The Scarlet Lion (60 page)

   "But without the head to find the words to stiffen that backbone, the body wouldn't walk," Isabelle said, joining him.

"There would just be spineless marrow."

   He snorted with sleepy amusement. "Then let us hope my words last out the day," he said, "and prove stronger than their fear of Eustace the Monk."

                             *** The morning of the Feast of Saint Bartholomew dawned fine and clear. Sky and sea were as smooth as a child's brow and the wind no more than a sigh. At Sandwich the motley collection of ships composing the English fleet rode at anchor, their crews hastening to make their vessels seaworthy and battle-ready. Amongst them rocked the royal nef, the lion banner of England rippling at her prow, her strakes painted blood red. Her crew bustled about her deck, checking blocks, lines, halyards, and warps. Hubert de Burgh, constable of Dover Castle and commander of the fleet, stood at the prow, directing operations.

   William's own men had embarked upon the great cog commanded by senior ship's master Stephen of Winchelsea. She rode high in the water, her rotund build making her much slower than the sinuous nef, but increasing her cargo-bearing capabilities. Apart from the usual weaponry, her soldiers were armed with clay pots of powdered lime. They were packed in rush baskets along her bulwarks, ready to be seized and hurled at the French when they came within range.

   Isabelle rode down to the shore to watch the preparations, but stayed apart from William now, remaining in the baggage camp and allowing him to give his full attention to preparing for engagement should the French gain the shore.

   Tension hung in the air like a summer heat haze as everyone waited for the first sighting of the French fleet. Men made jests and laughed too loudly while others kept watch in silence. Priests were busy with their portable altars, praying for victory and shriving men who were joining the ships and going to battle. A couple of brightly striped tents were doing very brisk business indeed. Soldiers emerged from them hitching their breeches and scratching their groins as they headed straight for the confessional.

   Isabelle had ridden in the baggage train sufficiently often to know the kind of business conducted inside those tents. It was a man's last opportunity to perhaps leave something of himself behind should he die in battle. Once the customers had gone to meet whatever fate awaited, the women would emerge, straddlelegged and sweaty, to breathe clean air and count their takings.

   Her own chaplain had set up an altar beside William's tent and Isabelle came with her women to kneel and pray to God and Saint Bartholomew for an English victory and her husband's safekeeping.

                             *** The French sails hove into view on the high tide and, eagerly but without fuss, the English ships hoisted anchor, slipped moorings, and sailed out to engage with them and prevent them from beaching. It soon became clear that the French intended to fight, as many of their ships were clewing up their sails, and the soldiers crowding their decks were brandishing their weapons.

   Hubert de Burgh's sleek, swift nef harnessed the breeze, which was stiffer once out of the harbour, and ploughed towards the French ships as if intending to take them on alone; but de Burgh heeled away at the last moment, drawing jeers in his silvering wake and hot pursuit by the French ships that hadn't furled their sails.

   "He's luring them to break their ranks," William said to Will and chewed on his thumbnail. "I'd have done the same."

   Will clenched his fist on his sword hilt. "Reports say there're three hundred of them—far more than we have."

   "Yes, but ours are all fighting ships and many of theirs are supply transports. No vessel laden with grain or horses is going

to be much use in a sea battle."

   "No," Will said, but continued to grip his hilt and William still worried at his thumb until the nail end was ragged. He wanted to be in the thick of it, commanding, and was agitated not to be, even though Hubert de Burgh was a formidable leader.

   A large French cog still under canvas manoeuvred to engage de Burgh, but her track was intercepted by a lighter English galley under the command of Richard FitzRoy. The English swung boarding grapnels towards the French, but did not have sufficient strength of numbers and were repulsed, the French retaliating as if swatting gnats.

   "Isn't that
The Bayonne
?" Will asked. "Eustace the Monk's ship?"

   William narrowed his gaze. "By Christ, it is," he said, his voice hoarse with tension. "If she was any lower in the water, the sea would be up to her wash strake. She can't manoeuvre like that!"

   Stephen of Winchelsea's great cog arrived to join the fray, cutting through the water like a huge butcher's knife. She hove to alongside the lower-lying French ship and more grapnel ropes shot out like an eruption of snakes. Jars of powdered lime were lobbed to smash on the French cog's deck, shedding their eye-destroying white powder in the breeze. Moments later, William saw soldiers leaping down on to the Frenchman's deck. The clash of battle wafted to those on shore, fading in and out with the wind. All around the French ships were unfurling their sails, but they had lost the weather gage and the English arrivals stalked amongst them like wolves in a flock of sheep, biting, tearing, seizing by the throat. More clouds of lime puffed in the air as another French ship was boarded. Now there was panic, the French striving to escape and run for free water and the English chasing hard and pinning them down.

   The battle moved further out from shore and sight, except for those English ships engaged in securing victims already snared. Stephen of Winchelsea brought Eustace the Monk's great French flagship
The Bayonne into port to ecstatic cheers from the soldier
s waiting on the quay.

   A vivid scarlet splash stained
The Bayonne
's topsides near the trebuchet she had been carrying as part of the provisions for Louis's reinforcements. A wide grin in the space between his beard and moustache, Stephen of Winchelsea held aloft to William a severed head by its grey-salted locks, the neck plopping gore on to sun-heated stone.

   "Eustace the Monk, my lord!" he declared exultantly. "I gave him the choice between having his head struck off on the trebuchet or on the ship's rail. Being a seafaring man, he chose the ship—may his soul rot in hell for eternity."

   An enormous and sustained cheer rose from the crew and was taken up by all, for Eustace the Monk had been a scourge to shipping for many years and no one voyaging in the Narrow Sea had been safe from his depredations.

   "And by the faith I owe, may yours be blessed in heaven, Master Stephen," William responded with a grave bow.

   "Amen to that, my lord, but I will tell you the Monk's ship is stuffed bow to stern with treasure. If you ask me, the bastard brought all his wealth to the fight—didn't want to leave it behind, but you can't take it with you when the Devil seizes your soul, can you, eh?"

   William decreed that the goods were to be shared out among the crew. He reserved the ransoms of the knights on board to himself and took them into his custody. In gratitude to Saint Bartholomew, he commanded that once every man had had his fair share of booty, a portion was to be set aside to found a hospital in the saint's name.

   By dusk, as the English ships returned to harbour, it became clear that the French supply fleet on which Louis had rested hopes of keeping his fight in England alive had either been captured, sunk, or scattered to the four winds. Hubert de Burgh had seized two French ships for himself and many a merchant captain returned from the sea battle with his ship laden to the wash strake with plunder. For the next several days, the sailors roistered in the taverns, decked in finery, spending their share of the booty like patrons at a tourney and vying with each other as to who had secured the most spoil.

   Louis was forced to sue for peace and this time sat down to negotiate the terms with more humility, his hubris destroyed by a second, decisive English victory and the worrying possibility that God was indeed with the English.

   William greeted him pleasantly enough, but could not help rubbing a little salt into open wounds. Louis had told his knights they had nothing to fear with an old man at England's helm—that he respected William Marshal, but he had had his day. In his turn, William welcomed Louis and with a smiling remark about the Prince being a youngster still wet behind the ears sat down to settle a peace that would free England of the French.

   Now the rebuilding could begin.

Forty-five

STRIGUIL, WELSH BORDERS, NOVEMBER 1218

Coming fully awake, Isabelle realised she was alone, although the mattress still bore the warm imprint of William's body. Pulling on a loose robe, she rose and left the bed.

   He was sitting before the dying fire, a cup of wine clasped between his hands as he stared into the embers.

   "What's the matter?" Joining him on the cushioned bench, she gathered her hair and tied it back with a length of braid. "Is it your stomach again?"

   He shook his head. "It's nothing," he said.

   Isabelle eyed him narrowly, not entirely convinced by his dismissive tone. He had been suffering from bouts of pain ever since Eve's wedding to William de Braose's grandson at Bramber in the autumn. He had made light of the affliction, dismissing it as something to be expected of advancing age. Tisanes of camomile and ginger helped and it appeared to be an intermittent nuisance and discomfort rather than anything more acute. Even so, she was worried. "Are you sure?"

   "As certain as rain in Ireland," he said with a weary smile, "and believe me, I would know. It's the thought of returning to London on the morrow when I'd rather still be here."

   Isabelle watched a log fall and settle, soft grey flakes feathering the hearth stones, flickering hems of red winking and dying. During the last year, William had continued to push himself to the limit while at the same time making arrangements to ease back and delegate now the French had left English soil. He was preparing to have a great seal issued in the King's name rather than continue to use his own for the business of government, so that others of the ruling body would be able to issue writs and commands in the boy King's name. He had also reinstated the judicial courts and the exchequer sessions. The country was still impoverished; there were still petty disputes and private wars continuing as a result of the earlier war with Louis, but matters were slowly inching on to a stable footing. She and William had squeezed out sufficient time to make a progress of their estates at Usk, Hamstead, Caversham, Marlborough, Crendon, and now Striguil. They had seen Sybire and Eve married into the houses of Derby and Braose. With Gilbert in minor orders and set upon a career in the Church and Will and Walter constantly absent acting as their father's deputies in the earldom, only ten-year-old Ancel and eight-year-old Joanna remained in the household.

   Isabelle knew she wasn't being fanciful; of late there had been a definite change in William—a drawing in like a winter's evening, a husbanding of resources and taking stock, ready to move on… and there could only be one kind of moving on now. She was frightened this progress through their estates was William bidding farewell to familiar and beloved territories. Striguil had always been one of the places of his heart. Hot-eyed from the fire, she looked at him. "You don't have to go to London."

   "Unfortunately, I do," he said with a grimace. "There are matters of government to attend to, and the ride isn't beyond me yet."

   She heard the defensive sharpness in his tone. "I did not say that it was, but the Tower of London will not fall down, nor Westminster lose all of its windows should you choose to linger in the Marches for a few days more."

   He smiled at that. "Mayhap neither tower nor abbey, but the Legate will not wait for time and tide and I need his goodwill. I owe him the courtesy of a prompt appearance."

   "Then if it is set in stone that we go to London, I want some new shoes for court. I wore out the last pair at our daughters' weddings, and the pair before that in Paris."

   William's smile deepened with genuine amusement. "Every one should wear their shoes threadbare," he said.

   "In which case, you will need more yourself judging from the state of your riding boots."

   His eyes widened in alarm. "They're old friends!"

   "Well, you need to make the acquaintance of new ones very soon."

   He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I wonder how many cows' worth of shoe leather a man wears out in a lifetime."

   "Depends how big his feet are and how many steps he takes…and also the size of the cows."

   He grinned. "Now I know why you win so often at chess. I tell you what, we'll call at the warehouses at Charing and see what they have in store. With good fortune they will have finest kidskin slippers for you and Cordovan hide for me."

   She shared his jesting whilst well aware he was functioning on two levels. The light-hearted banter was genuinely meant but it was what existed on the surface. Beneath the sunlit shallows lay serious, darker thoughts that would take more than the heat of a dying fire to brighten.

                             *** William and Isabelle spent the winter months in London, lodged at the Tower from which he conducted the business of the regency, tying up loose ends, only to discover that others had unravelled and needed his attention. Isabelle watched him and worried, knowing that he needed to lay down his burdens, for the sake of his health if nothing else.

   The February morning was bitterly cold and damp, rain lashing upon London from a sky as dark as charcoal. Although it was mid-morning, the world was little more than twilit and folk huddled round their fires. Those obliged to be out splashed through the muck in their pattens, heads down, cloaks and hoods wrapped tightly around their bodies, teeth chattering. On the banks of the churning, sullen Thames, the Tower of London's whitewashed walls gleamed like a sugar confection at a royal feast. Behind its arched windows, candles and lamps lit the winter-dark chambers and logs burned in every available hearth.