The Scarlet Lion (59 page)

   "You might have a word with Gilbert de Clare and tell me what you think," he said.

   "Why?"

   "It would be useful to bind him to us and Belle is of an age to wed."

   She looked at him for further elucidation, but he was either asleep, or feigning it. Frowning, Isabelle closed the bed curtains and signalled the others in the room to go about their work quietly whilst William snatched at sleep. Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Hertford and Gloucester, had been one of the rebel barons captured at Lincoln. She did not know him well, although she was his distant kin. He had recently come into his father's earldom and, with the Gloucester lands as well, was both rich and powerful.

   Thoughtfully Isabelle went from her chamber to the one that had been allotted to Earl Gilbert and his immediate retinue and where he was being guarded under informal house arrest. He had pledged his word and, given the circumstances, it was unlikely he was about to make a wild dash for freedom. As soon as ransom terms were agreed, he would be welcome to leave or stay as he chose.

   De Clare unfolded his long body from the window-seat when Isabelle entered the chamber and gave her a courtly bow. He possessed handsome, regular features. His brow was broad, his cheekbones high. He had curly hair of strong de Clare red and his complexion was dappled with the freckles common to such colouring.

   "My lady." His voice was so deep that it seemed to rise from his boots, but it had a pleasing quality.

   Isabelle inclined her head to him. "My lord. I came to see if you have everything you need."

   Wintry humour lit in his eyes which were the hue of Baltic amber, stranded with green. How old was he? Late thirties, she thought. An earl of the highest rank and great-great-grandson of the first King Henry. "Perhaps not everything I want, Lady Marshal, but that is not the fault of your hospitality."

   "Since you have surrendered your sword to my lord husband, you are our guest, not our enemy," she said graciously, "and even were you still our enemy, we would treat you with honour."

   "In your husband's household, I do not doubt it, my lady." He gestured to the stone bench in the window embrasure. "Will you be seated?"

   Isabelle hesitated, then acquiesced. He took his place on the opposite bench and folded his hands between his parted knees. She noticed that his fingernails were short and cared for and his clothes, although creased, were clean. Around his neck he wore a gold cross set with precious stones and there was a matching brooch pinning his cloak at the shoulder.

   "My lady, forgive me for speaking plainly, but I receive the impression that I am being eyed up the way a horse-coper would study the points of a stallion at a country fair."

   Isabelle flushed at his words. Shrewd, she thought. Very shrewd indeed, or perhaps she had been too obvious. Her cheeks burned as she suddenly realised that he might think she was flirting with him. She drew herself up and, hands folded primly in her lap, said, "My lord, you are one of my husband's most important hostages. My father and your grandfather were cousins. Now you are Earl of Hertford and Gloucester, you and my husband are bound to cross paths. It is always good to know the doings of one's neighbours."

   "Especially when they have been fighting on opposite sides," he said astutely.

   "We have to look to the future."

   "Ah, the future." His gaze was knowing. "You have something in mind?"

   Isabelle shook her head. "Not at the moment, my lord, but my husband might…depending on circumstances and the responses of those involved."

   "Ah," he said again and leaned back, crossing one leg across the other. "Then if I am involved, I hope I have offered you the right responses."

   "Certainly food for thought," Isabelle replied, in her own turn giving nothing away.

Forty-four

STRIGUIL, WELSH BORDERS, AUGUST 1217

In the stultifying August heat everyone at Striguil had taken to the cool shade offered by the castle's thick stone walls. Even dressed in the thin silks of summer, Isabelle could feel sweat in her armpits and at the back of her neck where her hair was plaited up beneath her wimple. It had been a week of fierce, burning sunshine when even the coolest points of the day at dawn and retiring yielded no relief.

   The great hall bulged with allies and family, gathered to witness and celebrate the betrothal of Belle to Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Hertford and Gloucester.

   "He certainly sets store by his own worth, Mama." Mahelt joined her mother in one of the embrasures lining the great hall. She nodded towards her future brother-in-law, who was accepting the congratulations of Striguil's constable.

   Isabelle was warily amused. "That doesn't sound like a compliment. Do you not like him?"

   "He seems to me a man who will weigh things up and measure his response before he acts," she said in the same diplomatic way her father used when he was trying to be fair but had his doubts.

   "Is that not to the good?"

   "Oh yes," Mahelt said. "And I am sure it is a match that will

help to heal the wounds of this war."

"But?"

   Mahelt shook her head impatiently. "But nothing, Mama. Belle is resourceful and strong. So is he. There are good seeds for germination. You know how passionate I was about Hugh when I married him. I suppose I want to see my sister feel the same."

   "Some things come at once, others need time to grow," Isabelle said. "We have done our best."

   "I know that." Looking contrite, Mahelt kissed Isabelle's cheek. "Have you and my father set a wedding date for them?"

   Isabelle sighed. "No, but soon we hope—before the year's end. Your father wants Louis out of England first."

   "Is that likely?"

   "Your father thinks so."

   "Even though negotiations have broken down?"

   Isabelle's expression closed. "Louis's supporters desert him daily," she said defensively. "Surrey, Arundel, and de Braose's son Reginald changed allegiance last month and John de Lacy at Oxford last week. Dover's still under siege, I admit, and Louis hopes for reinforcements, but his situation is precarious. Your father says that Lincoln was the turning point. We're not out of the woods, but at least they have thinned enough to show chinks of daylight." Puffing out her cheeks, she lifted her veil away from the back of her neck. "Of course, the moment the threat from Louis lessens the Welsh decide to attack. Your father has done what he can, but he can't give the situation the full attention he'd like."

   Mahelt laid her hand on her mother's sleeve. "It'll be all right," she said.

   Isabelle made a face. "That's what I used to tell you at bedtime when you were frightened of the wind roaring around the walls at Longueville."

   "And you were right. The morning always came, and more often than not the wind had died and the sky was blue."

   Isabelle pressed her hand over Mahelt's. "It has been a very long and stormy night this time," she said. "When it's over, I'm going to take your father to Caversham and refuse to see anyone but our sons and daughters for…well, for a month at least."

   "You think he'll let you?" Mahelt was sceptically amused.

   "That is why I said a month," Isabelle said and, smiling, gazed into the middle distance. "When we were first wed, he was recovering from difficult times. We were married at Saint Paul's Cathedral and on the next day, he took me away to a friend's manor in the middle of nowhere and spent the next four or five weeks lazing about doing naught but eat and sleep." Her smile became laughter and her complexion grew rosy. "Well, that and beget your eldest brother," she said. "I had been told he was a man of great prowess—a champion of the tourneys who had once unhorsed King Richard, yet all he wanted to do was lounge abed and eat enough for ten men." She gave her daughter an eloquent look. "Then he woke up and I began to realise what I really had on my hands." She gazed in William's direction. "He needs that kind of peace and quiet now; I can feel it in him."

   As if sensing her scrutiny, William glanced in her direction and smiled in the way she knew so well by now, but which still made her vital organs melt.

   Later, in the purple dusk, she walked with him along the battlements. There was dancing in the hall, but William had only stayed to tread an obligatory measure with his newly betrothed daughter and had then retreated outside. He said it was to let the younger element enjoy the moment without the constraint of his presence, but Isabelle sensed the departure was for himself—that he was seeking solitude. In consideration, she walked beside him, companionable, but silent.

   Thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning flickered on the horizon. The air was as heavy as a new cloak. Leaning against a merlon, William gazed at the river below, purple-grey like the sky. Isabelle joined him. Boats bobbed at the jetty, just visible in the darkening dusk. She set her arm around him, leaned her head against his shoulder, and watched the storm come in. He had always been exhilarated by such spectacles, seeing them as one of God's miracles, and Isabelle had come to love them too, although she was still apprehensive of their great power.

   The first spots of rain were splashing like ink blots on the wall walk timbers when Will joined them, his chest heaving from his rapid climb. "Hywel's ridden in," he said brusquely. "The French are preparing to sail for England with more supplies and men for Prince Louis. As soon as the wind is right they'll be across the Narrow Sea. Hubert de Burgh begs you to come with all haste before it is too late."

   William braced his spine, as if withstanding a blow, "I suspected this would happen. It's the reason Louis has been dragging his heels over negotiating for peace." He cast his gaze towards the storm. "Let's pray the weather keeps them in Normandy for a couple more days. We'll muster tonight and ride at dawn."

                             *** Isabelle rode with William to muster the men of the Cinque Ports. By the time they reached Sandwich, her buttocks were sore from straddling a horse and keeping pace with the knights, but she was determined to accompany her husband and this time refused to go and lodge elsewhere and wait.

   She was at his side as he called a gathering on the quayside to persuade the ships' masters and crews to put to sea for the sake of the young King. There was a deal of reluctance from men who remembered what King John had done to them in the past and who, having heard about the penurious state of the royal treasury, wanted reassurances that they would be paid for their labour.

   "Whatever you lose will be made good," William said firmly, "and you will be richly rewarded from the booty of the French ships you capture."

   "Words are much cheaper than silver," growled one of the more outspoken men, a Kentish ship's master who usually spent his time hauling wool between England and Flanders. "How do we know you'll keep yours?"

   "You don't, but I hope you'll trust my honour and weigh it against how far a French prince will console English interests if he wins."

   There was some muttering amongst his audience. Isabelle looked at William. His expression was calm and goodhumoured, even though there was no guarantee that he could get these men to fìght for him. They were hardly eating out of the palm of his hand just yet.

   "We've heard that the French have employed Eustace the Monk to pilot them into English waters and lead their assault," spoke up a helmsman from Chertsey. "And their best knights are coming—Robert de Tournelle and William des Barres."

   William folded his arms and nodded, acknowledging their fears rather than dismissing them out of hand. "I expect the rumours are right, but such men can be defeated. Eustace is a pirate and serves whoever bids highest for his services. Yes, he's skilled at what he does, but that does not mean he is invincible. Men were stamping me into my grave before the Battle of Lincoln, but I'm still here to ask how daring are you? Are you going to let French ships sail into our English harbours and take them? Do you want a French backside on England's throne and preference given to French shipping? What if their best knights are on board their ships? They have to land them first, and even if they do, they have the best knights in England to greet them on the beaches."

   There was more muttering and consultation. William sent around the wine he had provided and took a cup himself. He handed one to Isabelle and gave her a swift half-wink.

   "Where will you be, milord?" asked the Kentish captain, wiping his mouth and hitching his belt in a businesslike manner.

   William turned. "With the shore knights," he said. "While I would gladly board a ship and lead you at sea, I am not the man best suited. I have been known to puke crossing the Thames on a rough day and someone will have to muster the men on dry land. Hubert de Burgh will command at sea, assisted by Richard FitzRoy and the Earl Warenne. De Burgh is easily the equal of des Barres, and quite capable of outwitting even so wily a devil as Eustace the Monk." He smiled at the men. "It takes one to catch one."

   They responded with muted laughter. Isabelle watched William dig deeper than a miner in search of ore and, as the afternoon darkened into dusk, woo his audience from scepticism to capitulation and finally, as the wine sank down the barrel, to an eager agreement that had seemed beyond reach at the start of the talks. Seeing him thus, Isabelle realised anew why William held the regency over and above any other baron, magnate, or bishop in the land.

   "They are ready to follow you into the jaws of hell," she said when they retired to his lodging in the town.

   He gave her a tired smile and said hoarsely, "Ah, well, that comes of an apprenticeship longer than I care to remember, my love. I've had to stir up men and change minds far more stubborn than theirs in my past." He allowed her to ease off his boots and flopped down on the bed. "I'd have talked to them all night if necessary. If the French fleet puts to shore, we'll be in difficulties. We must stop them in the water because a head is no good without a backbone and they are Louis's backbone."