At Striguil the March wind was bitter. Hugging her arms around herself beneath her cloak, eyes stinging, Isabelle went to look out over the palisade towards the lower bailey. William had been out schooling his horses all afternoon. Sensing his need for solitude and the disciplined concentration that left no room for a crowd of thoughts, she had kept to their chamber and told others to give him a wide berth, but as the hours drew on and dusk approached, she had thought it time to find out how he fared.
He was still at work with his new destrier, bought last month from the Earl of Norfolk—a powerful dark brown colt, dappled with chestnut on belly and rump. She watched him make the horse change leading forelegs at the canter and as always admired his straight spine in the saddle and his fluid understanding of the horse. In outline in the fading light, he could have been a lithe young squire and she felt both her heart and loins contract. His squires weren’t there, so she assumed he had sent them to the guardroom and he was attended only by Rhys, who was blanketing up Bezant, preparatory to leading him back to the stables. Within her womb, their third child gave a confined kick. There wasn’t much room these days.
Mindful of her advanced state of pregnancy, Isabelle moved carefully along the wall walk and descended to the lower bailey, her cloak flapping and her veil beating around her face so that she could scarcely see where she was going. By the time she reached the foot of the steps, Rhys had alerted William and he trotted the destrier across to her and drew rein.
“How is he shaping?” she asked, fondling the horse’s plush muzzle.
“Very well,” William answered, “although he still has much to learn.” He glanced around and, lifting his right hand off the bridle, rubbed his face. “I hadn’t realised how late it was.”
“I knew you needed the time alone,” she said, smiling but concerned.
William dismounted and handed the destrier to Rhys. Taking her arm he linked it through his. “You always do know what I need,” he murmured.
A look passed between them and Isabelle lightened it by laughing. “I may know, but I cannot always give it.” She laid her hand in emphasis to her belly. “I do not think it will be long now. I—” She stopped speaking and turned as the guards shouted warning of a rider and the porter made shrift to open the gate in the palisade. She felt William’s grip tighten on her arm and from the way he stiffened she knew that he had not outridden his demons this afternoon, that they were still very much with him.
A messenger cantered into the yard on a sweating chestnut courser. “It’s my brother’s horse,” William said hoarsely and a shudder rippled through him.
So, the news was here, she thought; the news they had been waiting for and dreading. The hooded figure that dismounted staggered on landing and turned towards them, and she saw that it was Wigain—a grey, exhausted vestige of his usual self, but Wigain nonetheless. The little clerk looked at William, all merriment quenched from his eyes. The evening wind whipped strands of grey hair at the side of his hood. “I’ve ridden from Marlborough,” he said, “from my lord Hubert Walter…” He licked his lips.
“My brother is dead, isn’t he?” William said flatly.
Wigain nodded and swallowed. “Yes, my lord. I am sorry. Archbishop Hubert sends his deep condolences…” He swallowed again, and coughed.
William ignored Wigain’s exaggerated efforts to call attention to his parched throat. “Does he indeed?” he said, his nostrils flaring.
Isabelle swiftly took the initiative, reclaiming William’s arm and tugging upon it. “It is cold and dark,” she said sensibly. “We can as well listen in the warmth of the chamber as out here.”
“Perhaps I don’t want the warmth of the chamber for what I am going to hear,” he growled.
She rolled her eyes. “But I do, and our unborn son or daughter.”
It was an excuse below the belt and they both knew it. However, William capitulated and let her lead him up the stairs into the private chamber, pausing only to send a servant to the guardroom to summon his eldest squire.
As William entered his chamber, his sanctuary, his two sons ran to greet him. When the nurse would have called them back, he bid her let them come for he needed their joy and their innocent liveliness to steady him.
Isabelle took a seat by the fire and laid her palm on the shelf of her belly. Wigain drank the wine he was given with every evidence of wanting to make each swallow last so that he would not have to open his mouth and speak. Jack quietly entered the room, his gaze wide and wary. William bade him come to the brazier. The young man’s eyes flickered toward Wigain.
“Your father is dead,” William said gently.
Jack’s expression did not change, although he stopped like a horse on a short rein.
Wigain ran out of wine to swallow. “I am sorry,” he croaked.
The young man gave him a fathomless look and a small shrug. “It was expected,” he said.
“Tell us.” William sat his sons at his feet and set his forefinger to his lips, bidding them be silent. Will nodded solemnly. Richard copied his father’s gesture and then exaggeratedly pressed his lips together and looked wide-eyed at Wigain, clearly expecting a story.
Wigain took the flagon from William’s steward and helped himself to more wine. “Archbishop Walter brought troops to Marlborough and commanded your brother to yield the castle in the name of King Richard. Your brother refused and had his bowmen loose arrows upon our men. The Archbishop laid siege to the keep with vigour—you know the way of it, my lord. You have seen enough siege andchevauchéein service to old King Henry and his sons.”
William nodded. “There is no need to give a blow-by-blow account,” he said tersely. “It serves no purpose. He was killed in battle?”
Wigain tipped the wine down his throat. “No, my lord. It is true that he was directing the battle from the wall walk. I saw his shield and banner on several occasions…but it was during a lull that they took that banner down and then heralds came out to ask Archbishop Walter for terms.”
Wigain saw a look flicker between uncle and nephew. “My lord archbishop desired surrender of the castle, and said he was prepared to let the garrison go free. But when the gate opened, it was Lady Marshal who brought the keys to him and told us that her husband was dead of a seizure.” Wigain looked sombre, remembering. “She knelt before the Archbishop with the keys held out on the palms of her hands and begged his clemency…and he granted it. He had what he wanted. The garrison surrendered and he allowed Lord John’s body to lie in the chapel while a coffin was brought and a cart to bear it away to Bradenstoke. There’s to be a funeral mass in the cathedral at Cirencester.”
William narrowed his eyes, calculating how soon he could be on the road. He felt leaden with sorrow and a deep sense of failure. How had it come to this?
Wigain took another drink from his cup. “There is more,” he said.
