle continued to glare, he waved his hand. "I know, all right. I'll have a word."

   "Sooner rather than later," she said.

   He nodded. "Better have the girl spoken to as well. If she's inclined to go into barns with youths of fifteen she's asking for trouble."

   "Perhaps she thought to make a good exchange for what she was going to give," Isabelle said shrewdly. "He's your heir."

   William made a non-committal sound and resumed his eating, but there was a thoughtful look on his face.

   They spent the rest of the afternoon in rare and pleasant dalliance. William removed his boots and hose and sat with his feet in the stream. Thus encouraged, Gilbert, Walter, and his daughters did the same while Isabelle played with the baby. He taught Mahelt a new song he had heard at court: a rotrouenge celebrating the beauty of the summer season.

   The youths returned from their "hunt" with twigs and burrs in their tunics and a few bramble scratches. Will had bagged a rabbit: a descendant of some escapees from Hamstead's coney-garth where they were bred for meat and fur. William was impressed and murmured to his wife as he was putting his hose back on that their eldest son seemed thoroughly adept at coney-catching, thereby earning himself a sharp dig in the ribs.

   As William prepared to boost Isabelle into the saddle for their journey home, he paused to pull her close and kiss her. The sunlight was honey-coloured, the shadows lengthening and populated by dances of midges. "You knew I needed this," he said. "Thank you."

   Smiling, Isabelle reached up to tidy his hair. It was long over his ears and in need of cutting. "I confess it was purely selfish," she said. "I wanted you to myself for a while."

   "Hardly that." He gave an amused glance around.

   "You know what I mean."

   He kissed her again. "Yes," he said. "I do, and I promise not to be so neglectful in the future."

   Isabelle set her foot in his cupped hand. "Then you had better begin with your eldest son," she said.

   On the ride home, William dropped back from her side to ride with Will, gesturing a curious Richard to go and accompany his mother. Then he looked attentively at his heir as he had not done in a while. Will's skin had the sheen of adolescence, with a few blemishes here and there and the dark down of an embryo moustache feathering his upper lip. He was a handsome lad, fine-featured and lithe. William could understand what a dairy maid might see in him, and from the indications of his son's incipient manhood, the delights that Will might well find in a dairy maid.

   The youth lifted his chin and looked at his father with wariness and a touch of defiance. William forced himself not to smile. The lad obviously knew what was coming and was prepared to receive a dressing down.

   "I'm not going to lecture you—or not much," William said. "If I did, it would go in one ear and straight out of the other. I could whip you, but I've never noticed that whipping a horse or beating a dog improves the beast in question. Besides, you're growing to manhood, and straying into barns with willing girls is part of that process."

   The youth's eyes widened. William controlled his amusement at Will's expression, knowing how tender pride could be at that age. Besides, what he had to say was serious. "But growing to manhood means you're not there yet. When you are, you'll know that while straying into barns might be the most tempting thing in the world, it's not advisable. You'll learn to resist and to…keep your hands to yourself, shall we say. Sometimes a girl is only willing because you are the lord's son and she fears retribution if she doesn't agree."

   "She wasn't a virgin…she was willing," Will protested.

   "Then ask yourself what she wanted. The risk is not only to the girl."

   Will's complexion was fiery. "Before you married, you must have…?"

   William chuckled. "On numerous occasions, but not with a dairy maid, and not under the family roof. My own mother would have killed me. Of course on the tourney circuit and at court, it's a different matter, but you still have to be careful."

   Having cautioned Will and given him food for thought, he changed the subject and praised his son's hunting skills—skills that he himself did not have. It was a pleasant interlude and made William realise how little time of late he had spent with his heir. They were in danger of not knowing each other.

   They arrived at Hamstead as the last rays of evening sunshine were dazzling on the Kennet like enormous golden bezants. William was dismounting in the courtyard, when his clerk Michael came out to them, carrying a packet in his hand, his usually bright expression sombre.

   "From the King," he said, which William knew already by the sight of the familiar seal dangling from a length of braid attached to the vellum. "The messenger had elsewhere to go; he didn't stay."

   William slapped his palfrey's rump and saw the groom lead it off towards the stables. "Read it," he said tersely.

   Michael broke the seal and unfolded the letter in a crackle of new vellum. The language was Latin and Michael translated it into French.

   
The King to his beloved and faithful William, Earl Marshal, greeting.

   
We command and summon you to deliver your eldest son to us that he may be raised to knighthood at our pleasure, and stand as surety for your good faith.

   
Witness ourself at Lambeth on the third day of August in the sixth year of our reign.

   William compressed his lips. The endearment in the greeting meant nothing. He knew exactly how "beloved" he was at the moment and the content of the letter only confirmed it.

   Isabelle's eyes had widened in horror as Michael read the words. Her hand went to Will's shoulder and gripped. The youth had not been slow to grasp the meaning of the letter either, and his own gaze had grown round with surprise. He glanced from one parent to the other.

   "The King wants me to squire for him," he said with twin notes of excitement and fear in his voice.

   "So it would seem," William answered tonelessly. He exchanged glances with Isabelle and gave a tiny shake of his head, then started towards the keep. "But not quite yet. Such matters need thought and preparation…"

                             *** The door closed behind the last maid, leaving Isabelle and William alone in their bedchamber. The atmosphere was as heavy with tension as the air before an August thunderstorm.

   "I will not yield our son to John," Isabelle said. Her stomach felt as if it was weighted with stones.

   "We have no choice. The King already suspects me of treachery against him. Refusal to comply will only worsen the situation."

   She tossed her head. "You are lord of Striguil, Earl of Pembroke, and lord of Leinster. There are few men to match your power and none to match your reputation. John needs you more than you need him."

   "Even so, I am sworn to him," William said. "He is within his rights to ask for Will as surety for my good faith."

   Isabelle's upper lip curled with contempt. "You are prepared to trust him even though he doesn't trust you? He took his own nephew prisoner and no one has heard of him since. Do you think I am deaf to the rumours?"

   William rubbed his temples. "John will not harm Will. As you say, I am Earl of Pembroke and my reputation will keep him from harm."

   Isabelle shook her head. "That is not a gamble I am prepared to take. Arthur's kinship didn't save him, whatever you say." She clenched her fists. "Sweet Christ! Your father sent you as a hostage to King Stephen when you were a small boy and you were almost hanged. I don't understand how you can do the same to your own son!" Emotion strangled her voice and she turned abruptly from him, striving to compose herself.

   He went to pour himself a cup of wine. His movements were so measured and calm that their effect on Isabelle was the opposite and made her want to scream. "The circumstances are different. Will is the heir to Pembroke, not a younger son. He's fifteen years old and ready for squirehood. I'm an earl of the realm, not the castellan of a few scattered holdings as my father was."

   She flung round. "And that makes it all right, does it? What sort of things is Will going to learn at the court of a debauched lecher like John?"

   He looked at her and said patiently, "John may not be the best mentor for a boy to have, but others at court will see him on the right path. One day Will is going to be Earl of Pembroke and he must acquire the skills. He has to be a courtier, a soldier, and man of the world. He can only do that by experience. Either we have taught him decency, or we have wasted our time." He took a gulp of wine, the swiftness of the gesture revealing that he was not as relaxed as he was trying to seem.

   She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. "I don't want him to go to John." Her voice cracked again despite her best efforts to control it.

   "Neither do I, but every young hawk must fly the nest. I was going to ask Baldwin to take him, but the court offers more opportunities. We can have people watch over him. He won't be without support."

   Isabelle shook her head and turned away, her hands to her mouth, pain raking her from chest to belly as if her heart was being torn out on long red strings.

   "Isabelle…" He put the cup down and came to fold his arms around her. "You have to see this as an opportunity for him, not an obstacle."

   She shuddered in his arms, then pushed away and looked up at him. "Why can't we go as far away from John as possible? Why can't we take all of our family to Ireland? We can raise our children as we see fit, without him putting his mark on them."

   William's grip tightened and now there was an edge of exasperation in his tone. "Have you not been listening?" He gave her a gentle shake. "Do you not understand? Our children are already marked. Will is the future Earl of Pembroke and Richard will be lord of Longueville. They have to know the world of the court as well as they know this household. I had experience at court in royal service for twenty years before I became lord of Striguil and even now I struggle. How do you think Will is going to cope with naught to grasp but apron strings?" Releasing her, he returned to his wine. "Christ," he said through his teeth, "this argument is going round in circles."

   Isabelle's rage and grief boiled over. "When you were a hostage, your father told King Stephen he still had the anvils and hammers to get more and better sons if he lost you," she said, her shoulders heaving. "Well, do not expect me to be your anvil. I will not bear sons for you to throw to the wolves!"

   For the second time William put down the cup, his action quietly precise. "If that is how you interpret matters, I am sorry. Will is going to court; let that be an end to it." Turning on his heel, he left the room, lifting and dropping the latch with a soft click.

   Isabelle stared at the door. How dare he…how dare he! She grabbed the cup he had used, thought about hurling it at the door, but found the will to tip the dregs into the rushes and pour a fresh cup of her own. Shaking like an old woman, she drank it down. She had just been given a glimpse of the implacable Earl of Pembroke, the man of the justice bench, council chamber, and battlefield. The adversary.

   She wiped her wet face on the heel of her hand. "Where does it go from here?" she asked the empty room in a desolate voice. They had been each other's support for sixteen years. She had walked at his side every step of the way, in partnership, but suddenly they had reached an obstacle and they were choosing to go their own separate paths around it. They had often quarrelled over small things—marital spats that were healed with good humour, apology, and grace on both sides. But this wasn't a small thing. It was fundamental and the wound was deep. She still couldn't believe that he had turned his back on her and walked away.

   Going to their bed she lay down, her head aching and tears still seeping from behind her lids. There was a lump of leaden misery in her stomach. She had very seldom cried because of William, but she was crying now. "I won't give him up to John," she said, but knew her words were as empty as she felt.

***

"They've been fighting," Richard said. He was sitting on his ropeframed bed, stroking Tripes who had come to him for a fuss.

   Will was whittling a piece of wood with a dagger his father's Welsh groom Rhys had given him. It had a handle of polished antler and a blade of pattern-hammered steel so that it looked as if waves were breaking in spume all over the surface. He felt nervous; his parents rarely quarrelled and when they did, it was quickly mended. Sometimes, after an argument, they would close the bedchamber door—not to sleep, but to take each other to bed; tonight, however, he had seen his father emerge from that particular room minus his smile and the air of heavy satisfaction that usually accompanied such encounters. His expression had been blank—frozen on to his face. He had been terse with a lingering servant and had ordered a groom to saddle his courser.