The Scarlet Lion (44 page)

   She had been unable to pierce her daughter-in-law's wall of reserve. Alais seemed to prefer not to speak to Isabelle or her ladies, but remained with the younger women of the bower. She was resentful when asked to perform tasks. Although a skilled needlewoman, she pouted at having to sew clothes as gifts for visitors or household knights. She had little interest in accounts and tallies, nor did she wish to put herself out to socialise with guests unless they were of a similar age to herself. Alais was not gauche or shy, Isabelle was certain of that, rather she did not want to be bothered, and that was disturbing. At Alais's age Isabelle had had to be bothered as the entire domestic responsibility of an earldom devolved on her shoulders. Nevertheless, the girl appeared to enjoy possessing the status of Countessin-waiting. She was fond of her mirror too, always preening before her reflection. Isabelle attempted to remain sanguine but it wasn't easy. She told herself the girl was still very young; she would change as she matured. Alais obviously adored Will—as he did her. That in itself was a blessing, for many marriages were not so fortunate.

   Towards her father-in-law, Alais behaved like a demure young lady. She afforded him such deference and was so subdued in his presence, that William was torn between mirth and indignation.

   "She makes me feel as if I am a hundred and twenty!" he grumbled to Isabelle.

   "A good thing you have me to rejuvenate you then," Isabelle had replied, making him laugh. She had noticed he didn't treat Alais as he did his daughters. There was no teasing, no braid-tweaking, no intimacy. The relationship was a polite one, functioning at arm's length, and it made Isabelle a little sad to see it.

   William was in a fine mood today. The strained relationship between himself and Will had eased as they concentrated together on controlling the South Welsh March, and stayed away from the court. John had restored William to favour and granted him the castle of Cardigan and authority in Gwent, giving him full remit to do what was necessary to curb the Welsh. With the end of the papal interdict, there was cautious optimism in some quarters that the storm might pass over. News of a great naval victory against the French at Damme had kept the barons sweet, whatever their misgivings about the King. The Earl of Salisbury had surprised the French fleet in port, burned the ships, and taken a vast amount of plunder. On the back of such success, hoping to recover the lands he had lost, John was currently in Poitou, conducting a campaign against King Philip.

   Shouts of approbation echoed from the tilting ground before the stands as Will trotted forth on a showy chestnut destrier, barded in the Marshal green and gold. His surcoat was the same with the scarlet lion stitched at his breast; his shield too. Even his helm, carried before him on the saddle, was painted in the Marshal colours and plaited at the crown with streamers of green, gold, and red.

   "Doesn't he look handsome?" Isabelle said to her daughterin-law.

   For once Alais responded to Isabelle's approach with a bright smile of connection. "There is no one to match him," she said fiercely.

   "Not now, perhaps," Isabelle replied. Watching her son, she wondered if this was how William had looked as an eager young man embarking on the first adventures of knighthood. If only she could have seen him then, she thought with a small pang of regret for something not known. He had been magnificent as a man of two score, but in his fierce and slender youth…

   William had been adjudicating the matches between the combatants but turned as Ancel ran up to him with the arming cap and jousting helm he had been sent to fetch.

   Isabelle clenched her fists in her gown and did not allow her apprehension to show on her face.

   "Is Papa going to joust too?" Sybire craned her neck. Her eyes glowed with anticipation.

   Isabelle sighed. "Probably yes," she said, knowing that it would be impossible to prevent him. Long ago she had replaced pleas to her husband with prayers to God. She watched Jean D'Earley take William's place as judge. Walter and Gilbert arrived, leading William's powerful liver chestnut destrier Aethel between them. The stallion was high-stepping at a rapid trot, his mouth open, his crest arched, and silver mane flowing. Fresh, Isabelle thought, very fresh, and looked with renewed worry at William who was lacing up his arming cap.

   William took Aethel from his excited sons, rubbed his white-blazed face, patted his neck, then set his foot to the stirrup and swung into the saddle. William's movements were smooth and he worked with the horse, controlling the kicks and sidesteps with a firm hand on the reins and the grip of his thighs. Isabelle's eyes stung with pride even while her stomach clenched with fear. She had agreed with her daughter-in-law that there was no one to match Will, but now she revoked it, even if he was her son. Few men could have looked so fine on a warhorse, forty years on from being belted a knight. William's spine was still spear-straight.

   William leaned to take his painted lance from Gilbert, and again his actions were easy and limber. Resting the lance across his saddle, he nudged the stallion with his heels. With a high swish of tail, Aethel launched into a smooth canter and William approached the stands. Drawing rein he made the stallion side-step, crossing leg over leg in a scissoring action. "For your honour, my ladies," he said, hefting the lance and dipping it towards them. His daughters laughed and clapped their hands. Belle removed the chaplet of flowers crowning her fair hair and threw it to her father. He caught it deftly on the point of the lance and smiled at her. Not to be outdone, Will pounded up on his new chestnut, clods flying, and Alais rose to bestow her own chaplet upon him, her movements gracefully dramatic.

   Father and son saluted each other and rode in opposite directions, each to his end of the tilt, and Isabelle's heart was suddenly in her mouth. She shivered, disturbing Joanna who murmured a soft protest in her sleep and snuggled closer. Isabelle did not for one moment believe either would deliberately set out to harm the other, but seeing them at opposing ends of a tilt, even in a spirit of play, knotted her stomach.

   At Jean's signal, William nudged Aethel and he broke into a balanced, steady canter. Will pricked the chestnut, and it shot forward like a burst of steam from under a cauldron lid. Hooves pounded the turf, the horses' breath sawed in and out, and the men levelled their lances at each other's shields. Isabelle would have shut her eyes, except that William had once told her that one of the core lessons of becoming a champion jouster was to stay focused and never look away. William's lance hit true centre of Will's shield. Will's own blow went wild because he was struggling to control his unsettled horse and his father's accurate strike had unbalanced him. Alais made a soft sound of dismay and kneaded her hands together in her lap as the men turned at the end of the tilt and came in again. This time Will had his horse on a tighter rein and his aim was true. The rattle of lance on shield was as loud as a thunderclap and William was forced back against the cantle of his saddle: only experience and expert horsemanship kept him astride. On the third turn, each man signalled to the other and this time, although they made a full charge of the moment, the rap of lance on shield was a polite courtesy, an acknowledgement of prowess that sought no further confirmation. Spectacle performed, honour satisfied, they turned to the quintain and a contest of lifting the ladies' chaplets off the hook attached to one end of the cross bar, leaving the joust to other knights who wanted to prove their valour and impress the ladies. Isabelle wiped her damp palms on her skirts and breathed out, relieved that, at least for the moment, the danger had passed.

                             *** "You were holding back," she murmured as they sat to dine in the Norman great hall. The tables were spread with napery of bleached linen and the best glass and silver goblets were in use at the high table. "Both at the joust and the quintain."

   William smiled towards his heir who was helping Alais to slices of venison simmered in a sauce seasoned with grains of paradise. "So was he." He looked rueful. "He didn't want to best me before my household and smirch my pride. I stayed my arm because I didn't want to embarrass him in front of his bride. If we'd both opened up…" He spread his hands. "Well, who knows."

   "And God forbid," she shuddered. "It froze my marrow to see you riding at each other."

   He waved his hand. "Ach, it was nothing, a piece of display. Are you going to shiver and cross yourself every time he and I play chess or merels together?"

   "You know what I mean," she said crossly. "Charging each other on horseback is not the same as playing chess in the solar."

   "A little more dangerous I grant you"—amusement crinkled his eye corners—"but we knew what we were about."

   Isabelle drew breath to tell him what she thought of his reasoning, but was distracted by the sight of their messenger Hywel being admitted to the hall by William's usher. "News," she said instead.

   William lowered his cup, looked at her, then at the man making his way between the trestles towards them. The humour vanishing from his face, he beckoned Hywel to mount the dais.

   Isabelle noted the dust on Hywel's garments and his redrimmed eyes with increasing trepidation. He'd been riding hard and the message was deemed sufficiently important to interrupt the feasting.

   Hywel knelt to William and fumbled inside his pouch for the letters he carried. "My lord Earl, my lady, there has been a battle at Bouvines on the road to Tournai…King Philip and his allies have carried the victory. There are a thousand dead and thousands more prisoners, including the Earl of Salisbury."

   Isabelle gasped and put one hand to her mouth.

   "And the King?"

   "Safe, my lord; he was at La Rochelle, but his Flemish and German allies were smashed beyond hope of rallying. It was a rout…"

   Isabelle whitened. "My son?" she said. "Is there news of Richard?"

   Hywel withdrew a letter sealed in green wax and turned to her, holding it out. "He sends you this, my lady, as a token that he is safe and well. He told me to say that he was on his sick bed and took no part in the battle on either side."

   "On his sick bed…?" Isabelle took the packet gingerly and after a quick glance at the seal tag, opened the letter and handed it to her eldest son who looked stunned. "Read it to me, Will."

   He did so, hesitantly with much squinting and frowning. "God's teeth, he writes as if he's using the legs of a dead fly, not a quill," he said with disgust after he had deciphered the greeting. "Why didn't he have a scribe do it for him? '…camp fever…well looked after by the King's personal physician…need not concern…in better health and improving daily…recovered enough to go to Longueville…The'—something, something— 'permission. The battle has left the lord King in much upset and disarray' something, something—'Earl of Salisbury to be exchanged for the brother of Count Robert of Dreux…'"

   There were more salutes and reassurances that Richard was safe, and he had signed the parchment by pressing down with the quill, for it had obviously broken, spattering his signature with a pox of ink blots.

   Isabelle took the parchment from Will. It certainly did appear to have been written by someone who had paid no heed to his tutors but the sight of it made her smile and filled her eyes with tears, not least because she was imagining his wrist shaking with fever as he fought to form the words.

   William looked thoughtful. "I'd say that his illness was useful in rendering him
hors de combat.
He didn't have to refuse to fight for John, and he couldn't answer the French summons to lead the men of Longueville."

   "You mean it's deliberate?" she said.

   "No…fortuitous, and Richard has ever had the knack of making the most of what fortune sends him. If he's free and clear at Longueville, then so much the better." He snorted. "The boy has the constitution of an ox. How likely is it that he'd be too sick to hold a quill? I'd say this was written late at night on a rickety camp table in the aftermath of the battle. And what better way of letting us know he is safe than by penning the letter himself?"

   Isabelle nodded and ceased chewing her lip, although her frown remained.

   William curled his fist around his cup and stared into his wine.

   "So," Will said on a hard breath, "it's all been for nothing, hasn't it? All the money-gathering, all the cajoling and pleading to get his barons to cross the Narrow Sea. And for what—for men to fall beneath French swords because he couldn't organise an orgy in a Southwark stew. If he wasn't finished before, he is now."

   William gave his son a reproving stare. "He is still the anointed King."

   Will pushed abruptly to his feet "Yes, but probably not for much longer." Grasping his wife's hand, he left the hall without asking formal leave.

   "Perhaps he is right," Isabelle said softly. "Perhaps John has reached the end of the road."

   "Then so have I," William said. Rising to his feet, he too left the hall. Benches scraped as folk hastily rose and bowed at his passing, but William did not acknowledge them. Isabelle left her own place, waving her women to stay where they were. A second gesture bade the other diners to be seated and continue with their meal.

   Outside, a summer dusk was falling, the sky hazily bruised towards the sea. She could hear the wheel churning at the tidal mill below the castle, and the mournful cry of gulls over the estuary. For a moment she stood breathing deeply, summoning her courage, then she approached the great keep and began the long climb to the battlements. The newlyweds had the chamber at the top. She contemplated knocking on the closed door and having a talk with her son, but abandoned the notion. There would be time later and he was with his wife now…as she should be with William.

   Her husband was standing on the battlements, looking out on the estuary, hands braced on the crenel stones. The evening breeze rippled the edge of her veil and blew William's hair like liquid silver and carried to her the scent of salt and seaweed. For a long time she stood at his side in silence, and after a while, laid her hand upon his—not by way of apology, but in solidarity.