"Lady Maude is an admirable woman," William said diplomatically.
De Braose snorted with derision. "Depends what you mean by the word." He drew the reins through his fingers and looked at the leather, worn to a shine by much handling. "Were we right to do as we did, Marshal?"
William lifted his brows. "Right to do what?"
"It was my word that put John on the throne. Had my ears heard King Richard's whisper differently at Châlus, we could have had Arthur over us. You went to England and talked the dissenters round. Without our backing, John would not have a crown."
"He was the best in terms of choices. I doubt Arthur would have rewarded us for our support."
"Hah!" de Braose scoffed. "And now you see my reward from John. Strange that it should concern Arthur, is it not? He was always going to be my downfall."
William said nothing. In essence it was true, but de Braose had contributed to his own fall from favour by pushing too hard and too long. There but for the grace of God…Surreptitiously he crossed himself.
As they approached the standing stone, grey shapes of men and horses rose out of the mizzle, armour and harness clinking softly. Drawing rein, William saluted Walter de Lacy. The lord of Meath nudged his stallion forward to greet William and welcome his in-laws. De Braose clasped William arm to arm, one soldier and comrade to another. "God keep you," he said.
"And you, my lord."
De Braose laughed but it was a soulless sound. "I doubt it," he said. "He may see the meanest sparrow fall, but He's forsaken me."
Maude de Braose rode past William with the briefest of nods, as if he were a servant, as if he had not kept her under his roof in warmth and safety for the past several weeks. He had expected no grace from her and thus was not disappointed. Watching her ride away, though, he felt an icy trickle run down his spine and it had nothing to do with the damp that was gradually saturating his cloak.
Twenty-nine
PEMBROKE CASTLE, SOUTH WALES, JUNE 1210
Will had not seen Pembroke Castle since the Cilgerran campaign and the sight filled him with nostalgia and nervous uncertainty. Then it had been palisaded with ash stakes and the gatehouse had been built of timber. Now masonry walls rose as a bulwark against the Welsh and proclaimed the wealth, importance, and pride of the Earl of Pembroke. A strong, circular limestone keep towered behind those walls, dwarfing the older Norman hall built by Will's grandfather Richard Strongbow before he went to Ireland. Work on the castle was still continuing and the broad outer bailey was filled with the huts of masons and craftsmen.
In front of him, guarded by his mercenaries, King John straddled a distinctive dappled palfrey and gazed around with thoughtful interest, his eyes lingering on the scarlet Marshal lion rippling from the battlements in the warm June wind, proclaiming the residence of its Earl. Will noticed there was no sign of the de Clare chevrons, therefore his mother had remained behind in Ireland. Knowing her antipathy for John and some of those around him, Will was not surprised. John had camped his army at Cross on the Sea not far from Pembroke where he was mustering a force to embark for Ireland with the intention of bringing de Braose and his de Lacy kin to heel. However, he had brought his immediate retinue to the greater comfort of Pembroke Castle.
"Our father is not going to like the expense of keeping the King and all his household until we sail," Richard muttered out of the side of his mouth.
"That's deliberate on John's part," Will said with knowing cynicism. "He's piling the cost of keeping the court on to our father to spite him for being an ally of de Braose and de Lacy. There'll be more expense when we arrive in Ireland too because John's bound to stay at Kilkenny."
Their father had come from Ireland at John's summons because his only other choice was to turn rebel with de Braose and the de Lacys, and he wouldn't do it. The de Lacys couldn't win, and John de Grey, the new justiciar, had a grip on the Irish situation that Meilyr FitzHenry, for all his posturing, had lacked. Besides, Will knew their father would die before he violated his oath to John. It was a matter of personal honour.
As the grooms and stable boys came to take the horses, Will saw his father emerge from the great hall and descend the timber stairway steps to greet the royal party. The genial expression on his face seemed legitimate and his posture was relaxed, but then he was a master of the courtier's art. Remembering how he had held himself together during the difficult time involving Meilyr FitzHenry, Will was filled with awe, pride, and trepidation. How was he ever going to match up to that performance?
A little stiffly but without undue awkwardness, his father knelt to the King and bowed his head. John wore a smile on his face, but Will knew it was superficial. The surface might be smooth and sunlit, but the undercurrents were dark and turbulent.
"See, I have brought your sons," John said with a magnanimous gesture towards Will and Richard. "Almost grown men in their own right." He stepped back to allow the youths to embrace their father. "Are you not glad of the care I have lavished on them?"
Will felt his father's strong grip at his shoulder, saw the veiled warning in the winter-river eyes, and acknowledged it before lowering his own. "Indeed, sire," his father said easily. "I am sure that you have been as careful of them as your own flesh and blood."
John gave a vinegary smile. "Not quite," he said. "But near enough."
*** In the top chamber of the keep, the royal bathtub steamed with hot, herb-scented water. John luxuriated, a cup of William's best French wine in one hand, the other resting languidly along the side of the tub. Suzanna, his favourite concubine, knelt behind him, kneading his shoulders. His belly resembled a small, flesh-coloured barrel. A stripe of dark fuzz ran from navel to groin. The hair at his nipples was salted grey.
Attendants were assembling John's travelling bed and emptying chests of embroidered linen sheets, colourful blankets, and a coverlet of red and gold silk under which the King—and Suzanna—would sleep that night. John reached to a platter of hot fried pastries conveniently positioned at the side of the tub, bit into one, and gave the other half to his mistress, who laughed as she opened her painted carmine lips and took it out of his hand with her teeth.
"I see you have been able to muster a sizeable number of your own men, Marshal," John remarked.
"They have answered from my Welsh lands as summoned, sire," William replied. "There are more to be had in Leinster." The sound of swearing came from the direction of the bed as someone malleted his thumb instead of the pieces of wood he was trying to assemble.
"Guarding the Countess and your brood?" John mocked. "I notice you've left Jean D'Earley behind again. It's a good thing you are neither a jealous nor suspicious man, Marshal. He's about her age, isn't he, and he's always carried a torch for her."
Will, who was sitting nearby, feeding a hound with scraps of toasted bread, gave the King a fulminating look. William remained unperturbed and responded with a smile. "Sire, I trust both my wife and Jean D'Earley with my honour. Until the day she died, I carried a torch for your mother, but it never once lit my way to her bed."
John's eyelids tensed. "You always have a clever answer, don't you, Marshal, which is more than I can say for de Braose. His wife puts all the words in his mouth these days. I know what I'd put in hers to stopper it, the stupid bitch…" His tone developed a petulant edge. "You shouldn't have given de Braose succour and escorted them to the de Lacys. You know full well that you should have handed them over to me."
William regarded him impassively. "Sire, when last I saw him, he was at court with you and you were not enemies."
John took a belligerent gulp of wine. "Even if you claim not to have known then, you must have realised he was a fugitive when you gave him succour at Kilkenny. Only an idiot would have thought otherwise, and you are too clever by half."
William said stonily: "Since I had received no orders telling me to detain him, sire, I sent him on to his son-in-law in good faith and conscience."
John glowered. "I suspect that if orders to detain him had arrived, my messenger would have been prevented from delivering them until you had de Braose safely out of the way. I am not too clever, Marshal, just clever enough."
"I hope you do not doubt my loyalty, sire."
"Oh no." John waved an expansive hand. "I know I'm not about to be murdered in my bathtub, but you cut the meat of loyalty so fine that it's see-through when it comes to your own interests."
The words hit William like well-flung stones, but he pretended that they had had no impact. Be impassive, show nothing. "As I understand, sire, you yourself have given de Braose safe conduct to come to Pembroke and answer your summons," he said reasonably.
John made a scornful sound. "What's the wager he won't bring that hell-bitch of a wife with him when he knows it's her I want? After all, you didn't bring yours."
"But you did not summon her, my lord, and besides, she is not long out of childbed with our new daughter."
"Christ, Marshal, another brat? Are you trying to follow de Braose in the breeding stakes too?"
William suppressed the retort that at least all of his children were born in wedlock to the same mother. "We have named her Joanna," he said pleasantly instead. "Had she been a boy, she would have been John."
John looked disdainful. "You're not telling me you're hoping to curry my favour? It's a vain hope if you are. No, you wouldn't be so unsubtle!"
"Take it as you will, sire."
"Then I will take it you've named the whelp for your father and brother. What do I care?" He drummed his fingers on the side of the tub. "Your profligate breeding habits aside, it seems to me, in the light of your behaviour with de Braose, it would be prudent to take more sureties from you."
"Sureties such as, sire?"
"Such as the keep at Dunamase, and your men who defied me before—D'Earley and de Saqueville among them."
William heard Will make a strangled sound and threw him a quelling look that made the young man bite his teeth together. "You already have my English castles, sire, and my two eldest sons," William said. "If you think it is going to increase my trustworthiness then by all means I will hand over what you ask." His attitude carried a fine balance of injured patience and reproach.
John picked up a sliver of white Castilian soap scented with attar of roses. "I am glad to hear it. We'll talk more in good time. Here, girl, wash my back." He passed the soap to his mistress.
Dismissed by John, William walked down the tower stairs and emerged into the warm summer air of the bailey. A knight came towards him, intending to ask a question, sensed the atmosphere, and changed his mind and direction. Not possessing the same sensibility, Will emerged from the tower and strode up to his father.
"How can you bear it?" he demanded, his young voice rough with anger and indignation. "How can you let him humiliate you like that?"
William felt unutterably weary. He needed solitude. With an effort, he faced his son. "Because I know what's at stake. The King was in a sour and mischievous mood. He was deliberately trying to rile me and I refused to give him that pleasure." He waved his hand in abrupt dismissal. "Leave him to his whore and his bath. I have no doubt they will mellow his mood."
"I suppose this means I'll still be a hostage," Will said stormily. "I don't know if I can stomach any more." Will bared his teeth and suddenly looked startlingly like Isabelle in a rage. "I'm a hostage to a tyrant because you won't stand up to him!" He stalked off, his spine as straight as a lance and his stride hard with temper.
William closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Only age and experience would breed wisdom in the lad. He could not expect Will to be a replica of himself and react in the same ways. When he thought of the hard life lessons he had had to learn to bring him to this stage, and those he was still learning, he realised what a difficult furrow Will was going to have to plough. At twenty years old, William had had no prospects other than those he carved joyously with sword and lance upon the tourney ground. His eldest son had no such leeway. He was the heir to one of the greatest earldoms in the kingdom and, when the time came, he had to be ready to assume the mantle.
*** "Will the King want me for a hostage too?"
Isabelle looked up from pinning a brooch at her shoulder and fixed her gaze upon her third son. Gilbert had been scrubbed and polished until she could almost hear his skin squeaking. The King and the mustered troops from England were on their way to Kilkenny. The message from William had arrived just after dawn and she had sent riders out to greet the royal party and escort it in.
Gilbert had been very quiet and pale since the news had come and Isabelle had wondered if he was sickening for something. Now she realised why. He was thirteen, not quite old enough to be a squire, but sufficiently close should the demand be made. He was being tutored for the priesthood, but had entered no order yet and his father had insisted that he keep up his swordplay and training for a couple more years at least.
"No, of course he won't ask for you," Isabelle said with more conviction than she felt. She wouldn't put anything past John. In the message William had sent, he said that the King was demanding Dunamase and all their best knights as hostages.
Gilbert looked relieved for a moment, but then sighed almost regretfully.
"Why? Do you want to go?"
Gilbert wrinkled his nose. "No," he said, his eyes wistful, "but the King has many books and probably a lot I haven't read."
Isabelle's lips twitched with exasperated amusement. Gilbert had always been studious, almost as if he knew from birth that his family intended him for a career in the Church. Not that he couldn't romp with the others when he chose, but he was never more content than when his nose was buried in a book, or puzzling over a more serious form of chess than the sort his sisters liked to play with dice.