William lay on his bed in his chamber whilst the third black-robed physician of the morning poked and prodded him, examined his urine and asked various intimate questions concerning his diet and bodily functions. He answered the man with growing irascibility, while Isabelle stood to one side, hands clenched into fists with worry and exasperation.
"He has no appetite," she told the doctor. "All his life until now he has eaten heartily."
William glared at her. "Is a man not allowed to dine in peace without his wife watching and noting his every mouthful?"
"Do you not wish me to notice you?" Isabelle returned his glare. "Why would the doctors be here unless you were ailing? I am not some panic-stricken ninny who runs for the physician at the first sign of a sneeze or a belly gripe and well you know it." Aware that she was breaking the code of manners before the doctor, who was diplomatically looking away, she compressed her lips and lowered her gaze.
William said nothing, but his own jaw tightened. He suffered the rest of the exploration in taut silence and, as soon as he could, dismissed the man. Isabelle saw him to the door, waving away the maidservant who came to the task.
The physician gave her a compassionate look that filled her with dread. "I will make up a tincture for the pain and have my assistant bring it to you," he said, "but I fear that the Earl is strong-willed and resistant to what he sees as the interference of a doctor's arts."
Isabelle nodded wry agreement. "Very strong-willed indeed," she said. "But then he has never been ill in his life before, not even with the toothache or joint stiffness." She drew a deep breath. "You speak of relieving the pain, not of effecting a cure?"
The compassionate look remained. "My lady, I would be giving you false hope if I said I knew of a cure. That is in the hands of God and the Earl may yet make a full recovery…"
It was a platitude. At least he was being tactfully honest. The previous doctor had suggested cold baths and a rigorous application of leeches to balance the humours. That William had not thrown him from the room head over tail was a testament to her husband's control under extreme provocation.
"Yes," she said. "I pray so."
After closing the door behind him, she returned to William and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression as tight as a sealed chest.
"He said he will mix you something for the pain," she said, trying to keep her voice level. "You should let him help you."
He turned his head towards her and his gaze was bleak. "I am beyond that, Isabelle. I am not a fool and I have seen enough death in my time to know the signs. I have no intention of being clystered, plunged in a freezing tub, or stuck with leeches. The doctors could do nothing for King John, or for Richard, or their father. You make the best end you can when God decrees it is your time."
Isabelle made a small sound in her throat and went to the window where she stared out on the sward and the freezing rain that was almost sleet. "We met here for the first time," she said in a tremulous voice. "I saw you crossing the courtyard—the way you walked, how tall you were and how straight your spine… and all unknowing I envied the wife you might have at home."
She heard him exhale on a long breath that was marred by
a slight catch of pain. Then she felt him behind her. "And I remember seeing you and thinking that the man who took you in marriage would be fortunate indeed." He rested one hand lightly at her waist, thickened from its girlhood slenderness in the bearing of ten children. "I have been the most fortunate of men, Isabelle…and I still am."
A great wave of desolation washed over her. "I don't envy your wife now," she whispered, her throat constricting. "William, you cannot leave me; I will not survive." Tears spilled down her face and she began to sob.
"Hush now." He pulled her round into his arms. "We have had thirty years—thirty good years, which is more than most people are given. Even without me you have our sons and daughters and you will still be lady of Leinster and Striguil."
"Do you think it matters to me?" she wept, shaking her head.
"It will matter to our…to your people. You must make it matter to you."
She said nothing but pressed herself against his tunic, drawing in the scent of wool and the lingering ghost of cedarwood from the chest in which it had lain before he donned it.
"We have time before us yet," he murmured. "Order the barges prepared and we'll go to Caversham. The air is better than here in the city and it will do me good…and if it doesn't and I am certain of my death, then I will do it, God willing, my way, with dignity and on my own ground. People can come to me there at need. The King and his tutor are only across the river at Reading, and we can send for our children."
Isabelle swallowed against the choking lump of grief in her throat. She should be comforting him, not the other way around. This moment was as bitter as gall, but there was a sweetness in it too, so poignant as to be near unbearable, yet bear it she must. She had no choice.
Forty-six
CAVERSHAM, BERKSHIRE, SPRING 1219
April sunshine gilded the floor of the great chamber at Caversham, picking out the colours in the tapis by the bed, striping the woollen coverlet with pale gold, and glinting on the cushioned oak benches assembled around the bed where William lay. The sky through the open window was duck-egg blue, patched with a few torn wisps of grey cloud, hinting at later showers. For now, though, the day was fair and new, and William's pain was not debilitating.
He had been busy for a month issuing writs, preparing to relinquish the government of the country into other hands. Now the moment had arrived and he was relieved. This morning he had had his attendants wash and shave him with care and even though he was confined to bed, he had donned his court tunic and pinned it with a magnificent gold and sapphire brooch.
Isabelle sat on the window-seat, looking out, her cheek and the line of her body illuminated in the good morning light, her hands quiet in her lap. William watched her, the intensity of his gaze driven by the knowledge that he would not have this gift for much longer. It was one of the hardest parts of bidding farewell and preparing to move on. He wasn't ready to detach himself, but knew the time was riding in fast whether he willed it or not.
"They are here," she said, "and the young King with them as you requested." She rose from the window-seat and faced him. He saw the anxiety in her eyes and knew she was assessing whether he was up to the task of dealing with the Papal Legate, the Bishop of Winchester, and the assorted earls and barons who had come from Reading at his summons.
"Good." He forced a smile. "Everything is ready; let them come."
Isabelle stooped to kiss his cheek and went from the room. Expression contorted, William pulled himself to a higher sitting position. Immediately Will, who had been standing in the background, moved to help him, his brow puckered with concern. William swallowed his pride and accepted his son's strength. He needed to husband what remained of his own for the coming interview.
*** King Henry had grown since Candlemas when William had last set eyes on him. He had not yet begun to develop adult muscle and his features were still those of a child, but he was taller and his skin had a slight sheen, harbingers of adolescence. In the two and a half years since his coronation at Gloucester, he had acquired a polish of poise and assurance, although the aquamarine eyes, his mother's legacy, guarded the thoughts behind them and the line of his mouth still hinted at petulance. He greeted William with indifferent courtesy. His fastidious nostrils flared and he looked towards the door as if he would rather be anywhere else.
William knew he was being shrewdly assessed by the men who came to his bedside to greet him, all of them considering how much strength he had left; how far gone he was and what they should do about it. That was what they were here to decide. Ranulf of Chester was absent on crusade, but Longespée was present and the King's tutor, Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester. William could sense the tension in him, taut as a mangonel rope. He sat with his arms tightly folded across his chest, which William knew of old was not a good sign. The Papal Legate Pandulf showed a calm, implacable face, but beneath his heavy eyelids, his obsidian gaze was fierce. Derby and Warwick were present, Arundel and de Warenne. In the great hall many more waited to hear the decisions of the meeting in the bedchamber.
Once his audience had settled and those who wanted had been furnished with cups of wine, William gathered himself, cleared his throat, and addressed the juvenile King.
"Sire, when your father died, it was decided at Gloucester in the presence of the Papal Legate and many here today that your realm and yourself should be handed into my care. I have served you faithfully to the best of my ability and I would continue to do so if I could." He paused to draw breath and tried to ignore the pain that knifed through the centre of him. He had not drunk the potions that would have dulled its edge, for they would have dulled his mind too, and for this meeting he needed to be as sharp as a blade. With a wave of his hand he added, "It is plain for all to see that I can no longer fulfil the role. If it please you, sire, your barons must elect someone else to protect you and your lands. God grant that you find a governor who will serve you in such a way as to bring you honour."
Des Roches, who had scowled ferociously throughout William's speech, leaped to his feet, his complexion ruddy with anger. "I agree that it was given to you to take charge of the land and safeguard the realm, but the King was specifically given into my care!"
William had known des Roches might be difficult and try to take advantage. Although the pain was savaging him, William raised his voice and forced his will to dominate the other man's. "Come now, my lord," he said sternly. "None of that. You and the Earl of Chester agreed I should be regent of England and governor of the King and realm. A host of witnesses, many here today, heard you. They also heard me accept the post in the name of the Legate and everyone. The single reason I handed the King into your keeping was so I did not have to drag him about the countryside in an army's baggage wain, and in truth you know it." He paused for breath and found it difficult to draw. Pain had turned to agony and the effort required to impose his authority on des Roches had left him sweating and nauseous. He couldn't go on, but knew he must for the sake of a future he was not going to see, but which his family would have to live in. Isabelle had started to move towards him and Will had half risen from his seat, but he gestured them back and summoned his reserves one last time.
"I…I have thought about this for a while, my lords. When one's world closes down to a room and a bed, one has time for consideration. It is my decision to hand over my charge to the Legate since he represents the Pope who is England's overlord."
Pandulf inclined his head. The way he made the gesture was all gracious humility, but his eyes were those of a hawk. "A wise decision, my lord Marshal," he said.
"I hope so, although I sometimes wonder at the nature of wisdom." William beckoned to Henry, who rose from the bench and somewhat reluctantly stepped up to the bedside.
"Sire, give me your hand," William said.
After a hesitation, Henry did so. William was not surprised. At that age he would not have wanted to stand by a sickbed and take the febrile hand of a dying man.
Unlike his father's, which had been short, square, and energetic, Henry's hands were fine and languid, the skin pale, almost translucent, with delicate blue veins on the tender inside of the wrist. Not a warrior's hand, but then he didn't need to be in the flesh. Just as long as he had the strategies in his head when the time came.
"Sire, I beg the lord our God that if ever I did anything in my life to please Him, He grant you grow up to be a worthy man. But should you follow in the footsteps of some wicked ancestor and become like him, then I pray that your life is cut short. Do you understand?"
Fear and disgust widened Henry's eyes. The youth tried to pull away from William, who immediately increased his grip. "Do you understand?" he repeated.
White-faced, Henry nodded. "Yes, my lord," he said in a frightened voice.
William knew the boy had spoken out of a desire to be free of the engagement, but he had needed to hear the words. Breathing shallowly to counter the pain, he opened his hand and let Henry go. "Good then," he said. "I want you to remember."
The Legate rose to his feet. "We should leave you a while, my lord," he said tactfully. "I can see you need to rest."
William managed a short nod. "Thank you," he said with a look of gratitude for Pandulf. "Perhaps you will return later."
The company filed from the room, escorted by William's ushers and two of the senior household knights. William beckoned urgently to Will. "Go with them," he gasped. "Go and hand over the King to the Legate in the presence of all the others in the hall. I don't want anyone to say that it was done in secret and the Bishop of Winchester may yet make trouble…Return to me when you have done and tell me how it falls out…"
Will nodded and departed purposefully. William sank against the bolsters, exhausted and consumed by pain. Isabelle was swiftly at his side, a cup in her hand.
"Drink," she said.
The familiar smell of the contents almost made him gag and he waved her away. "No," he gasped. "Give me plain wine. I need a clear head for when Will returns. I would rather have sharp wits and suffer—for the moment anyway."
She looked anxious, but did as he asked, replacing the wine containing syrup of poppy with a cup of plain red. When she made to tilt it towards his lips William took it from her. "I still have the strength to hold my own cup," he said tetchily. Isabelle said nothing. She looked at his hand, which was shaking, then turned away, pretending she hadn't seen. William took several unsteady sips and prayed not to spill the wine. And strength to hold his cup did not mean the strength to reach out and set it on the coffer.