The Scarlet Lion (38 page)

   "Any more o' this and sure we'll be growing flippers like the seals out in Bannow Bay," grumbled Sorcha, Ancel's wet nurse, as she tapped the cradle with her foot to rock him to sleep.

   Sybire giggled at the thought and Belle demanded to be told yet again the story of the women who turned into seals at the full of the moon and could be seen off the prows of boats, diving and sporting in the ghostly silver light. Isabelle gave the wet nurse a conspiratorial smile. Sorcha was a born storyteller with an endless supply of myths, legends, and history. On days like this her tales were a godsend, and since frequent rain was a standard part of Leinster's weather pattern, she had more than earned her keep. Isabelle selected some thread and plied her needle through the fine blue cloth, half listening to the story and half allowing her thoughts to wander.

   William had been home for five months. At first, after the initial business of the oath-taking, he had done little but eat, sleep, and recuperate. He had exercised his horses, played with his children, taken her frequently to bed, and listened to the harp player and bard in the hall of an evening, cup of wine to hand. Sometimes he had taken part in the singing himself, for he had a fine voice, and took great pleasure in using it. The knots had slowly begun to unwind. Colour and vitality had seeped back and the shadow had gradually become the man. Isabelle had seen it happen before. He had come from the funeral of old King Henry to marry her, raised on high by Richard, who until recently had been his enemy. She hadn't known William on their wedding day, nor had he known her. He had been suffering from an injured leg and the mental strain of months of warfare between Henry and Richard. She had not realised it then because she was only eighteen years old and unfamiliar with him, but he had been at the end of his tether and in desperate need of respite. The day after their wedding in St Paul's Cathedral, he had taken her to a secluded manor belonging to a friend, there to spend time and quiet with her, shunning all company and enjoying the simplest of pleasures. Then it had only taken him a week to recuperate, this time it had taken six, but as the days had lengthened and the spring turned the world to green, he had begun to sniff the air with a new, restless optimism.

   By midsummer he had thrown himself into governing Leinster. A flurry of writs and charters had issued from his chamber. He had commenced plans for more settlements, had been busy with the merchants and ship owners in Newtown, developing strategies for increasing trade and bringing prosperity to the port. He took Gilbert and Walter everywhere with him, showing them the business of governance—as he had once shown Will and Richard. The sight of him with their third and fourth sons sent a pang through Isabelle—of anxiety, and of painful longing for her two eldest boys.

   Meilyr FitzHenry had retired to dwell in seclusion at Dunamase under the watchful eye of William's deputies. King John had stripped him of the office of justiciar and given it instead to John de Grey, Bishop of Norwich, a man up to the task. Isabelle rather liked de Grey, even whilst acknowledging that he was one of John's creatures and would not swerve from his master's orders. But at least a man who was openly ruthless was better than one who used low cunning and sneaked about in the periphery of one's vision.

   Sorcha's story was drawing to a close. The man had lost his bride and she had returned to the sea, swimming out on the waves, looking for all the world like a sleek, dark-headed seal.

   Belle, having seen seals out in the bay when they were visiting her father's Abbey of the Vow, wanted to know if such creatures really existed.

   "Ah," said Sorcha with a smile. "Everything exists if you believe in it."

   The door opened and William entered the chamber, his cloak glittering with crystals of rain for he had come across open ground from the stables where he had been inspecting a mare with a new foal. A letter was clutched in his fist and his squires were following hard on his heels.

   Isabelle looked from the letter to her husband's face and set her sewing aside. "What's wrong?" As always, she felt a quickening of fear lest it was bad news about their sons.

   William grimaced as he removed his wet cloak. "You know the King took against William de Braose around the same time that he took against me?"

   "Yes…" Isabelle had never understood the friendship between de Braose and her husband. William might walk up to the line, even scuff his toe along it at times, but he never stepped over. De Braose ignored the detail that a line existed at all, especially when it came to the acquisition of power for his enormous brood of offspring. He was a loud, bombastic oaf—all the things that William wasn't. "What has happened?"

   Frowning heavily, William fetched his heavy outdoor cloak of double-lined wool from the garderobe. "John demanded his eldest son as a hostage and Lady Maude refused to give him up." He gave her an eloquent look and set about changing his shoes for tough, calf-hide riding boots, liberally waterproofed with beeswax.

   Isabelle felt a twinge of admiration and envy. She had refused to give her sons up at first, but had caved in to William's insistence, something she still regretted. Say what you wanted about Maude de Braose, the woman was indomitable.

   "De Braose has fled here to avoid John's wrath and has sent to ask if we will succour him. He's at Wicklow with his wife and family and I'm riding out to meet him. That's as much as I know. The letter is a request for our aid."

   Isabelle looked at him in sudden alarm.

   "Yes, I know," he said. "It's a dilemma. We don't want to antagonise John so soon after the last incident, but we cannot deny refuge to the de Braoses. It is likely that they will travel on to their de Lacy kin in Meath, but they need somewhere to stay for now and I will not turn them away."

   Isabelle nodded reluctantly. It was far too dangerous, but they were honour-bound to offer help.

   William sighed as he latched the toggles on his boots. "The King seems determined to ruin de Braose, but while there's the slightest hope of patching things up between them, we can err on the side of friendship. That's the way to play this and survive. No one has declared in my hearing that de Braose is my enemy, nor have I received letters from the King or his justiciar telling me to turn my men against him." He leaned over, kissed Isabelle's cheek, squeezed her shoulder, and was gone.

   "Maude de Braose," muttered Lady Avenel. Because of the

presence of the children in the room she said nothing else, but the purse of her lips was eloquent.

   Isabelle cautioned her with a look and stood up. "Come," she said, "there's work to be done if we're to have guests."

***

Isabelle was shocked when she set eyes on Maude de Braose. Gone was the florid, overbearing woman she remembered from Normandy. In her place was a raddled hag, broken veins mapping her face, hair a grey tangle sticking out from beneath her wimple, her body a shapeless sack within her rumpled, salt-stained clothing. Her tongue was still as sharp as ever, but behind its edge and in her eyes, Isabelle could see the fear.

   "Surely my lady, the King and your husband can still come to some arrangement," Isabelle murmured as she plied her unwelcome guest with hot wine. De Braose was in the hall with William and the knights, discussing what was to be done, but Maude had come to the private chambers to see her younger children put to bed after their exhausting ordeal.

   Maude laughed harshly. "Indeed they can, providing we are prepared to surrender everything and live as paupers. It's not my husband he wants anyway, it's me."

   "You, my lady?" Isabelle frowned at her guest. "William said something about you refusing to give up your son…"

   Maude threw her a scornful look. "You might bow down to your husband and agree to sacrifice your children to that murdering spawn of the Devil, but I won't. John doesn't want my son for a hostage, he wants him for a corpse…He'd have us all dead if he could."

   Isabelle blenched and glanced around. Several of her women were within hearing and they were giving Maude de Braose wall-eyed looks. "My lady, you should be careful when you say such things. My women are loyal to their last breath, but in other circles it could be very different."

   Maude drank down the hot wine, her throat rippling like a man's. Then she lowered the cup with a gasp and caught a drip from her chin on the back of her hand. "You don't know, do you?" Her eyes filled with stark pity. "You haven't heard."

   "Heard what, my lady?" Isabelle replied, feeling like an animal walking knowingly into a trap.

   "Why do you think we are here, seeking succour from anyone fool enough to take us in?" Maude snapped. "You think my husband is being persecuted because he owes the King too much money? Because he has too many possessions and he's a threat to John's kingship?"

   "I—"

   "He is being destroyed because we know too much. Has your husband told you what really happened to Prince Arthur in the Tower of Rouen?" She curled her lip. "I do not suppose he has. He is good at changing the subject and avoiding what he does not wish to say."

   Isabelle lifted her chin. "I do not think—"

   "Hah, I wish I did not either, but I am afraid I do, all the time, every bitter moment of every day. I'll tell you what my husband did not keep from me. John murdered Arthur—put his foot on his neck and cut his throat with a paring knife. My William was there and John made him dispose of the body afterwards—weigh it down with a block of stone and drop it in the Seine. I refused to give my son to a man capable of doing that to his own flesh and blood. My crime was to say so to the knights who came to take him into custody, and now John will not rest until I am dead too. He is coming for me and for my family and that is why we have fled."

   Isabelle clapped her hand to her mouth, feeling sick. She had always suspected, but had preferred not to delve too deeply. Now she had been forced to see.

   Maude de Braose looked round. "You have made a fine home for yourself, Countess. You and your husband have weathered the storms well. You will not keep us for long. You have a better sense of survival than that…and John already has your sons."

***

"You must have known about Arthur long ago," Isabelle said to William when they retired for the night. "And yet you did not tell me."

   William sat up in bed and punched the pillows and bolsters until they were comfortable. "I knew he was dead when John could not produce him at King Philip's demand, but I did not know the circumstances until now."

   Isabelle shuddered. "How can you serve such a man? We cannot leave our sons in his hands."

   William sighed. "I do not know what version Maude de Braose has told you, but it is almost certain that a French spy gouged out the Prince's eyes. John knew he could never show Arthur to the world in such a state, and the boy was in agony and would have died anyway. John put him out of his misery the way you would do a maimed animal. Whatever he is, whatever he has done, he will not touch Will and Richard."

   Isabelle rubbed her arms. "And whatever John is, you will serve him."

   He gave her a pointed look. "I hope you know me better than your voice suggests."

   "William, you cannot shovel dung and not soil your hands. I know that much."

   "You have seen the plight that de Braose is in. I'll shovel as much dung as I must to prevent that happening to us."

   "Even give them up to John?"

   William swore. "God's bones, woman, your mood is as contrary tonight as this vile weather. No, of course I won't give him up to John—because I have received no summons to do so. I will let them recover from their sea crossing and then I will send them on to their de Lacy kin…unless you would rather keep them here and risk that summons arriving whilst they are our guests?"

   Isabelle looked at him and then away. She felt smirched, ashamed, and rightly put in her place. "No," she said in a low voice filled with chagrin.

   "Ah, Isabelle." He reached for her and pulled her into his arms. She resisted him for a moment, then sighed and rested her head on his chest.

   "Why is nothing clean and simple?" she asked with frustration and sadness.

   He set his hand beneath her hair to stroke the back of her neck. "When I was a youngster," he murmured, "I only had to worry about my horse, my armour, and the morrow's tourney. I used to dream of being a great and powerful lord, never guessing that when I became one, I would yearn in the same wise for those days of joyous simplicity."

                             *** A chill northerly wind was making the winter's day bitterly cold, and it had started to rain—icy droplets, each one like a small, frozen slap where it struck the bare skin of the face and hands. William's knees were aching fiercely and, as he rode, he thought longingly on warm fires and cups of mulled wine spiced with ginger and pepper. He had spent much of his youth in the warmer, drier climes of Poitou and the Limousin and it was ironic that now, when he would have benefited from that more arid climate, he was enduring the cold and damp. For his sins, he was escorting William de Braose and his family to the borders of Meath where Walter de Lacy was to meet them and take his in-laws under his wing.

   The meeting place was a particular ancient stone marking the boundary between William's jurisdiction and de Lacy's. Reputedly it was heard to talk on the night of All Hallows' Eve, although William suspected that the culprit was more likely to be drink and an overactive imagination. As they approached the stone, de Braose joined William. He was riding a fine black stallion that William had gifted to him, and wearing one of William's winter cloaks, lined with Norwegian sable.

   "You have gone as far as you need, Marshal," de Braose said gruffly. "Go back to your wife and your safe haven in Kilkenny."

   William gave a damp, uncomfortable shrug. "I would do more for you if I could."

   De Braose made a sound of macabre amusement. "Said with diplomacy, Marshal, but we both know the truth. I don't expect you to jump into the abyss with me. You have already been to the brink once yourself but fortunately your wife doesn't have the mouth that mine does." He glanced briefly over his shoulder towards the woman riding behind them, her lips set in a grim line that was like a fissure in granite.