“You may think me an interfering old woman, but I have had your interests at heart ever since I took you into my service.” She instructed a maid to bring over an enamelled jewel casket and, taking it from the girl, presented it to William. “This is my wedding gift to your bride.”
William thanked her. It was weighty, but it seemed impolite to ask what it contained. Eleanor smiled at him. “Open it,” she said. “It holds the gauds that women enjoy and men do not always think to give them.”
William raised the latch and looked upon a magnificent cloak brooch fashioned of gold set at intervals with dark blue sapphires. There was a smaller one, suited to fastening the neck of a gown, and a wimple band of silk brocade stitched with peridots and pearls. “It is a queenly gift,” he said with the spark of a smile.
Eleanor acknowledged his jest with a smile of her own. “Trust me, your bride will think it so, and if you can add to it, then so much the better. A little generosity will be more than repaid, providing you don’t substitute gems for affection.”
William strove not to grin. Most noble households possessed at least one elderly female relative who would spend her time gossiping by the fire, keeping an eye on the young women of the bower and meting out advice to all and sundry. Eleanor suddenly reminded him of such women, but he knew that it was more than his life was worth to say so. “I will make sure that my wife has plenty of both,” he said blandly, receiving in consequence a sharp look from Eleanor.
“See that you do,” she said in a peremptory tone. “You have already been given your wedding gift from me. You are an earl in all but name. All I ask in return is that you prove yourself worthy of my faith.”
“I will not fail you, madam,” he replied and would have risen to kneel, save that whilst he was sitting his leg had stiffened and bending it was nigh on impossible.
She arrested his struggle with a raised hand. “No,” she said. “You will have plenty of opportunity in the days to come to kneel at the feet of women.” Humour lit in her eyes. “Go to your bride and your lands,” she said, “and remember my advice. And give this to her from me.” Again she touched his face and her lips brushed the corner of his mouth in a tender salute compounded of mischief, affection, and abiding friendship. “I trust you to give it the correct interpretation,” she said.
When William had gone, Eleanor sat down to open and read her letters, a smile curling her mouth corners. William had just bitten off a very large mouthful, but she did not believe that it was more than he could chew. Indeed, in the months to come she fully intended to heap his trestle with further courses and hope that he lived up to his squirehood title of “Gasteviande” or “Guzzleguts.” But first let him have a moment’s respite to enjoy his new status as lord of vast lands and husband to a young wife. “Let her lead him a merry dance,” she said softly, and half wished that she could change places with Isabelle de Clare.
Thirty-two
The news of old King Henry’s death had thrown everyone at the Tower of London into turmoil, even the keeper of the menagerie, who had been stamping about growling like one of his lions. On the few occasions that Isabelle had seen Ranulf Glanville, he had looked grey and preoccupied. She had attended several masses to honour the old King’s soul and all the talk in the great hall was of what Richard would do when he arrived in England. Men feared for positions they had held for a lifetime. Glanville was particularly concerned, for he had little rapport with Queen Eleanor who was currently responsible for governing the country. Isabelle tried not to think of what was going to happen to herself. King Henry had been content to milk her lands and keep her walled up in the Tower. She knew that the Count of Poitou, now the King of England, had sworn to go on crusade and liberate Jerusalem from the infidel, and to do that he would need money—a lot of money, and that meant selling heiresses, shrievalties, positions, and titles to the highest bidder. He might decide to continue milking the lands of Striguil or he might sell that privilege elsewhere. He might even give her to his younger brother, John, although there was another heiress first in line for that honour. Havise of Gloucester didn’t seem to know whether to preen or be terrified at the notion of wedding Richard’s brother, currently the heir to the throne.
In the meantime, all of Isabelle’s needs were met by the Crown, who paid for them out of the revenues that came from her lands. She never saw any of that revenue personally. She had almost forgotten what a silver penny and a tally stick looked like. Her mother had been at pains to have her educated to fit her position as a wealthy heiress and that meant more than smiling sweetly and sewing a fine seam. Being the daughter of a Norman warlord and granddaughter of Irish royalty, Isabelle knew her pedigree, knew what it was worth, and also knew that it wasn’t worth a damn whilst her wings were clipped and there was no one to fight her cause.
Of late she had been kept under closer guard than usual. Her walks around the grounds of the Tower had been curtailed and she was confined to a small area of sward in front of her lodgings. She was watched at all times—even when she was sitting over the privy there was a maid within earshot. She would have laughed had the scrutiny not made her so irritated and anxious. What did they think an abductor was going to do? Clamber up the waste shaft and ravish her in the latrine?
Arms folded, Isabelle paced to the window of her chamber, but there was little to see but sky through the narrow slit cut into the stone. It was a fine summer’s day; she could tell that by the expanse of pale woad-blue. A day to ride out and enjoy the surge of a sleek Spanish palfrey beneath her, to watch Damask nose hither and yon among the bracken for small game, and to feel hot life surging in her veins.
It surprised her that she could still recall the intensity of that kind of pang for it came from her life in Ireland. There the colours and the memories were dappled green and grey, mossy and soft as light summer rain: the smell of turf fires, the harps of the bards in the dark winter halls, and the long summer nights of May and June. She had a recollection of her father swinging her up in his arms and of his beard tickling against her neck while she squealed. His hair had been deep madder-red, and his voice husky with laughter.
Isabelle blinked to clear her eyes and turned from the window. It was in the past, long gone. Even if she returned it would never be the same, for then she had been a small child running in her smock, and now by her very status she was not allowed to run anywhere.
In her basket near the door, Damask whined and thumped her tail on her cushion. Isabelle sighed and summoned her maids, who were de Glanville’s creatures and would do as he bid them. Her own women had long since been dismissed. Walking her dog on a limited course was the nearest she could come to any kind of freedom these days. Queen Eleanor might have released prisoners throughout the land as a boon to mark the start of the new reign, but that generosity did not apply to heiresses in royal care.
When her serving woman opened the door, Isabelle was startled to see guards standing either side of it, and shocked when they would not permit her to leave.
“Lord Ranulf’s orders,” one said, refusing to meet her widening gaze.
“What?” Isabelle’s throat tightened in panic. “He has no authority to confine me. I demand that you let me pass.”
He shuffled his feet. “My lady, I cannot. It is more than my life is worth.”
She felt hollow and sick. “And what is my own life worth? I demand to see the justiciar.”
The other guard cleared his throat. “That is not possible at the moment, my lady.”
“It is for your own good, my lady,” said his companion.
Isabelle scorched him with a look that he would not answer. “Whoever is benefiting from this, it is not me,” she said in a low voice. Then she indicated Damask. “If my dog squats in the rushes they will stink and be foul underfoot. At least find someone to walk her.”
The guards exchanged glances but didn’t reply and she knew they were waiting for her to do the predictable thing: turn back and slam the door against them in a female tantrum. Stemming that urge, she drew herself up. The sound of footsteps mounting the tower stairs caused the men to turn and present their spears. Isabelle remained where she was as de Glanville’s nephew, Theobald Walter, arrived. Panting from his climb, he waved his hand and bade the soldiers lower their weapons. Isabelle’s heart began to pound as she met Walter’s impassive gaze. She knew that de Glanville harboured designs of conferring her on him. He was a handsome man in his late prime, with fair curls cropped sternly short. Isabelle had met him several times and liked him, but that did not mean she desired to be his wife.
He bowed to her with impeccable manners: de Glanville’s nephew was a polished courtier. “Lady Isabelle, you have a visitor. Since he cannot climb the stairs, I have come to fetch you to him.”
His words were so unexpected that she could only stare at him while she struggled to find her manners. “Who?” she managed to say, smoothing her hands nervously over her gown. Whoever it was must be important, otherwise an ordinary attendant would have borne the summons. Surely not the new King or his brother Prince John? Why could he not climb stairs? Her mind raced through the various older men who might have reason to visit the Tower, but could think of none who would make a point of summoning her.
Theobald Walter’s mouth tightened. “William Marshal has come with letters from King Richard and the Queen,” he said a trifle curtly. “No doubt he will explain to you why he is here.”
William Marshal. The name was more familiar to her than their single brief meeting three years ago warranted. Heloise had sent her occasional letters from Kendal about her doings in the north and the disposition of her warden. It had become clear that he was not about to exercise the right he had been given to take Heloise in marriage—and that Heloise was relieved to be forgoing the honour. “He would have asked too much of me,” she had written.
