Behind William and Isabelle, attendants in the green and yellow Marshal livery heaved Striguil’s personal contribution to join the mass of riches waiting to be assessed and counted by the representatives of Emperor Henry.
“You have surpassed yourself, my lord,” said Walter de Coutances, his gaze shrewd as he supervised the stowing of the Marshal donation.
William shrugged. “I have done my best,” he said, “but it has not been easy. We mortgaged next year’s wool clip and sold our finery. A man can only wear so many tunics and cloaks in a lifetime.” He spread his hands to show that he wore but one ring—a fine sapphire cabochon. His fingers were bare for a man of his rank who would usually be dripping in gold.
“True,” de Coutances said and looked at him quizzically. “Have you heard any news from Marlborough?”
“Not of late,” William answered warily.
“I am told that it is well prepared for a siege, or to welcome rebels should they arrive at its gates.” De Coutances shook his head. “These are wicked times when they set brother and neighbour against each other.”
“I have no quarrel with my brother,” William said evenly, “only a difference of opinion.”
The letter from King Philip to Prince John was simple and succinct, carrying the warning words: “Beware, the devil is loosed.” In point of fact it pre-empted Richard’s release. The “devil” was still in prison, but likely to be free very soon. The first portion of the ransom had been paid and Queen Eleanor and Walter de Coutances were on their way to bring Richard back from Germany where he now dwelt under affable house arrest, holding his own court rather than languishing in fetters as his younger brother might have hoped.
William told Isabelle the details of the letter, a copy of which had found its way into Hubert Walter’s hands. He had recently arrived back at Caversham from London where the news was already as rife as a plague of rats in a granary. A wild October wind was playing around Caversham’s walls and the shutters rattled with each stormy gust. “Needless to say, John’s fled England,” he added.
Seated on their bed, Isabelle unwound her hair and looked at him. “You are not surprised.”
“It is as much as I would have expected, given past behaviour,” he said grimly.
Isabelle teased the ends of her loosened braids. “Does this mean he is fleeing the ship before it sinks, or hastening to fetch aid?”
William spread his hands. “Who knows? With John it could be either.”
“What of his castellans?”
He looked bleak. “They’ll have been ordered to hold out.”
Isabelle bit her lip. She knew they were both thinking of his brother. She had watched William pace their chamber and the hall, playing a waiting game and suffering for it.
“He won’t listen,” he said. “He’s like his master—he’s gone too far down the road to turn back.”
“You must try to talk to him though,” she said with quiet conviction. “At least then you’ll know you tried.” She pressed her hand to her belly. She was entering her third month of pregnancy and nausea was a constant discomfort.
William chewed his thumbnail. “Do you think Richard will forgive John when he returns?”
Isabelle frowned. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I think he will…not out of brotherly love. I don’t believe they have that kind of affection for each other. And not out of duty, but perhaps because they have a shared parentage, and Richard knows himself so much above John that his plotting is no more to Richard than the meddling of a child. Besides, can you think of anything more galling to John than being magnanimously forgiven by Richard?”
William shook his head. “No,” he said, “I can’t.”
Ralph Bloet, whose father was seneschal of Striguil, had brought William a gift from his father. “He thought it would suit your eldest son,” he said, nodding smugly at the small dappled pony with shaggy mane and tail. “His steward won him from a dwarf at dice and sold him on. He’s saddle trained.”
“Ralph, I owe your father for this,” William said with pleasure. “It’s time Will had a pony but I’ve been hard-pressed to find one small enough without going to the big fair in London.”
“Glad to help,” the young knight said with gruff satisfaction. “You’re avoiding London at the moment then?”
“No, not exactly avoiding, but preferring to be at Caversham—resting between storms,” he said wryly. “Who knows, I might yet find the grace of time to turn Will into an accomplished horseman—and Richard too, the imp.” He grinned at the thought of his younger son, only two years old but already lithe, co-ordinated, and getting into scrapes. “I…” He paused as a horseman trotted into the stable yard. The figure was familiar and filled him with a mingling of pleasure and trepidation. “Wigain?”
The little clerk dismounted from his blowing hack. Rubbing his buttocks and grimacing, he tottered bow-legged to William. “I swear the miles grow longer as I get older,” he groaned, giving William a perfunctory bow. He eyed the pony. “You’re breeding big dogs these days, my lord, if I may so.”
Bloet scowled, “You are insolent,” he growled. “If you spoke to me thus, I’d mend your manners with a whip.”
“Let be, Ralph,” William chuckled. “I’ve known Wigain since he was a common kitchen clerk and I was a landless whelp. Now I’m a royal justiciar with a countess for a wife and he’s still common, but no longer a kitchen clerk.”
“Sometimes I wish I were,” Wigain said in a heartfelt voice. “Christ, the state of my arse, you’d think I’d ridden here on the haunches of a cow.”
Bloet’s nostrils flared. He was plainly unimpressed by their visitor but held to silence by William’s dubious endorsement.
