Her maids in tow, Isabelle followed Theobald Walter down to the lower chamber. Her heart was pounding but there was no time to compose herself. The door was already open and she was ushered straight into the presence of William Marshal. He was leaning against a trestle table, but he pushed himself upright as she entered the room. Vaguely she took in the detail that he had two squires with him, a couple of knights, and a clerk. Feeling acute apprehension, she met his composed dark stare.
“If I were you, Marshal, I would be quick about the matter,” said Theobald Walter with a meaningful look. “My uncle does not like to be crossed, and even if his days are numbered, they are not yet over.”
The calm stare left Isabelle and fixed instead on Theobald Walter.
“Is that by way of threat or just friendly advice?” said Marshal.
Walter shrugged, his gaze equally unruffled. “You do not know me well, my lord, or you would not ask such a question. It is not my way to threaten, and I have no quarrel with you. My uncle’s ambition brought me to court and, as you know, a man has to make the best of the opportunities he is given, but I am not a fool to go against the will of a king.” An acerbic smile curved his lips. “And especially not the will of a queen. I do not believe that my uncle Ranulf will go against it either, but it would still be wise not to linger.” He nodded in salutation, went to the door, and on the threshold turned. “I hope you will remember my goodwill in times to come. I wish you both well.”
Isabelle looked at William, feeling shaky. If Theobald Walter was wishing them well, then it could only be for one reason.
“My lady,” he said. “Will you be seated?” He indicated one of the benches at the side of the room.
Isabelle knew that if she sat down she would probably not be able to stand again. His assumption that she needed to be seated made her feel contrary. “Thank you, messire,” she said, “I would rather stand and face you.”
“Then perhaps we should both sit. It would certainly be more comfortable for me.” He limped heavily to the bench. “An accident when boarding the ship to England,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I may be an old warhorse, but I’m usually sound of wind and limb.” He eased himself carefully down and she saw his eyes tighten with pain.
Since it would have been ungracious to continue standing, Isabelle reluctantly followed suit, glad that the full skirts of her gown prevented him from seeing how much her legs were trembling. She forced herself to meet his eyes. Fine lines were etched at their corners as if he smiled a lot, or spent time narrowing his gaze against the weather. Their hue was that of a stormy winter sea.
“My lady, I do not know if you remember me. My visit to the Tower was brief then, and we met for a few minutes only.”
Isabelle touched her throat. “Yes, I remember it. You came for Heloise and I thought that you were going to marry her.”
He opened his hand. “I thought so too, but matters changed.”
He had a pleasant voice, neither high nor deep, but well modulated and without any particular accent—unlike her own which bore the cadences of her Irish childhood.
“Heloise wrote to me and said that you were not of a mind to wed her.”
“Did she?” He raised an eyebrow but didn’t look particularly disturbed. “I know that she wrote to you: she told me herself; but I never asked what she had the scribe write. It seemed to me that she was entitled to a little privacy.”
Isabelle eyed him, uncertain whether to approve or feel slighted. Giving a little privacy sounded suspiciously like placating a potentially fractious child with a sweetmeat, yet having lived with none of late, such a gesture would feel like consideration beyond price. “Are you going to ask me what she wrote?” she asked.
“Since it was from her to you—no.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I dare say if I had married her, we would have tolerated each other’s failings—either that or driven each other mad and settled for different households once our heirs were begotten. I’m still fond of her and I hope she remembers me with a smile too.” He studied Isabelle. “In truth, for more than two years my mind has been set on a greater prize.”
Isabelle stiffened. “Heloise’s northern lands must pale in comparison to the estates that come through me,” she said.
“I was offered Denise de Châteauroux instead of the lady Heloise, but I refused because I knew what I wanted…and, truth to tell, had wanted since I laid eyes on you.”
Her face grew hot. He was a courtier; such words came easily to him. Any landless knight would desire her for the lands and prestige she brought, irrespective of her person. “And if Heloise had been the lady of Striguil?” she asked.
He spread his hands and she noticed that his fingernails were clean and that he wore more rings than a soldier, but fewer than a court fop. “Then we would have learned to live with each other. I may have a few romantic bones in my body, but not enough to overthrow reason…However, one always hopes for the best of both worlds.”
“And what of me?” Isabelle asked. “What choice do I have?”
“How pragmatic are your own bones, my lady? You have no choice in the matter of your marriage, even if the Church plays lip service to the fact that you do. Your lands and yourself have been entrusted into my keeping. You can make the best of your bed or shroud yourself in martyrdom.”
Isabelle returned his stare and then lowered her lids. Anything was better than remaining here and, as he said, she had no choice in the matter. “I do not know you,” she murmured, “nor you me.” She wondered if her parents had ever spoken thus. Her mother too had been a prize. She had seldom spoken of her marriage to Richard Strongbow, and on the rare occasions she had made mention of it, she had done so with a tight mouth and sad eyes. Isabelle didn’t want to look like that.
“That’s a remedy I have no cure for except time, my lady. I swear to you that I will treat you with all the honour and deference due to your rank, if you will do the same for me as your husband.”
Isabelle tried to steady her panic by breathing slowly. She felt sick and the palms of her hands were cold. Slowly she raised her head. “I do not know how pragmatic my own bones are,” she said, “but I will try.”
He was careful to exhale without making a sound, but she saw the long movement of his chest and realised that he too was under considerable strain, although he was better at concealing it. “Thank you,” he said and, pushing to his feet, reached out his hand to her. She saw the beads of sweat on his brow and the way he held himself. She didn’t want to place her hand in his for then he would know how frightened she was, and her mother had said that one should never show fear in the face of challenge. Soon it would be more than just the joining of hands; soon they would be sharing the bed of which he had just spoken. Not that she knew much concerning that aspect of marriage. Her usually forthright mother had been singularly uncommunicative on the matter. Heloise had been a fount of information, but Isabelle was unsure how much of the detail was the result of an over-active imagination. Thinking swiftly, she laid her hand to his sleeve instead, in the manner of the court, and saw his eyelids tighten, but whether in amusement or displeasure was hard to tell.
“I have a boat waiting. If you are ready, we can go now.”
“Now? This instant?” Isabelle shot him a questioning look. “What about my household and my baggage?”
