"It was hardly virgin plump to start with," William retorted. He scooped the small pile of silver into his palm and gave it to his squire. "Here, lad, find my almoner and tell him to give this to the leper hospital."
John strolled over and joined them, cradling a cup of clovescented wine. "Lost again, brother?" he needled Salisbury. "That's another mark you'll be asking me to lend you." He flashed a sour smile at William. "Not content with Pembroke, Marshal, you fleece my coffers through my foolish brother who lacks the abilities of a sheep when it comes to such games."
"Would you care to win it back, sire?" William gestured to the dice.
"Not after you've given it to lepers," John declined and took a long swallow from his cup. Then he looked at the three men, dropped his voice, and said nonchalantly, "I am thinking of taking Aymer's daughter to wife."
The news was no surprise to William after the way he had seen John looking at the girl yester eve, and the manner in which John and Count Aymer had been circling each other during the hunt. A glance exchanged with Baldwin confirmed that the latter had been expecting it too. Salisbury, however, stared, his mouth open. Then he shook his head.
"The girl's very young. She won't be much support to you as a queen."
John waved his hand in negation. "She's old enough to say the vows; she'll grow into the role fast enough. Richard's Queen spent most of her time living in seclusion and it didn't harm him."
Salisbury voiced the obvious: "But she's already betrothed."
"Christ, Will, are you sure you're the fruit of my father's loins?" John scoffed, causing Salisbury to flush. "You're far too innocent to be one of us! Any betrothal can be broken and a marriage annulled if the price is right. I cannot afford to let Angoulême and Lusignan unite. Aymer's salivating at the chance to have his daughter crowned Queen of England. He'd certainly rather get into bed with me than with Hugh de Lusignan—and I'll be delighted to share the night with his delectable daughter!"
William said impassively, "You will earn the undying hatred of the Lusignans, sire. Personally it doesn't worry me to see them slighted, but they are accomplished warriors and know how to stir up trouble."
"I can deal with the Lusignans," John said shortly. "If I marry the girl, my father-in-law will continue to keep them in check as he has always done."
"I agree it will be awkward if Angoulême and Lusignan unite"—William nodded—"but as Salisbury says, the girl is perilously young—and she's narrow in the flank for childbirth. Has she had her first flux?"
"Not yet, but she's ripening fast."
The notion of a girl so young in John's bed made William uncomfortable. Twelve years old. He didn't want to think of Mahelt in such circumstances, but the match itself made sound political sense. Many men would wait on a wife's ripening, but he had seen the look on John's face when the girl was in the room. Besides, it was necessary for a king and the last direct male of his line to beget heirs as soon as he could.
"You must weigh up whether this marriage will be more useful than the Portuguese one you had in mind before," he said by way of a caveat. "Perhaps you should find another husband from among your barons for the heiress of Angoulême."
"The girl's father would not cooperate," John said. "As far as he is concerned, it is either England for his daughter, or Hugh of Lusignan."
William succeeded in maintaining a dispassionate expression. "Then you must do as you see fit, sire."
"Oh, I intend to." John gave a lazy lupine smile and raised his cup in toast. "I thoroughly intend to, my lords."
***
In the guest house of the nunnery at Fontevrault, William bowed over Queen Eleanor's hand and pretended not to notice the dark splotches and the tremor of old age. Her nails were still tended and polished, and her fingers adorned by gold rings. She might be approaching eighty years old and have retired to dwell amongst nuns, but she still had her vanity. The full wimple that framed her face was a flattering soft shade of blue; her gown, although plain, was thrice dyed and her prayer beads were fashioned of smooth, polished amethysts, topazes, and sapphires.
"Madam," William said. "As ever your presence lights up the chamber."
Eleanor's eyes, once golden like John's, were muddy with the weight of years, but a spark kindled in their depths. "Do I, my William? I suspect these days that it's the light of another world—probably hell if my second husband was right. He always said he would see me there." She gestured him to be seated on a bench by the hearth and, with the aid of her stick, eased herself slowly down into a chair facing him. "Old age is not to be recommended," she said wryly.
"I heard that you had been ill, madam, and I was sorry to hear it."
She made a dismissive gesture. "Naught but the spirit overtaxing a worn-out body. I am better now and glad of my visitors." She glanced around the room, which was busy with the knights, clerics, and courtiers of her son's household. Her rheumy eyes fixed on John and the golden-haired child-bride standing nervously at his side.
"Did you counsel him to marry her?"
"No, madam. He had already made up his mind when he told me, but I thought it no bad policy."
"Policy you say?" Eleanor snorted. "Well, mayhap, but aided and abetted by more than a seasoning of lust."
William winced. The new bride's name was Ysabel and it disconcerted him to hear John render the name with husky desire in his voice. They had been married for three weeks and the girl was never away from his side, at John's behest, not hers. He had seen the tension in her eyes and the way she steeled herself when he touched her. "If the houses of Lusignan and Angoulême had united, it would have made matters difficult."
"Uniting Anjou and Angoulême won't necessarily resolve things either," Eleanor said. "A Portuguese alliance would have served us as well in the long term. My son has gambled and I am not yet sure that he has won the throw." Her eyes filled with melancholy. "Who would have thought I would still be living after near four-score years and all my sons but one would be dead." She gave a deep sigh and closed her eyes. "I am tired, William. The world no longer holds the savour it once did. I am too rusty to dance."
"I do not believe that, madam."
"You should, because it is the truth. I am content to dwell with my nuns and find my peace—or at least try."
Not just with her nuns, William thought, for Fontevrault housed the mortal remains of her beloved Richard.
She opened her eyes. "And you, William, what will you do now?"
"Once the Queen has been crowned at Westminster, I have permission to visit Pembroke and Ireland, madam. I have been promising Isabelle for so long that I don't think she believes me."
Eleanor eyed him with a mingling of severity and humour. It is never wise to make promises to a woman and then delay them beyond her expectations," she cautioned. "Your wife is forbearing and fair. Do not take her for granted or you will lose her trust."
"I don't, madam." He made a face. "If not for love and respect of my wife, I wouldn't be contemplating a crossing of the Irish Sea in late autumn."
Eleanor laughed, but the sadness in her eyes deepened. "Have a care, my William. I have been far in my life, even to Jerusalem like yourself, but I have never seen Ireland, nor will I now. Count it as a blessing and an opportunity to investigate pastures new."
"In your honour, madam," he said, feeling chagrined at her words.
"In my memory," Eleanor responded with pointed amusement.
Taking her hand, William bowed over it again, deeply saddened at the sight of a dying flame.
Seven
PEMBROKE, SOUTH WALES, OCTOBER 1200
A bitter wind whipped down the estuary and out to sea, capping the waves with white surges of foam. Water and sky were the colour of a sword in motion: changes of light and cloud creating pattern-welded moments of sharp silver and dark, quenched steel. Standing on the deck of the trading galley the
Sainte-Marie
as the rowers pulled past Pembroke dock and out into Milford Sound, Isabelle was exhilarated, for finally they were on their way to Ireland. If she felt queasy, it was due to anticipation rather than seasickness. Last time she had trodden Irish soil, she had been twelve—little older than Will and Richard, who were making the voyage with her and William, as was Mahelt. Gilbert, Walter, and the baby had remained behind at Pembroke in the care of their nurses. William said that they were too young for the rigorous sea crossing, and should anything happen to the ship, then at least two sons and a daughter would survive to carry on the family line.
William stood at her side, his expression grim as he watched Pembroke Castle recede into the distance. By squinting Isabelle could still make out the scaffolding around one of the towers and the mounds of foundations and earthworks, with labourers and masons swarming over them like ants. To exert his power in South Wales, William needed an impregnable base from which to operate and as soon as they had arrived had embarked on a building programme to modernise and improve the defences. She curled her arm around his. "Did you drink the horseradish tisane?"
"Yes, for what good it will do."
Isabelle marked the irascible note in his voice and the lines of tension creasing his face. Sea crossings were one of the few occasions when William's good nature deserted him and he became a complete trial to be near. "It will be all right," she said in the same low pitch she used to soothe the children when they were fractious or upset.
"There is no need to coddle me," he growled.
"I was offering comfort, not coddling," she answered tartly. "I suppose you'd rather be at court fêting King John and his new Queen?"
William glowered. "Now you are being foolish."
Isabelle bit back a retort about the state of his temper and watched the sleek heads of seals pop up on a wave crest then just as rapidly submerge. She had attended the coronation of John's bride and had felt deeply sorry for the slender girl put on display like a newly bought young filly at an exclusive horse fair, and struggling to come to terms with the harness of expectation and duty. John had apparently sworn that he would not get her with child until her body was capable of birthing an infant, but such an oath did not prevent him from indulging in debauched and lecherous practices that would not lead to pregnancy. Isabelle suspected William was also braving the swells and troughs of the Irish Sea in order to escape the moral laxity of John's court.
As they headed into open water, the wind freshened and gusted. Isabelle tasted salt on her tongue and exulted in the sight of the dark waves bursting against the sides of their ship. The children were wild with excitement and she had to warn her women to keep an eye on them. Richard in particular had to be watched like a hawk for he was fearless and ran amongst the crew, clambering on barrels, swinging around the halyards, and scampering everywhere like the Bishop of Winchester's pet monkey, until William seized him by the scruff, shook him, and threatened to lift his hide with a whip. Richard was quieter after that, prudently keeping out of his father's way by going to talk to the steersman.
The crew shipped oars and lowered the strake shields to cover the oar ports. The coast of Pembroke fell away to be replaced by a heavy grey swell, stretching from horizon to horizon and meeting a sky of similar hue. For a while an escort of gulls wheeled above the
Sainte-Marie
's linen sail, occasionally settling on her mast, or harpooning into her white wake after fish, but as the ship ploughed on into mid-ocean, they ceased to follow her.
The wind increased, blowing hard from the north and hitting the galley beam on. To Isabelle it felt like riding a boisterous new mount. When she said as much to William he snapped that it was nothing of the sort; he'd ridden plenty of wild horses in his time, but none like this. Lips compressed, cloak huddled around his body, he retired to the deck shelter. Isabelle remained in the open a while longer, but as the gusts strengthened and the swell grew choppy, she too sought the shelter and summoned the children within. Mahelt's teeth were chattering with cold and she was beginning to look wan. Will too was quiet and pale. Richard remained exhilarated. Cheeks red, eyes sparkling, he regaled them with details culled from the sailor at the steerboard.
"He says the ship's made to twist with the waves and not break her back if the seas grow very big and wild," he informed his parents in a cheerful voice.
"Well, that's reassuring," Isabelle murmured with a glance towards her husband who was swallowing convulsively.
"He showed me a gold ring from a ship wrecked off Waterford when he was a boy. He said he pulled it off a severed hand that washed up on the shore."
"I will hew off his own hand with my sword, once I have cut out his tongue," William snarled. "And perhaps I'll cut off your ears for listening to such nonsense." He gave up fighting the surges of nausea that had grown apace with the screw and twist of the ship and vomited into a bucket. Richard eyed his father and with a pragmatic sigh lay on his stomach and peered out between the flaps of the deck shelter. "It's raining," he announced. "The clouds are black with it."
Jean D'Earley, who was not afflicted by
mal de mer
, sat down cross-legged beside Richard and stared out with him. "Best stay quiet, lad," he murmured. "Your father keeps his promises… or he does when he's well enough, and I'd hate to see you and the steersman mutilated."
Isabelle smiled faintly at Jean, who returned the gesture. They were the same age and had known each other since he was a squire and she a young bride. Their relationship was one of respect, understanding, and solid friendship. That such traits had never developed beyond those values owed much to their mutual love for the man currently retching into a pail beside them.