John gave a bitter laugh. “I doubt we’d have had much to say at the dining trestle. Perhaps you should leave too.”
An expression of startled alarm crossed her face. “Leave, my lord? Where would I go?”
“As far away from me as possible…You don’t snuggle up with a wounded boar, you take a spear and ram it through its heart.”
“My lord?” Her voice was frightened.
“Christ, girl, get out, let me be!”
In the end he had to bellow at her and the sound of his own roar almost split his pounding skull in two. When the red mist had cleared from his vision, he saw that she had obeyed him and he was alone.
En route to the Marches to organise his own contribution to the King’s ransom, William rode by way of Marlborough. His heart sank as he approached the castle on its great mound and saw that the walls were bristling with soldiers. The atmosphere, despite his having sent heralds ahead, was disturbingly hostile.
“Perhaps we should turn around,” Isabelle said with a worried glance at the baggage cart carrying their two sons and their nurses.
William shook his head. He knew that whatever follies his brother might commit, fratricide was not one of them. “Even if he will not welcome the King’s justiciar, he will extend hospitality to his own kin,” he said grimly and heeled his palfrey on to the bridge.
John was waiting in the courtyard to greet him and William was horrified at how old and ill his brother looked. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery, his cheeks mapped with broken veins. The tunic he wore was grease-stained and his chin was shadowed with heavy silver stubble.
“Have you come to wash your hands of me too?” he demanded almost belligerently.
A jolt went through William at the tone of voice. “If I were going to do such a thing, I’d not have brought my family and your son.” He gestured towards the youth who had dark gold stubble of his own edging his square jaw. “He’s almost of an age to be knighted, and he’s shaping to be a fine man.”
“Ever the diplomat,” John grunted, making the words sound like an insult. “You had best come within.”
“You know that the King will be returning as soon as the ransom is paid?” William said. The women had retired with the children to a chamber on the floor above, Isabelle murmuring with a gleam in her eye that she intended taking Aline in hand for a spot of spine-stiffening. William stretched his legs towards the heat of the brazier and rubbed his thigh, which was aching tonight.
His brother folded his arms and looked stubborn. “The Prince says that it is still uncertain that Richard’s even alive.”
“He lives, I promise you,” William said curtly. “To deny it smacks of treason.”
“It smacks of caution and common sense,” John retorted. “And how in Christ’s name are you going to raise a hundred and fifty thousand marks? It can’t be done.”
“Yes it can; open your eyes. The justiciars could have taken the Prince at Windsor. If a truce was agreed it was because no one wanted to humiliate him and he consented readily to yield the keep.”
“On the understanding that you’d be able to raise the ransom and free Richard—neither of which is likely. If you fail and John becomes King, you will need to open your own eyes.”
“We won’t fail,” William said harshly. “If John defies us then we’ll do what we must. Ah God, brother, I don’t want to come to Marlborough with fire and sword.”
“Perhaps it will be me coming to Striguil instead,” John snapped.
“Christ, this is no game. The Prince is leading you into dangerous territory. Look at this place—stuffed to the thatch with men and supplies. There can only be one outcome…”
“So you say, but it’s a gamble, isn’t it—as our father would have known. He wagered your life on King Stephen’s weakness and he won.”
“Did he?” William ran his palms across his face and thought of his father’s ruined visage. “Did he win?”
“Yes, he did. Today he has a son in either camp. One way or the other the name of Marshal will survive. I hold Marlborough, which he always said belonged to us. He would be proud to see his eldest son holding it now—prouder than you will ever know.”
“John…”
“Enough. I will talk to my son and in the morning you will go on your way. You and I have said all that there is to say. It is pointless to argue more.” Rising to his feet, John Marshal left the room. William felt the cold air of his brother’s leaving stir the hair at his nape and send a chill down his spine.
Forty-two
Saint Paul’s Cathedral, London, Autumn 1193
William drew Isabelle down the vast nave of Saint Paul’s cathedral where, four years since, they had walked in procession to their wedding mass. Her eyes widened as she stared at the ranked iron-bound chests sequestered between the tall pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling, all bristling with padlocks, at the casks and barrels of silver pennies, the bolts of fine cloth and precious spices, donated in lieu of coin. All of this munificence was guarded by soldiers in full mail with shields and spears. To one side several officials were busy quantifying the treasure with weights and measures and tally sticks. They were speaking in German and using Latin to converse with their English counterparts.
