The Scarlet Lion (50 page)

   Longespée looked bitter. "Easier said than done…unless you happen to be William Marshal."

   As Will made preparations to ride, he found himself pondering Longespée's words and wondering how easy it was for his father. Was honour the same as conscience? If not, how did one choose between them? And was the choice, when made, bitter as gall?

                             *** At Striguil, Isabelle was busy with the travelling chests brought from Caversham when a loud scream made her jump out of her skin. A terror of memories flashed through her like the keen cut of a blade as she ran into the antechamber, followed by her women. Sybire was clutching the side of her head and howling like a banshee. Belle was standing over her, flushed with distress. When she saw her mother, her eyes fìlled with guilt.

   "Holy Virgin, what on earth's the matter?" Isabelle demanded. "Let me see!" Hurrying to the girls, she took Sybire's hand away from her head and saw that her ear was covered in blood from a ragged, welling hole in the base of the lobe.

   "It's Belle's fault," little Joanna volunteered, her eyes as wide as goblet rims with the shock of the screams. "She did it."

   "It's not my fault!" Belle burst into tears. "Sybire made me do it!"

   "Do what?" Isabelle asked, striving to keep her voice level.

   Belle opened her closed hand and showed her mother the ornate Byzantine earring on her palm, its wire glistening with Sybire's blood. "They were in the jewel box, and Sybire said she wanted to wear them. She told me to—"

   "I didn't know you were going to make such a mess of it!" Sybire gasped, tears pearling down her cheeks. "I should have known. You can't sew to save your life!"

   Isabelle took the earring from Belle and prayed for patience. The jewel was part of the earldom's portable treasure. At some time it had been traded by a returning crusader, and had found its way to the Marshal counting house at Charing, and from there to the strongbox in their chamber. "Sweet Mary, you are not Greeks! When you are grown women you will cover your hair and ears except in the bower and the private presence of your husband. Nor is it appropriate for you as unmarried virgins to wear such trinkets."

   Recovering from the initial stab of pain, Sybire lifted her chin. "I saw a lady in London with them in her ears once and my father says that the women of the tourneys often wore jewels in their ears."

   Isabelle wiped the earring hook on her skirt and returned it to the jewel casket, which she then took into her custody whilst holding out her hand for the key the girls had purloined. "None of my daughters is about to become a tourney follower," Isabelle said tersely. Giving the casket to Sybilla D'Earley for safekeeping, she fetched a cloth and a vial of rose water to dab the wound. "I can find a lot more for you to do than play at vanity," she threatened as Sybire flinched and protested through clenched teeth. "Let this be a lesson to you and you had better say extra prayers to the Virgin. You don't want to take the wound poisoning and end up with your father's field chirugeon having to slice off your ear."

   Sybire suddenly looked worried. Isabelle returned to unpacking the chests, thinking it a good thing William had never mentioned in front of his daughters the dancing girls who frequented the tourneys and the vicinity of their anatomical piercings!

   She was sorting through his shirts and braies, the girls now virtuously helping her in atonement for their prank, when he stormed into the room, his expression thunderous. "Louis has sent troops into Worcester!" he snarled.

   "Worcester!" Isabelle's eyes widened in shock.

   "And he's sent them under Will's command." The look he shot her was filled with fury, and more than that—pain. "It's a step too far, Isabelle; I won't stand for it." He strode to one of the chests yet to be unpacked, slammed back the lid, and heaved out the leather sack protecting and containing his hauberk. "The whelp's seized the town and occupied the castle."

   Isabelle's heart began to pound with fear. "What are you going to do?"

   "Go there, of course. I won't have him encroaching on my domain. We made a pact at Caversham to leave each other's interests alone inasmuch as we were able, but obviously he's chosen to break his word."

   She swallowed. "Don't go," she said in a voice tight with panic. "Send one of your knights…"

   William gave the sack to a waiting squire and directed another one to take mail chausses, gambeson, and surcoat from the chest. "If I don't do something about it, Chester and Warwick will. Besides," he added, "he has broken his word to me and I will know the reason why."

   "Perhaps he was backed into a corner." Isabelle followed him as he and his squires headed for the bailey.

"Well, he's backed me into one now," William said grimly.

   Ralph Musard was holding William's courser, saddled up and ready. Aethel was clipped on a lead rein and tended by a groom.

   "Come back whole," Isabelle said unsteadily, "and be careful with Will." She felt helpless, unable to find any soothing words or gestures to smooth the path and make things less jagged. Her son was out of reach and so was William, his kiss perfunctory before he swung to horse.

   "I'll make no promises," he said and, turning from her, gave his courser the spur.

                             *** Will took a swallow of the rich red wine and felt it burn down his gullet, leaving a tannic coating on his tongue. His men had taken it from a vintner's shop near the guildhall together with several casks of mead and a large cheese from his larder.

   Worcester had yielded to Will and his troops after a token resistance, as he had suspected it would. He was the "Young Marshal" and therefore the weight of his father's reputation allied to his own standing had made the populace amenable to his entry into the town. What resistance there was had been swiftly put down. Will had kept a rein on the troops. No houses had been burned and no violence offered to the people who did not resist. Looting had been selective and controlled.

   The wine lay on Will's stomach like molten lead. Grimacing at his goblet, he set it aside. He wasn't thirsty and knew if he continued to drink for the sake of it, he would be violently sick. Nor would drink do anything to alleviate his state of mind except by way of granting him temporary oblivion. "God on the Cross," he muttered and, hot-eyed, removed his boots and went to lie down. His squire had made up his pallet with clean linen sheets, pulled crisp and tight. The blanket was of undyed wool and the coverlet of a simple striped weave—the bed of a monk, not the heir to an earldom. He found sleep came more easily in such a bed these days.

   The door opened on a cold draught of air and then closed again firmly. Expecting his squire, Will started to say he desired to be left alone unless the matter was urgent. Then he laid eyes on the tall cloaked figure and dived for his swordbelt instead.

   "Leave it," his father snapped and, straddling a camp-stool by the bed, put down his hood.

   "How did you get past my men?"

   William snorted. "Your pickets are lax and Worcester has long been in my authority. The townsfolk might have let you in, but it doesn't mean they're overjoyed about it. There are plenty of stout English men out there who object to having their city occupied by the supporters of a French prince. They were happy to guide me in and the knights of your mesnie are too sensible to interfere between a father and son." He gave a sardonic smile. "Despite your title, it seems that my own name still stands for something."

   Will flushed. "I didn't ask to be given this task."

   "No, but I'm sure your heart didn't bleed when Louis awarded it to you—save that it wasn't Marlborough. You try my patience, you know that." His eyes were bright with anger within their shadowed sockets. "Why in God's name come to Worcester when you know full well it's right under my nose?"

   The headache Will had thought to avoid by not drinking any more wine began to throb at his temples. "You didn't have to come. If it is under your nose it is because you have made it your business to come sniffing around. What did you expect me to do: sit on my backside in Louis's camp and do nothing?"

   "Let me turn that around and ask you the same. Did you think I was going to skulk in Gloucester or Striguil and let you take Worcester from me unchallenged?" William helped himself to wine from the flagon Will had abandoned. "Let me speak plainly as I should have done long ago instead of holding my peace.

   "You blame your mother's lack of vigilance for what

happened to Alais, and she abets you by blaming herself. You are fettered together like prisoners in a dungeon and the tragedy is that neither of you needs to be. Your mother can be forgiven for thinking Alais was safe at the heart of Pembroke." He stabbed a forefinger at his son. "Forgiven, Will. That's the word you both lack. Grieving and remembering is right but not when it is twisted like this." He took a gulp of wine, then rested the cup on his knee. "I know you think John is behind Alais's death, but you have no proof and there are others who could as easily be accused. Albus of Fearns cursed our line to die out within a generation. I would not put it past him to help the prophecy along. Then there's William de Forz. His envoy was at Pembroke the day before Alais died, supposedly bringing messages of conciliation. I know how hard de Forz tried to reverse the ruling about Alais's dowry before your wedding and how angry he was at having to give up the lands. And there are many more candidates in the race and nothing you can prove."

   Will swallowed nausea. "You won't twist me back to your side by this," he said in a voice thick with revulsion.

   His father's gaze was sombre and compassionate. "Good Christ, son, I am not trying to twist you either way. You've already wound yourself up tighter than the rope on a mangonel." He finished the wine and set the cup aside. "Ranulf of Chester and Henry of Warwick will be here by first light. I am drawn up a mile away with all the men of Gloucester and my Welsh levies. We are coming in at dawn and God help you if you stand in our way. It's up to you whether you fight or retreat, but either way you are going to leave Worcester. It's mine; if you hold on to it, it will be over my dead body."

   "You will not fight me." Will jutted his jaw. He felt like a scolded child and resentment burned in his breast.

   "I hope not, but I will do as I must. I pray you have the great good sense to leave before such a calamity happens. We'll be riding in as soon as mass has been said and the men have broken their fast." His father rose to his feet and went to the door, then paused, his hand to the latch. "You have an unfair advantage of me, Will. If you choose confrontation, I have given you a few hours' grace to prepare yourself. I hope you make the right choice." With a dip of his head, he opened the door and was gone on another waft of cold air.

   Will stared at the door as the latch dropped back into place. A part of him was utterly numb, but try as he might, he couldn't make that numbness spread to obliterate everything. He imagined coming face to face with his father on the morrow. Had the jousting session at his wedding been a premonition? Would he be able to raise his sword against his father or take him prisoner if the situation arose? His nausea intensified and he had to dive for the chamberpot. He knelt over it, retching until his throat was raw, but even when the spasms subsided, he felt no better. What his father had said about Albus of Fearns and William de Forz made dreadful sense. It didn't mean John was innocent, far from it, considering he was de Forz's unacknowledged father. There was no proof, only a yawning black chasm of uncertainty and suspicion.

   Will sat down on the edge of his pallet and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes until red stars burst across his vision. If he chose not to hold Worcester, he could not return to Louis. At best he would be humiliated and made a laughing stock, at worst branded a traitor and ostracised. He refused to contemplate returning to John. That at least was immutable. He wished he was Richard. It was so much easier for his brother, administering Longueville, attending the French court, and sporting at the occasional tourney. Richard didn't know he was born, and Will was beginning to wish his own life uncreated.

   He donned his shoes and left the bed at an aching walk to open the door. The grey-bearded guard on duty brought his spear to attention, met Will's gaze, then stared into the middle distance.

   "You let my father enter and leave," Will said coldly.

   "Yes, my lord. He was alone and I deemed him no threat."

   Will nodded. "And he has so great a reputation and is so venerated that you would not lay hands upon him."

   "It would have been dishonourable, sir."

   Will found the travesty of a smile. "Then you are of my father's ilk," he said. "Go and make yourself more useful than you are here. Rouse the men. We're leaving before dawn."

   The soldier's focus shortened to Will. "Leaving, my lord? What about the town?"

   Will clenched his fists. "Perhaps you would like to stand in my shoes since you're plainly incapable of taking an order," he snapped.

   The guard shuffled his feet and reddened. "No, my lord… Where shall I say we are going?"

   Will shrugged. "Anywhere…Away from the fight. Not to Louis, not to John. A murrain on the pair of them."

Thirty-nine

GLOUCESTER, OCTOBER 1216

Isabelle awoke in the dark and for a while lay listening to the sound of William's breathing. Finally, putting out her hand, she parted the enclosing bed curtains and saw the weak glow of daylight filtering through the high windows. Rain was spattering against the lead-encased glass, driven by an inclement autumn wind. She let the hanging drop back into place, pulled the fur coverlet up to her shoulders, and snuggled down into the warm den of the bed. William muttered and moved closer to her, setting his arm across her waist and nuzzling her neck. Isabelle made a soft sound and turned into his arms, pressing herself against the welcome heat of his body.