The Scarlet Lion (4 page)

   Something had riled him; he didn't usually make acerbic comments about her women. "No, there is plenty left to drown your woes," she said sweetly and fetched the cup and flagon herself, exchanging eloquent glances with her ladies as she did so.

   Having taken a long drink, William rested the cup on his thigh and sighed out hard. "I've just been talking to a messenger from Baldwin de Béthune."

   Isabelle sat down beside him, plumped a fleece-filled cushion at her back and looked at him expectantly. Baldwin de Béthune, Count of Aumale, was William's closest friend and currently with the King. Even when William was absent from the court, such contacts kept him well informed. Whatever the news was, it had certainly put a burr in her husband's breeches.

   "The Count of Mortain is under suspicion of conspiracy and Richard's in a quarrelsome mood. I tell you, Isabelle, sometimes I want to knock their heads together until their brains run out of their ears—not that it would make any difference except to my own satisfaction."

   "What do you mean, under suspicion?"

   He eyed her sombrely. "Philip of France claims to have letters implicating John in treason. John's supposed to have asked for Philip's aid in mounting a rebellion against Richard—who is not best pleased."

   "It was only a matter of time," she said.

   His nostrils flared. "Why is everyone prepared to believe the worst of John and not allow that he might just have learned his lesson and matured?"

   "So you don't believe it is true?" She managed to school her voice to calm enquiry, avoiding the flat note that usually entered it when they spoke of Richard's brother.

   "Of course it isn't," he said impatiently. "Philip's as wily as a fox and false rumours like this are a fine way of creating discord. John might be devious and self-seeking, but he's not mad and he would have to be insane to go conniving with Philip. The last time he dabbled in conspiracy, Richard was locked up in a German prison. John won't risk anything with Richard close enough to breathe down his neck." He drank again, his movements swift with displeasure. "Whatever his flaws as a man, John has been a model of loyalty to Richard these past five years."

   "So what will happen now?"

   "It's already happening. John's gone off in a fury at being accused and God alone knows where."

   "Perhaps to Paris," she said with pessimism. "Perhaps the King of France has succeeded anyway."

   William shot her an irritated look. "I sincerely doubt he'd turn to Philip, but he might just be sufficiently annoyed to go and plot some mischief by way of revenge."

   "Has Richard done anything about it?"

   "Not yet, from what Baldwin says. He's decided John probably isn't guilty, but he's not entirely sure. Why would he leave court unless he had something to fear? If ever our sons start behaving like Richard and John, I will drown them, I swear I will." He heaved a deep sigh. "Richard is going on campaign in the Limousin to work off his anger and hunt for gold to fill his coffers. Some vassal of Aymer de Lusignan has dug up an ancient hoard on his lands and he's refusing to give it up." He picked up one of Mahelt's
poupées, the one o
f himself as a warrior in the green and yellow surcoat, and eyed it thoughtfully. "Richard needs funds and the idea of a spring campaign to make the sap rise appeals to him."

   Isabelle's stomach lurched. "You are not going with him?"

   "No, I'm still due to sit on the Bench of Justices with Hubert Walter at Vaudreuil. De Braose, de Burgh, and Mercadier are attending on Richard. He says John can wait until his return… I'm not sure he can, but it's a brew for Richard's cup, not mine." He put aside the
poupée
in the surcoat and picked up the one of himself in court garb of red twill embroidered with silver thread. "Jesu, another tunic," he said with a shake of his head, making it clear which of the two figures he would rather be. "I am in danger of becoming a fop."

   Isabelle's heart lightened with relief that King Richard was not summoning him on yet another campaign. "Sybilla made it for her. She's so quick and skilled with a needle that it takes her no time." She lowered her voice and added, "Sybilla thinks she may be with child."

   "So that's what you were gossiping about when I came in?"

   She smiled demurely. "More or less."

   He grunted with amusement. "Lady Elizabeth has a loud voice," he said. "It is good news for them. Jean will be pleased." He rose to his feet and stretched. Isabelle was glad to see the tension had gone out of him; glad too that he had come to her to ease and share his burden. Not all marriages were thus.

   "I suppose if I am leaving for Vaudreuil on the morrow I had better find my two eldest sons. I promised them a jousting lesson." A regretful expression crossed his face. "It doesn't seem a moment since I was their age and my father was teaching me my sword strokes at the pell."

   "While doubtless your mother looked on with her heart in her mouth."

   "Not in the least. She knew the only way I was going to make my way in the world was by learning to use the tools of my trade. Besides, she had already had her moment of anguish when I was five years old and King Stephen almost hanged me from a gibbet."

   Isabelle shuddered. Whenever William mentioned the episode from his infancy when King Stephen had taken him hostage for his father's word of honour, she felt cold. His father had gone back on his word and in retaliation Stephen had threatened to string William up in full view of the besieged garrison. "And no surprise. If any man tried to do that to one of ours, I would bar his way with a naked sword," she said with a curl of her lip. "If I had been wed to your father, I would have killed him."

   He looked wry, "I do believe you would, my love."

   He gave a humourless smile. "I think my mother came close to it on occasion. He lived very close to the edge… Died in his bed, though, and of old age." He kissed her cheek. "Don't look so worried. No one is going to take our sons as hostages." Leaning past her, he picked up the representation of Isabelle from Mahelt's collection of
poupées. "New clothe
s for you as well, I see." He pursed his lips in assessment. "I like the cloak."

   "It's Irish plaid," Isabelle said, eyeing him.

   "I noticed—even if you think I don't know anything about Ireland. When Richard returns from his campaign I'll ask his leave to visit Leinster. You have waited long enough."

   Isabelle stared at him. Then she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. "Thank you!" she gasped. "Thank you!"

   Grinning, he squeezed her waist. "I intend to thoroughly exploit your gratitude," he said. "Be warned."

   She watched him leave the room, his tread buoyant now that he had shared his burden with her, then she turned back to her women, her face flushed and her eyes alight.

   Elizabeth Avenel was waiting to pounce. "Jesu, I see what you mean about him only having to look at you and you quicken," she quipped. "You look like a woman who has just been thoroughly pleasured."

   Isabelle laughed and clapped her hands. "I have. We're going to Leinster!"

   The expression on Lady Elizabeth's face was priceless.

Three

VAUDREUIL, NORMANDY, APRIL 1199

William eyed with relief the servants bearing covered dishes and salvers into the room. It seemed an age since he had broken his fast on bread and honey following mass at dawn and his stomach had been growling for hours. He and the Archbishop of Canterbury, Hubert Walter, had spent a long morning sitting in judiciary session, dealing out what William hoped was fair justice, although he was not certain some of the plaintiffs agreed. The mental exercise involved had given him a numb posterior, a throbbing skull, and a savage hunger.

   The Archbishop appeared to have worked up an appetite too, for he blessed the food in short order and signalled to the attendants with the finger bowls. William washed his hands in the perfumed water, dried them on the proffered embroidered towel, and immediately set to. Even if it was still Lent and the fare somewhat short on variety, the poached salmon was moist and succulent and the spiced frumenty laced with almond slivers and raisins was a pleasure on the palate. A sinful dish of pale primrose butter stood beside a basket of crusty wheaten loaves and William reached for it eagerly. He would do penance for gluttony on the morrow.

   Hubert Walter shook his head as he watched William spread butter on the bread with the back of his knife. "I see you still indulge in rustic English habits," he remarked.

   William shrugged. "I was born an English rustic and a man should know where he comes from as well as where he hopes to go."

   Hubert smiled thinly and conceded the point with a wave of his beringed right hand. He too had risen to an eminent position from less exalted beginnings, although the peculiar English habit of putting butter on bread had not been part of his upbringing.

   Whilst they ate, the men forbore to discuss the cases they had been judging. Hubert, a consummate lawyer, would have been happy to do so, but William preferred to use the time to refresh his mind for the following session.

   "Your family is growing swiftly," Hubert said between mouthfuls of salmon. "How many is it now?"

   "Four boys and a girl," William replied. "Will's nine, Richard's seven, Mahelt's five, Gilbert's almost two, and Walter was born at Christmas." He could recite the names and ages by rote and had made a point of doing so ever since William de Braose had confessed one day at court to not remembering the names and ages of several of his sixteen children.

   The Archbishop looked thoughtful. "Any of the boys destined for the Church? You could do worse than put one of them in Holy Orders."

   "If they show the aptitude, then certainly," William said, "but they'll be trained in general terms first. I am my father's fourth son, but it would have been a disaster for myself and the Church if I had taken vows. My brother Henry was far more suited to the priesthood."

   "Ah yes, the eminent Bishop of Exeter," said Hubert Walter, his impartial tone more eloquent than words spoken with feeling.

   William seldom had dealings with Henry, who had risen high in the Church by courtesy of King Richard's favour towards the Marshal faction. William preferred to keep a cordial distance from his brother, who was patronising, finicky, and would not have dreamed of eating buttered bread. When they encountered each other on formal occasions, they associated, but out of fraternal duty rather than personal choice.

   William was cutting into a curd tart dappled with ground cinnamon when one of Hubert's messengers arrived. The man was covered in dust and dried mud from his journey and his eyes were inflamed from lack of sleep. As he knelt to kiss the Archbishop's ring, he was already producing from his satchel two letters bearing King Richard's seal. "They are fair copies of each other, my lords," he said, giving one to William and one to the Archbishop.

   Hubert Walter nodded and dismissed the man. Waving away the table attendants, he wiped his eating knife, cut the tags, and opened out the vellum. William cleaned his hands on a napkin and looked at the Archbishop expectantly. On occasions like this, it was a nuisance not to have the skill of reading. He had tried to learn, but the letters remained so much spider scrawl to his eyes.

   Hubert Walter's expression gave little away, but William noticed the tensing of his lower lids. "Trouble?" William's first thought was that the King's brother John had been caught with his fingers in the treason pie again.

   The Archbishop raised his head and glanced around to ensure that no one but William was within earshot. "The King has been wounded," he muttered. "A crossbow quarrel in the shoulder." He frowned at the lines of brown ink. "This is the work of a scribe but I hear Richard's words in my head, so he must have been competent to dictate it. He says that as a precautionary measure we've to secure the treasury at Rouen but to say nothing for the moment."

   William looked hard at the Archbishop. "Secure the treasury for whom?"

   "He doesn't say—probably hasn't decided yet. He wouldn't write to us if the wound was a mere pinprick, but this is still probably no more than a precaution."

   William took his own letter and pushed it through his belt. He'd have his chaplain read it over to him as he prepared to ride, and he would send a messenger to Isabelle. "Should it prove serious, no one currently knows the whereabouts of the Count of Mortain."

   "I dare say he can be found swiftly enough if necessary." Hubert's offhand manner immediately informed William that the wily prelate had his spies out. Hubert cocked a look at William from beneath his brows. "Have you ever suffered battle wounds, Marshal, beyond the usual scratch and scrape?"

   William nodded. "In the same place as the King, but not a crossbow quarrel, thank God. A Flemish mercenary put a gaff through my hauberk when I was a newly fledged knight and I still bear the scar. Then in Poitou I took a spear through the thigh. I might have died from that one, but God was merciful." Memory sent his hand to his leg where he felt the ghost of the pain beneath his fingertips.

   The Archbishop wiped his lips on his napkin. "I saw men die of their wounds in the Holy Land," he said. "Acre was full of death, even from a gnat bite or an insignificant graze, but Richard was strong and survived all of those—the camp fever too."

   William frowned. "It is only a precaution that we go to Rouen."

   "Let us hope it is, but there is no harm in making preparations." He sent William an eloquent look. "The race is to the swift, my lord Marshal, and it would be foolish of us to squander our head start."

                             *** Stripped to his shirt and braies, William sat wearily down on his bed and stared at the irregular soot mark above the candle in the wall sconce. It had been three days since the letter had arrived from the Limousin and no word since then—which might mean that either the King was making a good recovery or that his condition had deteriorated. Without news they were in limbo, but perhaps it was preferable to the hell waiting to heave up beneath their feet should Richard die.