The Scarlet Lion (37 page)

   "And Will?"

   He hesitated, then said neutrally, "Will has been learning the usual young man's lessons about drink, gambling, and women who bare their hair in public."

   Isabelle clucked her tongue in disapproval and took up her comb.

   William looked wryly amused. "I mean that he has learned by his mistakes, which has to be the best way where such vices are concerned. If he was ever bedazzled by the glamour of the court, he now sees its underbelly too, which is all to the good. Now he has to learn patience, and that will only come with age." He gave her a long, aching look. "I've missed watching you comb your hair."

   His expression and the tone of his voice made her bones gelatinous. She put the comb aside and came to the bed. "I think of Will and Richard each time I look at the sons and the brothers that I have taken as surety from the men who burned Newtown," she said. Kneeling at his feet, she began slowly unwinding his leg bindings. "I told Jean that if you did not return to me whole, I would cut out their hearts with a spoon." She looked up at him. Her hair bore ripples from its earlier braiding. Smoothed by the comb, it shone like cloth of gold. "But what I said was only the bravery of words. When I see them, I think of their mothers, and then I think of my sons. Do you know, if I could, I would keep their fathers hostage and let the sons go."

   "So, would you barter me for Will and Richard?" he asked quietly.

   Isabelle rolled up the length of woven binding. "That is an

unfair question."

"Perhaps, but I asked it. Would you?"

   She started on his other leg and worked in silence for a moment, considering. "As a mother, yes I would," she said. "They have their lives before them and they are of my flesh. I have carried them in my body, sustained them at my breast, watched over their first steps, and comforted their scrapes and grazes. No matter the love and honour that I hold for you, their father, I would have to choose them out of my maternal heart." She gnawed her lip. "But as a countess and a wife it would break me to give you up. Six months has shown me what I can do and what is impossible. Yes, I have had able deputies, but that is all they have been: temporary helmsmen. Our boys are not yet ready to steer the ship and you still have an infant son to see grow up. I won't let you shirk that responsibility." Her voice quivered and her gaze was suddenly liquid.

   William's laugh had a hollow ring. "Ah, Isabelle, I am of an age when other men have grandchildren at their feet, or effigies on their tombs. I am growing old."

   The words sent a jolt through her because they had been her first thought on seeing him in the courtyard. She could not lose him; the thought was unbearable. "You are not other men," she said fiercely. "After all that has happened you are bound to be tired, and sea crossings always disagree with you." Kneeling between his thighs, she reached to the ties attaching his hose to his braies and after a moment's nimble work, slanted him a look through her lashes. "Shame on you for lying to me," she said in a slumberous voice. "There's certainly no old age here."

   This time William's laughter—somewhat breathless—was filled with genuine humour. "I suppose that even in ancient oaks the sap still rises in springtime," he said.

***

Gasping, William gazed at the green and gold canopy above his head and waited for his heart to cease its drumbeat racing and settle to a steadier rhythm. Although carrying no surplus flesh, he knew that he was slack and out of condition. He had been kicking his heels at court for far too long and he was stale.

   Taking stock of himself, he knew, despite Isabelle's fierce denial, that he was sixty-one years old and his remaining years were dwindling. His eyesight was still sharp, his teeth mostly sound, and he hadn't yet started to shake with palsy. With a twisted smile at the canopy, he acknowledged that he was certainly not impotent. But in cold weather his knees ached, and although he could mount a horse without difficulty, no longer could he leap across a saddle in full mail. The intensity of the bout of lovemaking with Isabelle had left him shaking and drained. He had heard enough jests about old husbands dying on their wedding nights at the moment of supreme pleasure, and seen the knowing smirks of the young knights when old barons brought their toothsome young wives to court. He dreaded suffering a seizure that paralysed but did not immediately kill, or being rendered helpless by the incapacities of old age. The thought of being tied to life as a dribbling wreck appalled him, not just for himself, but for Isabelle. She was more than twenty years younger than he was. The notion of being useless to her and of seeing pity in her eyes or, God forbid, disgust was unbearable.

   Ancel stirred in the cradle and whimpered. Isabelle quietly rose from the bed to tend him, drawing a loose bedrobe over her naked body. Time had changed her too. The once lithe flanks and high breasts had been replaced by the rounded soft curves of a woman who had birthed many children. Watching her through half-closed lids, William decided that it was probably not a good idea to voice his fears to her for it would make them more real and perhaps cause her to think in directions she had avoided before. If God was good then perhaps He would let him live to see this baby at least become a strapping youth.

   As he drifted off to sleep, William made a decision to enjoy the years he had left, however many…or few they might be. He would make a good fist of governing Leinster, would leave a legacy of peaceful prosperity for Isabelle and their heirs. He was done with the hurly burly of John's court…forever.

***

Feeling nervous, Isabelle watched the servants unroll a magnificent length of tapis along the floor before the lord and lady's chair. The colours, scarlet, blue, and gold, were richer and brighter than any flowers on God's earth. Light shone down on the carpet from the high arched windows above and illuminated the beauty of the pattern. She was not averse to spending silver when she had to, and neither was William, but she didn't want to tell him how much the piece had cost. She had obtained it from their Flemish broker and it had travelled the spice road from Persia, or so the man said in the letter that had accompanied it across the Irish Sea.

   "What's this?" William asked her with sharp curiosity.

   "I thought that we could hang it on the far wall in the solar," she said, "but today I want to make an impression on our vassals when they kneel before us to renew their oaths. None will have anything like this in their own homes, and the fact they must walk upon such luxury to reach us will emphasise our wealth and power." Their Irish vassals had arrived to renew their allegiance and were waiting to be summoned.

   "Our wealth?" He arched his brow.

   Isabelle flushed. "Worth it," she said.

   He looked her up and down. She knew he was taking in her new gown of dark-rose silk, stitched with pearls from the Indian Ocean, and the belt of brocaded silver thread. "You are probably right," he agreed. "And perhaps this is one of those occasions when it is tactful for a husband not to ask his wife for an accounting."

   "Oh," Isabelle said softly as he escorted her across the bright rug to her chair and took his place beside her, "there will be an accounting today, indeed there will. I have been waiting for this moment."

   Those who had reneged and rebelled were to receive their just deserts. Isabelle wanted them to kneel on the tapis, feel the soft wool under their knees, see the rich jewel colours, and know that they could not match the magnificence and power of their overlords. It would be sweet balm on the wounds caused by all the humiliation and uncertainty of the past months. She had never thought of herself as a vindictive person, but she would have restitution today.

   William said nothing, but made himself comfortable, one hand resting on the chair arm, the other cupping his jaw in a deliberating manner. Then he sent his ushers to bring his vassals to him, and had the hostages assembled in an upper chamber away from the gathering.

   The first man to cross the tapis was Philip of Prendergast. He moved gingerly, almost on tiptoe, and his gaze refused to settle on anything. When he looked up it was to shafts of light from the window and they brought his eyes down to the glorious rich colours of the tapis, symbol of wealth and status unharmed. Focusing straight ahead brought him the glacial blue stare of the Countess and William's impartial dark one. And so his focus vacillated, confirming to Isabelle that he was weak and not to be trusted.

   Kneeling before Isabelle and William, he bowed his head and offered up his clasped palms to perform homage. Isabelle was taken aback when William accepted Prendergast's oath of loyalty without demur, giving him the kiss of peace and speaking to him formally but with warmth, as if there had never

been a breach between them.

   "Go and find your sons," William said. "They are in the chamber above the hall with the others who have been guesting here awhile. Take your wife—she will want to see them too, I warrant."

   Prendergast stared at William with astonishment. "You want no more of me than that? You are willing to release them?"

   "I want your loyalty, and I will have it," William said. "But rather given of your own volition than forced out of you. Go now, and think on this moment—what you have sworn and how I have acted." He waved his hand in dismissal.

   Expression dazed, unable to believe that it had been so easy, Prendergast staggered his way back across the tapis to find his wife and then go to his sons.

   Isabelle's expression was dazed too. "Why didn't you bring him to task?" she hissed. "I cannot believe you let him off so leniently!"

   William turned to her. "I will not exact retribution unless it is going to be more effective than diplomatic persuasion. I have no need to smash every cup in the pottery to make my point; just the one that men thought at one time to have lustre."

   "You are taking generosity too far." Isabelle's gaze was bright with anger.

   "Better than the other way around."

   Biting back an acerbic retort, she gripped the arms of her chair hard as the next vassal came forward to make his obeisance, renew his vows, and receive the kiss of peace.

   William dealt with all the rebels in the same fashion that he had dealt with Philip of Prendergast. He spoke magnanimously, saying all men made errors of judgement, himself included. There was no edge to his voice and he returned the hostages with open generosity and kisses of peace all round. Isabelle continued to fume and was on the point of bursting when it finally came Meilyr FitzHenry's turn to walk the tapis and bow before them.

   And now William sat up, leaned forward, and everything changed.

   In the next few moments, as she watched him destroy Meilyr FitzHenry, Isabelle felt the hair rise on her nape and at her forearms. William didn't raise his voice; he didn't have to. The timbre was enough and the imposing language of his body that before had been so relaxed. Now he clad himself in the full power of the great magnate he was.

   "I intend to keep your son Henry with me," William announced. "He will learn more about honour in my household than in yours. Be assured I will treat him better than you have treated me and mine."

   A look of dismay crossed Meilyr's face. William's expression remained neutral as he played indifferent, treating Meilyr with the courtesy due to a vassal, but one of small consequence.

   "I have also looked into your marriage with your son's mother. Since it seems you were handfasted but never wed and have no formal contract lodged with any church, your boy does not have the hereditary right to the keep at Dunamase. It reverts to your overlord, who happens to be me. On those terms I am content to have you as my vassal and give you the kiss of peace."

   Isabelle managed not to gape at William but she was astonished. Meilyr and his wife not married? From where had he dredged that up? No matter. If it was true, and knowing William he would not have said so unless he was positive, it was the hammer with which to smash this particular cup.

   Meilyr had turned the colour of parchment. "You cannot do that!" he gasped.

   William's stare was icy. "I can, and I will. A man who rebels against his lord forfeits all. I do not expect your gratitude for not taking everything from you—it would be asking too much of your character—but I do expect your compliance. You have no choice but to accept my judgement. Who will support you? And do not say the King, because I have it on good authority that you are to be replaced by someone less incompetent."

   Meilyr deflated like a pricked balloon. Shaking like a man of ninety, pupils dilated with shock, he knelt to offer his hands to William, who clasped them tightly between his own. "I hold you to this oath," William said quietly. "And may you be damned if you break your word."

   Once Meilyr had staggered away, escorted by two knights of William's mesnie, Isabelle turned to him. He had briefly closed his eyes and now she saw the strain in his face.

   "How did you know about his marriage? Is it true?"

   William opened his eyes and gave her a weary look. "Meilyr has plenty of enemies waiting their chance to see him take a fall off fortune's wheel. Loyalty is cheaply bought and sold if you know the right places to haggle and you don't mind wading through the mire." He eased to his feet and gestured a servant to roll up the length of tapis. "Yes, it's true. He handfasted in the Welsh fashion and never married the woman at the church door…an oversight he's regretting now, but too late since she's dead."

   "Where are you going?" she asked as he turned away from the gathered folk waiting for them in the hall.

   "To wash my hands," he said. "I've soiled them enough for one morning."

Twenty-eight

KILKENNY, LEINSTER, SEPTEMBER 1208

The autumn weather was wild and Isabelle was content to spend a day in her chamber, teaching her daughters to sew while she embroidered the hem of a new tunic for William. Rain slammed against the tightly closed shutters, making everyone shiver. Isabelle was wearing her warmest undergown and a dress of thick salmon-pink wool.