"Yes, but you'll go away again." She touched the rich braid edging the neckline of his tunic.
"Not for a long while yet…plenty of time to make kings and queens and princes."
"And another baby?" she asked, eyes wide.
He spluttered. "You'd have to ask your mother about that," he said with a grin at his wife.
*** Tucking a towel around his waist, William stepped from the bathtub. Isabelle dried his torso and conducted a careful scrutiny. Apart from the scars of wounds taken in his youth, of which there were very few given his career in the tourneys and on the battlefield, she was disturbed to notice one or two recent additions, mainly of bruises fading to yellow. Since he was a senior commander and overseer of campaigns these days, there should not have been any bruises at all.
"What?" he asked warily as she moved from his back around to his chest.
"We heard a preposterous tale about the siege of Milli." She handed the damp towel to a maid and folded her arms. "Apparently you ran across the ditch, led an assault up a scaling ladder, and fought single-handed on the wall walk."
He shrugged. "You should know by now not to listen to
tales, my love."
"It depends who's telling them. When it's one of my own messengers who was in camp and witnessed the event, I tend to yield him credence."
He caught her round the waist and pulled her against his damp body. "I'm not in my dotage yet, and I'll have neither my king nor my wife putting me out to grass."
Isabelle set one palm against his chest and with the fingers of her other hand traced the outline of his freshly shaven jaw where the ghost of his beard lingered in the outline of lighter, untanned skin. "I harboured no such thoughts, but I am bound to think of your safety. Besides," she added mischievously, "when old warhorses are put out to grass, it's usually to stud."
His eyes narrowed at the remark. "And those in their prime can usually manage both the battlefield and the breeding stall." He gestured towards the bed. "Draw the hangings and I'll prove it to you."
Isabelle laughed and blushed, aware of the proximity of the children and grinning, wide-eared servants. "I already have the proof…" she said with a nod towards Gilbert's cradle, and a glance at their other offspring who were chasing each other round the room, wild with excitement at having their father and his entourage home. "…of both." Her fingers were rueful as she ran them over his bruises. The towel did little to conceal the detail that he was perfectly capable of proving his point, but decency was swiftly restored by the garments which had been warming at the fire: loose linen braies, chausses, and a tunic of soft dark-blue wool. Nonetheless, the look William exchanged with her promised the matter would be attended to at a more appropriate and leisurely moment and caused Isabelle to shiver with luxurious anticipation.
"We took Milli and captured the Bishop of Beauvais, so Richard was mightily pleased." William sat down to drink wine and eat a platter of honey pastries. "And we turned back the French—for now at least. Richard's short of money again but that's nothing new. He's talking about raising the taxes in England to gain more revenue. I daresay his chancellor will do his best to accommodate him and squeeze where necessary."
Isabelle made a mental note to have a word with their stewards and clerics. She and William would pay their dues and even a little more than their dues because it was useful to keep royal favour. There were often occasions when they would lend Richard money from their own revenues, but they were able to do that because they were astute and kept an eye on their own interests and purse strings. It helped that much of their English revenue was based on the wool from their Welsh Marcher estates, of which Flemish looms could not get enough.
William sat Mahelt on his knee and shared a pastry with her. "The Count of Mortain acquitted himself well," he remarked.
Isabelle couldn't prevent herself from making a contemptuous sound.
"Mama doesn't like the Count of Mortain," announced sevenyear-old Will, who had been listening and watching the parental exchange and unconsciously absorbing the nuances. "She says that an ermine is still a stoat under the season's changes."
William helped himself to another pastry. "Your mother is right to be cautious," he said. His tone was casual, if not the warning look he cast at Isabelle. When he spoke again, his words were as much for her as for their son. "But for the moment I have no quarrel with him and he is the King's brother."
"Do you like him?" Will asked with the raw candour of childhood.
William licked his fingers. "He's a competent commander and good company round the fire at night."
Isabelle noted his evasive answer. She knew William and Richard worked well together and, despite past frictions, their relationship was one of mutual trust and the liking that William declined to admit for John, the Count of Mortain. Isabelle's antipathy for John went much deeper than her husband's. She sometimes thought that if the Devil walked the earth in the shape of a handsome and charming man, he would look and act like the King's brother.
"He is Richard's heir," William added with quiet emphasis. "One day he might be King. He's also our overlord in respect of your mother's Irish lands."
Not wanting to begin an argument within an hour of William's return, Isabelle bit her tongue and busied herself chivvying the maids to empty the bathwater and take away the dirty items of baggage to the laundry. Her Irish lands were a sore point, and one which could only be resolved by putting time and effort into them—time and effort that William was too busy giving to Richard and Normandy.
*** The shutters were closed against the night, but the ceramic oil lamp suspended from the bed canopy had cast enough light to see by and enhance desire and pleasure. Isabelle held William close, savouring the sensation of his hard body upon and within hers: the thunder of his heartbeat, the catch of his breathing, the relaxation of muscles which a moment ago had been bunched with tension. They had been married for eight years; some times were invariably better than others, and this occasion, fed by a season's built-up appetite, was one of them.
"Is that proof enough for you?" William gasped against her throat.
Isabelle arched her neck. "It is certainly proof," she replied in a sultry murmur, "but whether it is enough…"
"Is that a challenge?"
"And if I said yes?"
He nuzzled her throat. "I can still race up a siege ladder and
have the stamina remaining for a long campaign."
Isabelle answered the sally with soft laughter. "Maybe so," she said, enjoying the banter, "but in me you have met your match."
He rolled to his side, pulling her with him. "Ah, Isabelle," he said tenderly, and drew his hand through her thick tawny hair. "I thank God for it every day."
"So do I…and that's why I worry for you."
"Now that I'm getting older?" His tone was still light but Isabelle didn't miss the sardonic nuance.
"Your age has nothing to do with it." She gave him a nudge. "Were you three score and ten, I suspect you'd still be leading your men from the front rather than staying back to command."
"I know what I'm about. As in all things there's much to be said for experience." He nibbled the inside of her wrist. "Truly, I am not in search of glory these days."
Isabelle wasn't so sure, but let the matter drop. She feared that King Richard involved William in too many scrapes, but saying so was pointless and would only create a vicious circle compounded of her worry and his exasperation. It did not mean, however, that she was finished with skirmishing on other matters close to her heart. "Did you speak of Ireland to Richard and John?" she asked.
"Yes," he said diffidently, "I mentioned it."
"And?"
He sighed. "The King agreed in principle to give me leave to go, but for the moment he needs me to command in Normandy."
"And what did John say?"
"Very little."
"He would," she said tartly. "He's our overlord in Ireland and he doesn't want us stirring our spoon in his cauldron lest we dredge up things that he doesn't want us to see."
When he didn't reply, Isabelle raised herself up on her elbow
to look at him. "You think I am being foolish about John, don't you?"
"No, my love, I don't. A trifle zealous in your dislike, I admit, but you are right. John doesn't want us interfering in Ireland, but it's a moot point anyway because I cannot spare the time to go."
Isabelle exhaled impatiently. "We have been wed as long as Richard has been a king, yet not once have we crossed the sea to Leinster. When
will
you be able to spare the time?"
"As soon as it is right on all counts, I promise."
With an effort, Isabelle restrained herself. She didn't want to quarrel on his first night home. The privacy of their bed might be the place, but it wasn't the time. She suspected that William was as reluctant to visit Ireland as Richard and John were to see him go. She had long realised that while the tranquillity of retreats such as Caversham in England or this keep at Longueville were necessities to his well-being, he was uncomfortable when away from the hub of the court for too long. He had dwelt in its glow for most of his life, so that leaving it for the distant periphery of Ireland would be an almighty wrench. Then there was the sea crossing. He abhorred travelling by ship and the passage to Ireland was no calm day's sail. Still, she intended holding him to his word. He was always insisting that it was by her auspices he held the land and only in trust for their children. Let him put his actions on the same level as the courtesy of his words and give them substance.
"I was born there." Her voice took on a wistful note. "Half my blood is of that land. I have a longing to see it again…and my mother. I was little more than a child when we parted and now I have children of my own. Even if we were never close, I desire to speak to her one woman to another, and she has a right to see her grandchildren."
"I always keep my promises," he said with the assertive reiteration she had heard him use to difficult vassals and pouting children alike.
She sighed. "I know you do." For a while there was silence as Isabelle tried to put her concerns aside and focus on the pleasure of having William's warmth in the bed beside her. "You will give it serious thought though…?"
William's voice was filled with wry humour. "I haven't been asked to think about so many things in a long time, and I've not been home a day yet."
"I suppose there are many things you haven't done in a long time," Isabelle said, leaning over to kiss him. "What were you saying about stamina?"
Two
LONGUEVILLE, NORMANDY, SPRING 1199
Isabelle sat at her embroidery with her ladies. Pulling away from winter, the season's light had a pale clarity that meant more intricate sewing could be undertaken. Bending an attentive ear to the chatter, she was glad to hear a lively note in the women's voices, for that too, like the return of the sun and the sight of birds building their nests, was a sure sign spring had arrived.
Jean D'Earley's young wife Sybilla was stitching an exquisite design of silver scallop shells on to a tunic band. Embroidery was her particular skill and her husband was the best-dressed knight of William's mesnie. Sybilla was William's niece, daughter of his deceased elder brother. The girl possessed a quiet disposition, but Isabelle believed the creativity and dedication exhibited in her sewing were indicative of a rich internal life that didn't need gossip and socialising to sustain it.
"How are you feeling now?" Isabelle asked her. The young woman had been unwell for three days running with a queasy stomach, and Isabelle had her suspicions, compounded by the way Sybilla kept looking at the cradle holding the newest addition to the Marshal family, three-month-old Walter.
"A little better, my lady. The infusion of ginger has helped." Sybilla looked pensive. "I…I think I may be with child, although I am not yet certain."
Isabelle patted her arm in reassurance. "I suspect so too. It is good news for you and Jean if it be the case."
Sybilla looked dubious. "He has been much absent with the Earl and we haven't bedded together often of late; it may be a false alarm."
Isabelle sent a rueful glance towards the cradle herself. "William only has to look at me and I quicken."
"Aye, well, you and the Earl have had plenty of practice," teased Elizabeth Avenel, wife to one of William's knights. She was always eager to talk of matters bawdy or sexual when the bower ladies were gathered over their sewing, although in mixed company she was less bold. "Everyone knows that unless a wife experiences the same satisfaction as her husband, her seed will not descend to mix with his and she will not conceive." She chuckled at Sybilla. "If you're feeling full enough for the sickness, my girl, then your lord must have discovered the art of pleasuring you in bed."
"Elizabeth!" Isabelle spluttered with a look at Sybilla who had flushed bright pink.
"Well it's true!" Lady Avenel defended herself. "Even some priests say so. The ones who don't are juiceless old prunes who've never had a good fu—"
She bit off her words as the chamber door opened and William flung into the room. He glanced swiftly at the circle of women, said, "Isabelle, a word," and strode over to an embrasure further down the room. Sweeping aside a motley assortment of children's toys, he sat down on the cushioned chest under the window splay, two vertical frown lines etching the space between his brows.
Isabelle's mirth faded. Abandoning her sewing, she left her women and hastened to William's side. "What's wrong?"
He breathed out hard and rubbed his neck. "Ach, nothing out of the usual. I don't even know why I am surprised. Is there any wine left, or has the sewing party drunk it all?"