He made a non-committal sound.
Isabelle kneaded his shoulders in silence. The fire ticked softly in the hearth and the baby snuffled in his sleep. "At the least he should confirm you in the rest of my father's lands," she murmured. "Ask him for Pembroke. My grandsire was the Earl, but my father was never granted the title or given the lands. I would have it restored to where it rightfully belongs."
She felt his muscles tighten again, and waited, fingers gently massaging. Finally he released the tension on a deep sigh. "I cannot deny that I have sometimes thought on the matter." He reached up to take one of her hands and draw it down to his lips.
"Pembroke should be ours," she said. "And Cilgerran. The soil is rich and fertile; there's a fine port and good sea crossing to Ireland…If you ask him for nothing else, beloved, ask him for this."
William slid his hand up her arm and pulled her round and down onto his knee. "You are ambitious, my love," he said, smiling.
"And you are not? I only want what is ours by right—for you and for our sons." Her tone sharpened. "If we are going to have John for King, then we should have some recompense." She pushed herself out of his lap. "Are you coming to bed?"
He shook his head. "I'm not tired."
"You don't have to sleep." When he started to grin, she made a face at him. "I meant you could just rest awhile."
Still grinning, he followed her to their bed. As Isabelle drew back the covers she felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her, pulling her into his arms, dextrously untying the ribbon on her chemise. "Rest be damned," he said.
Sensitive warmth flooded Isabelle's loins. "I am still feeding Walter," she warned breathlessly. "And it's Lent."
"Then I'll confess my weakness in the morning," he muttered against her ear. "Be sweet, Isabelle, I need you." He pushed the chemise off her shoulders, his mouth seeking hers. Suddenly weak with desire herself, she let their bed catch the bend of her knees, and falling upon the coverlet of embroidered wool, drew him down with her.
Later, she lay quietly beside him as the few remaining hours of darkness counted towards dawn. Despite his declaration that he was not tired, he was heavily asleep, one hand grasping her hair as Walter had done. She was the wakeful one. The possibility of attaining what until now had been a dream, the full restoration of her father's de Clare inheritance, filled her with anticipation, but also made her queasy with fear. The higher the climb, the longer the fall, and she had no illusions about the danger of embarking on such a path.
Four
NORTHAMPTON CASTLE, MAY 1199
Ranulf de Blondeville, Earl of Chester, threw the dice, cursed at the score, and moved a pawn on the chessboard. "I learned never to play this game with John," he told William, who was sitting across the trestle from him. They were occupying the window embrasure of a private chamber above the great hall, their game illuminated by cresset lamps and candles. "He cheats."
William scooped the dice into a small ivory cup and gave them a shake. "Mayhap, but all men do their best to help fate along in some way."
Chester conceded the point. "True, Marshal. I wouldn't put using loaded dice beyond my stepson either. He's a brat."
William arched his brows. The brat to whom Chester was referring was Prince Arthur, Chester being married to the youth's mother, Constance, Countess of Brittany. It was not an amicable match and the couple lived apart; indeed, an annulment was in the offing, mooted by the lady, so rumour ran, although no one was going to ask the proud and touchy Earl of Chester for the intimate details. Still only twenty-nine, he was one of the most powerful magnates in the realm with his own strong sphere of influence.
Chester's thin upper lip curled in fastidious aversion. "Even if there are issues between myself and John that have to be resolved, I would rather a hundred times serve him as King than see that obnoxious child put his backside on the throne and be guided by his poisonous bitch of a dam. At least John's mother is an asset to him."
William threw the dice and moved his own chess piece. "Constance is as ambitious for her son as Queen Eleanor is for John," he said. "Without her striving, Arthur would not be the threat that he is now."
"Mayhap not," Chester said, "but she is still no Eleanor. I'd have every respect for her if she was because there is a woman of truly noble heart and spirit."
"Amen to that," William agreed vigorously as he thought of the ageing Queen Mother, who even now was embarking on a progress of her lands, calming the turbulence left by Richard's death, the son who in her own words had been the "staff in my hand and the light in my eyes."
Ranulf eyed William astutely. "You, the justiciar, and the Archbishop between you seem to have the disaffected lords eating out of your hands."
William laughed. "Not quite, my lord. The only thing we can be pleased about is that they haven't bitten our hands off yet."
Ranulf rattled the dice cup. "It helps that men respect all of you. You may serve John, but you are not his creatures. If he had sent de Burgh, de Braose, or Faulkes de Breauté to do his courting, there might have been a different outcome." He threw the dice on to the table, calculated, and moved a bishop. When he spoke again, his voice was hard and uncompromising. "The peace will hold, Marshal, providing John honours the promises you have all made on his behalf. If he reneges and plays false, then there will be bloody rebellion. Men want justice. They want what is theirs by right."
"It is not John's fault their lands and privileges have been undermined and abused; the blame lies with his father and
brother," William defended him.
"Yes, but unless he mends the damage…" Chester let an eloquent shrug of his shoulders serve for the rest.
William wasn't certain that John had it in his nature to grant some of the demands, but having laid the groundwork for negotiation, he had accomplished his own task. His duty now was to return to Normandy and escort John to England. The prospect of more sea crossings, even in calm weather, filled him with trepidation. "That is up to him. I have done what I can."
"Then God grant it is not in vain," Chester replied darkly.
***
Aboard the royal galley, John, uncrowned King of England and inheritor of all that he had so long coveted, watched the coastline of Normandy recede into haze. "You were always my brother's man, Marshal," he said to William, who was standing beside him at the mast. "Faithful as a dog."
Watching the gulls wheel above the undulating swell of the waves, William hoped the wind would bid them a swift voyage and allay his suffering. He didn't want to puke in front of John, who had the gift of a steady gut even on a rough crossing. William would have liked to make the voyage with Isabelle and their household, but John had specifically requested his presence on the royal nef and it wouldn't have been politic to refuse the soon-to-be King of England. "I gave him my oath, sire, as I gave my oath to your father and your brother Henry before that, God rest their souls."
John flicked a speck from the ermine border of his cloak. "Men's oaths are always for sale. My brother purchased your fealty with Isabelle de Clare and Striguil. What would you have from me?"
William looked at him steadily. "Sire, I give my fealty to you because it is your right to inherit your brother's crown."
John flashed a mocking smile. "I am sure you do, just as I am sure that ambition spurs you as hard as any man. Don't be embarrassed, my lord. Name your desire, let us have it out in the open between us: no hidden rocks on which to founder."
William thought drily that having a matter out in the open must be something of a novelty for John, whose dealings were frequently twisted with intrigue. "Then, sire, I would have my wife's paternal inheritance restored to her family. I would have Pembroke and Cilgerran."
"Hah!" John's mouth curled with the pleasure of a cynic proven right. "Your wife been at you, has she?"
"No more than usual, sire."
John laughed. "It's always the women who push the men for more. Ask de Braose. That wife of his is like a bucket with a huge hole in the bottom. After sixteen children she probably feels like one too when he swives her."
William said nothing. Maude de Braose was no beauty and it was true she was ever pressing her husband for grants and privileges to support their enormous brood of offspring, but the remark was cruel and unnecessary. His gut lurched with the next heave of the boat and he tightened his lips. Across the waves he could see the galley carrying his family, but too distant to make out the figures on deck. Isabelle would be enjoying the salt spray and the brisk breeze. She loved sea crossings. He sometimes teased her that she had the blood of Viking sea-reavers in her veins. Perhaps she did. If so, he hoped she had passed it on to their children in her breast milk, for suffering
mal de mer
was a wretched affliction.
"I knew you would ask for Pembroke." John wafted his hand with gracious nonchalance. "Well then, take it, I grant it to you freely, and the right to call yourself Earl—which is something that my great and glorious brother never did. You should think on that."
"Thank you, sire." William swallowed the urge to retch and knelt to John. The deck was hard beneath his knees, the sea a dragon's roar under the keel as he bowed his head.
"Get up," John said brusquely. "Save your oath for England and my coronation. More privileges will follow providing you know where your loyalties lie."
William lurched to his feet. "Sire, I have sworn my fealty to you, and my oath is binding unto death." He wondered how many times he would have to repeat his loyalty to John before John was convinced. It stood to reason that a man who broke his own promises as easily as they were made would have difficulty believing that some men kept theirs.
"I trust you as much as I trust any man, Marshal." Suddenly John's expression was closed and dangerous. "And that is less far than I can throw you." He turned towards the canvas pavilion pegged at the stern of the nef. "I would ask you to join me, but you are green at the gills and I would be doing neither of us a favour. Besides, you wouldn't approve of the company I keep."
William watched him duck into the shelter and received a brief glimpse of several gaudy court whores, and a select company of John's bachelors—knights beholden to him for their earnings. Grimacing, he leaned against a barrel and willed the coast of England closer. He had his earldom and hoped the price would not beggar him. He suspected his current queasiness was as much a reaction to his conversation with John as it was
mal de mer.
Five
WESTMINSTER, MAY 1199
It had been several years since Isabelle had attended the court. Richard and Berengaria, his Queen, had led separate lives and his gatherings had been of the military, masculine kind with little thought for women. Besides, Isabelle had been too preoccupied running the affairs of her estates and bearing children to have time for a life in the royal train.
John's coronation and the feast that followed were a different matter and Isabelle had been delighted at the opportunity to don fine garments and attend a grand formal event. Her gown was of salmon-coloured silk, embroidered with seed pearls and beads of rock crystal. Her gauze veil was edged with pearls too and the ends of her fair braids were bound with fillets of beaten silver. Being between pregnancies, the lacing of her gown showed off a slender waist and full curves at bosom and hip. With not a little feminine vanity, she had been pleased to see heads turn, not least her husband's.
As was customary, the feast itself was segregated, with the men fêting the King in the great hall and the women in the smaller White Hall on the south side. With no queen to preside, Isabelle and the wives of the other magnates were the highest ranking women present, and thus afforded a position on the dais at the far end of the hall. Although separated from William for the feast, Isabelle had stood beside him at the coronation and watched as the newly crowned King had officially belted him with the title Earl of Pembroke. Their two eldest sons had been present to witness the moment and as Isabelle had watched, an arm at each boy's shoulder, her eyes had filled with tears of pride and triumph.
Will and Richard were not attending the feast, but had been taken back to the Marshal lodging houses at Charing, there to await with their younger siblings their parents' return from the post-coronation festivities. Mahelt had a new set of
poupées
robed in royal finery and Isabelle had promised the children she would bring them some almond marchpane, purloined from the subtleties at the end of the feast. She had noticed one on the sideboard, fashioned to resemble the Tower of London where she had been held as a royal ward before her marriage. To break off a few crenellations would be extremely satisfying.
William being high in John's favour, many of the barons' wives were seeking hers, twittering around her like sparrows in search of crumbs. Isabelle found herself rather enjoying the admiration and flattery after so long away from court. Nevertheless, she did not allow it to turn her head because most of it was a means to an end and she was adroit at sifting wheat from chaff. However, there was one woman who had no time for compliments and fuss, and was abruptly direct in her approach.
"You and your lord are to be congratulated, Countess," said Maude de Braose. Her deep-set eyes were mocking. She had a ruddy complexion netted with broken veins, and bushy, almost masculine eyebrows, which she plainly scorned to pluck. A once magnificent figure had slumped gradually southwards during the carrying and bearing of sixteen children until her breasts were at her waist and her belly rested on her thighs like a bag pudding. Her mind, however, was muscular and honed for battle. "The Earl of Pembroke, no less. That was a title your late father couldn't wrest from the Angevin grip."