The Scarlet Lion (49 page)

   Will gave his mount to a lay brother and knelt to kiss the lord Aimery's ring. The knight greeted him with warmth and gravitas and Will felt his burdens lighten a little. Side by side, without a word, he accompanied the Templar into the church and, reverencing the altar, knelt to pray. As always when in this place, he felt the atmosphere raise the hair on his nape and bring gooseflesh to his arms. This was where his father would eventually lie, and probably himself too. The round nave, designed to replicate the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, had been consecrated by the Patriarch of that city during a visit several years before Will's birth. The tranquillity and grandeur provided by the great glossy columns of Purbeck marble supporting the vaulted roof raised his eyes to heaven and at the same time made him realise his own insignificance, but not in a detrimental way. The church possessed a special air of sanctity. Men who were buried within its hallowed precincts were blessed.

   "I have considered taking Templar vows," Will admitted to the lord Aimery as he rose from his prayer and the men returned outside. An escort of knights in their familiar pale woollen mantles was waiting and a groom had brought Aimery's stallion from the stables.

   Aimery gave him a penetrating glance as he reached to his bridle. "You are the heir to the earldom of Pembroke," he said. "It is beholden on you to further your line."

   Will mounted the bay. "And so I did, but it was taken from me, and perhaps it was a sign from God? I have four brothers, all with the hammers and anvils to provide offspring. Gilbert is in minor orders, but has not taken full vows and there is no bar whatsoever on the other three."

   Aimery's brows drew together in concern. "The grief still rides you close," he said. "In time you may well change your mind."

   "I won't," Will said with finality and spurred his horse.

***

The river at Caversham was steel blue, reflecting in a darker hue the changeable April skies. Standing on the bank, the numerous buildings of the manor behind him, acutely aware of each draw and release of breath from his lungs, William wondered how many spring seasons were left to him. He had no doubt that his brother Ancel was living his last one.

   The swans were nesting on the far bank as they had always done, the female brooding a clutch of five eggs, the male guarding their patch of river with wings arched in graceful angel symmetry. Further along the bank, watched by the women, his three youngest children were playing tag, five-year-old Joanna's skirts kilted up to show her thin ankles and narrow calves. She was squealing with delight, her hair flying like a banner.

   His eldest son was standing at William's side, feet planted apart, arms folded, and expression closed, in contrast to the carefree mood of the little ones. "You won't persuade me to return to the King," he said coldly.

   William concealed his irritation. "I know that. You're more stubborn than my old pack mule. I asked you to come here for a discussion, not because I thought I had any hope of changing your mind."

   "What's to discuss? I thought it had all been said."

   William watched coins of light sparkling on the river. "There is always room for words."

   "Even when no one hears them?"

   "Said aloud, they help me to think, and I don't believe that they go entirely unheard." He glanced shrewdly at his heir, who still looked mutinous. "King Philip is not keen to have Louis aid your cause because, like all fathers, he fears for his son's safety—but he will not refuse him. The offer of a crown and the possibility of destroying John are too tempting to resist. As a father, Philip heard me very well, but as a king, he will take the risk."

   "So Louis is going to invade?"

   "In all likelihood. And it is my task to stand in his way."

   "You can't do it on your own and you don't have many allies left, do you?" Will challenged.

   William was unperturbed. "Those who remain loyal are of such calibre that they will never break and run." He cast his son a cautioning look. "Don't underestimate us, Will. We have you pinned down in London and we've retaken Rochester. Whatever his enemies say, John is no softsword."

   "Everything will change when Louis arrives with his troops," Will parried. "You won't hold us then."

   "Perhaps, and perhaps not. There are factors other than strength of numbers. Men who oppose John might decide that at least he's the devil they know. If the French are undisciplined or if Louis takes away English lands and gives them to Frenchmen, how long will the honeymoon last?" Hands clasped behind his back, William started to walk along the riverbank, thereby forcing Will to walk with him. "It's not why I asked you to come here. I'm not going to plead a lost cause; rather I'll make the best of it. At least our family has a foot in each camp and that is no bad thing." He cleared his throat. "What I do not want is to have to face my own son across a battlefield. If you are going to give your oath to Louis, I want your word that you will not deliberately seek confrontation with me. In my turn I will do the same for you."

   Will frowned. "Yes," he said after a long hesitation. "It makes sense and it's not a dishonourable compromise." He watched his younger siblings. "Is that all you wanted?"

   "No, it's not." William stopped before a jetty and studied the small moored boats. Sometimes he and Isabelle would take one downstream but it had been a while since they had had time. Perhaps this evening, he thought. If they didn't make the opportunity now, perhaps they might never have another one. He faced his son. "I need to make other preparations too. Pembroke will be yours when I die, and its welfare will be in your keeping. I want to speak with you on the matter." He gestured that they should walk back to the manor.

   "You're not dying," Will said sharply.

   William's smile was grim. "Not at the moment, but who

knows what will happen when Louis lands and I have to be constantly in the field. Added to which the miles left of my life's journey are dwindling. I must be practical."

   "You will not make me feel guilty."

   "That was not my intent," William said wearily. Although his son was a grown man, he still felt in many ways as if he was dealing with a difficult adolescent. They should have had everything in common and yet they stood on opposite sides of a divide.

   Will looked at his feet. "Then I apologise. It is hard to know what is and is not intended these days."

   Squealing as she was chased, little Joanna ran up to her father. "Sanctuary!" she shrieked, clinging to his legs. "I claim sanctuary!"

   William lifted her in his arms and swung her round. Her hair was warm with sunshine as it whipped against his cheek, and scented like new grass. The blue ribbon that had tied it back was wrapped in a silken flash around her small clenched fist.

   "Granted!" he laughed, although his eyes were sad. The juxtaposition of youth and age—the innocence of his smallest daughter and the world-weariness of his eldest son—made him ache to the marrow.

Thirty-eight

GLOUCESTER CASTLE, SUMMER 1216

A pack-pony train had recently arrived from the Marshal warehouses at Charing. The sturdy bay ponies stood in the courtyard, silver bells jingling as they tugged at nets of hay while attendants unloaded supplies from their panniers. There were sheets of vellum, parchment, and green sealing wax for the scribes. Bolts of linen and wool spilled from one pony's baskets, furs and skins from another's. The candle supply had been running low and eight panniers of these had been delivered, plus wax and linen wicks to make more. Then there were spices, candied fruits, and barrels of silver pennies to pay the retainers' wages.

   One of the serjeants escorting all this bounty was young and stunningly attractive, with glossy dark hair and sleepy, hazel eyes. Belle and Sybire were giggling in his proximity, sending him coy looks through their lashes and generally acting like silly young hens in the presence of a cockerel. Rolling her eyes, Isabelle intervened and sent the young man away to the guardroom where meat and ale had been set out for the escort. Her wayward daughters she chivvied back to the private chamber, ignoring their pouts and protests.

   "Not the least problem with this war is that our daughters are ready for betrothal, but half the families we would consider appropriate are on the opposing side," Isabelle said in exasperation to William when he entered the chamber a moment later. "Sometimes I don't know what to do with them." She was so distracted herself that she didn't immediately notice the look on his face.

   "Just half the families?" he asked sourly. "There are so few of us left that our daughters have almost no choice at all. Chester, Derby, and Warwick are the only ones, and Chester doesn't have sons."

   His tension belatedly reached beyond her preoccupation and she looked at him. "What's happened?"

   "Louis has advanced on Winchester and taken the submission of Arundel, Warren de Warenne, and Longespée. Hywel's just ridden in with the news."

   "Longespée?" Isabelle's voice rose a notch, causing her daughters to look up like startled deer, and her women to stop what they were doing. "But he's John's half-brother! What's he doing with Louis?" Alarm shot through her. John's supporters really were being pared down to the bone.

   William glanced around the chamber and he lowered his voice. "There's a rumour circulating that John despoiled Ela whilst Longespée was a prisoner after Bouvines."

   "Holy Virgin!"

   William's nostrils flared with disgust. "It's not true. I wouldn't put it past John to be cruel to Ela or frighten her, but he wouldn't seduce her or resort to rape. She's his sister-bymarriage—she's family."

   "Knowing the things he's done to others, including his kin, that's no protection," Isabelle said tartly.

   William made an impatient sound. "He enjoys marking other men's territory, but he wouldn't do it to his little brother."

   "But Longespée believes he would."

   "I'd say he's more worried about his earldom than his wife with the French all over the south. I suspect he's reached the end of his halter." He made an impatient gesture. "His reasons don't matter just now. The point is that he and the others have given their oaths to Louis."

   Isabelle sat down abruptly on a cushioned bench and looked around her comfortable, well-appointed chamber. "So where does that leave us? Where do we go now?"

   William sat down beside her and took her hand in his. "Back to Wales for the moment to keep an eye on the borders," he said. "And from there it's a fast retreat to Ireland if necessary. I doubt the French will come there in a hurry. John is at Corfe but planning to strike across the Midlands."

   There was also the path of bowing to Louis as others had done, but Isabelle knew William would rather die than yield. It was an issue of honour. It didn't matter what John had done to him, it was his own oath that weighed in the balance.

   "Hywel also said that Louis has granted Will the title of Marshal of all England," William said. "He is my counterpart in Louis's camp." He laughed cynically. "I am not certain anyone in his right wits would desire such a title at the moment, but at least he's been given a glimmer of recognition."

   She looked down at their linked fingers. She had seen Will when he came to Caversham with Aimery de St Maur. He had been remote but courteous, doing his filial duty by her but holding aloof and staying in the company of the Templar as much as he could until it was time to leave. It had cut her to the quick, although she had not shown it to the world. She prayed for him daily.

   "Of course it's all piss in the wind," William added. "What Will really wants is Marlborough, but Louis has given it to Robert of Dreux—he prefers a Frenchman to have custody. That can only work to our good. The more he gives to his countrymen and the less to his English supporters, the better it suits us in the long term—if we have a long term left."

***

Will stared. "Worcester," he said to Louis, as if the word was snake venom. "You want me to take Worcester?"

   Louis looked up from the maps and sketches filling his campaign trestle. He drummed his fingers, then laid his palms flat on the wood. "You're capable, aren't you, Marshal?" There was a touch of scorn in Louis's voice, and the hint that if Will was not prepared to do as he asked, there were plenty of others who were.

   "Yes, but it is in my father's jurisdiction…"

   Louis raised a dark eyebrow. "And are you not 'Marshal of all England'?" he asked coldly. "How can you be that when your father claims the same? Perhaps you are afraid of him."

   "I do not fear my father," Will replied stiffly, "but I respect him. I do not see why you are sending me into the heart of his territory when you would not give me Marlborough."

   "Does Marlborough really mean so much to you?" Louis enquired with a scornful smile.

   "More than it does to Robert of Dreux," Will said brusquely. "It belonged to my grandfather in the days of King Stephen and my uncle was its castellan."

   Louis looked down at his maps and plans and shuffled them between his hands. "If you want the place and my trust you will have to earn it. Take Worcester for me and we'll talk again about Marlborough."

   "Sire." Will pressed his lips together, bowed, and flung from the room.

   William de Forz followed him out. "Your father won't be pleased," he said, a note of relish in his voice.

   "I cannot help that," Will snapped. "What am I supposed to do—refuse?"

   "I could go in your stead." De Forz's eyes held a lupine glint.

   "No, I'll do it," Will said curtly. He knew de Forz's appetites

and capabilities well enough by now not to want him anywhere near Worcester. "Prince Louis appointed the task to me."

   "Well then, I wish you good hunting." Smiling, de Forz held out an elegant, well-tended hand. Will ignored the gesture and, putting his head down, strode off to the stables. On his way he had to negotiate Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Hertford, and Longespée, who was still agitating about whether he had done the right thing in joining Louis. He said as much to Will, but Will had neither the patience nor inclination to chew on that particular bone. "You must do as your conscience sees fit," he snapped as he sent his squires in search of his senior knights.