The woman curtseyed deeply to Isabelle, then rose and indicated the stairs down which she had just hastened. “If you wish, my lady, we have prepared a bath and fresh raiment.” Her cheeks were red. A collar of pearls at her throat sat just a little too snugly against her ample flesh.
Isabelle looked at William, who formally kissed her hand. “Go with Madam FitzReinier,” he said. “I’ve to prepare myself too, but I’ll join you shortly.”
Isabelle suppressed the urge to cling to William, knowing that it was born of suddenly being thrust into so much change. Holding herself erect, she followed the merchant’s wife up the timber stairs to the large chamber on the first floor of the main building. Here, she almost gasped at the opulence of the room, which was grander than anything she had ever seen. Every inch of wall was bright with embroidered hangings, the benches bore matching silk cushions, and the coffers were all painted with hunting and biblical scenes. Several maids chattered as they busied themselves around a large bathtub wafting tendrils of scented steam. Towels were warming on a stand before a brazier and the hangings of the day bed were drawn back to show the coverlet strewn with a colourful array of garments. A bemused Isabelle was pressed down on to one of the benches and a cup of spice-infused wine put in her hand.
Madam FitzReinier declared it a great honour to be entertaining the Countess of Striguil and that she and her husband were delighted to be of service. Isabelle could see that the woman’s pleasure was genuine, but had no doubt that she also had an eye to the profit. To be of service now was to ensure a long-term favourable relationship with the wealth of Striguil. Isabelle sipped the wine. It was like red silk on her tongue with just the right pungency imparted by the spices. It was delicious and she said so to her hostess.
Madam FitzReinier smiled. “Lord William has asked my husband for several barrels. I can give you the recipe for the spices. Mostly nutmeg and ginger. Here, you should eat something with it. It’s very potent.” The last word, although spoken innocently enough, had certain connotations. One of the maids giggled and Isabelle blushed. With a throaty laugh, Madam FitzReinier presented Isabelle with a platter of toasted bread, cut into small strips and spread with a tasty venison terrine. Although nervous, Isabelle still found the appetite to eat several. The other women joined in with relish and Damask devoured several as if she were a wolf and not a small, sleek greyhound.
Fortified by food and wine, Isabelle allowed the women to disrobe her and stepped into the bathtub. A heady floral scent perfumed the steam and she exclaimed in pleasure.
“Attar of roses,” said Madam FitzReinier, showing her a tiny glass vial. “My husband imports it from the Venetians, who obtain it from Arabia.”
She didn’t need to say how expensive it was: Isabelle could guess; but she made note of it all the same. As the women pummelled and scrubbed her, Isabelle asked her hostess about her future husband. Forewarned, after all, was forearmed. “I have heard many things about his reputation,” she said. “Most is high praise, but there are some rumours too…”
Madam FitzReinier gave a shrug. “Men are men and even the best of them far from saints, but if you are referring to his supposed affair with the Young Queen, then you can take my word that it was all falsehood, invented by his enemies to destroy his reputation. It was friendship they shared, not lust of the body.”
Isabelle bit her lip and wished she hadn’t spoken her doubts aloud. Ranulf de Glanville had been scathing of the rumours too—but in the opposite direction, for he had chosen to believe them and he had little to say about William Marshal that was positive. “I know so little,” she said, but more to herself than her hostess, and there was an edge of frustration to her tone.
Madam FitzReinier fetched a warmed towel from beside the brazier and brought it to the tub. “But you can learn. Besides, you’re young and pretty and such keys will open most doors. If you’re clever up here”—she tapped her head—“you can make sure they stay open.”
Isabelle looked at Madam FitzReinier in surprise. No one had ever told her before that she was pretty and she had never seen her image in a gazing glass. In her childhood, if people talked of beauty, it was always with reference to her formidable mother, Aoife, Countess of Hibernia. She knew that golden hair was prized, and she had an abundance of that, but fair tresses alone did not a beauty make. There had often been remarks that she resembled her father, but since all she remembered of him was a beard and thick red freckles, that didn’t help her much.
The women assisted her from the tub and vigorously dried her until her skin tingled and glowed. The precious rose oil was dabbed sparingly at her wrists and throat, and the clothes that had been laid on the bed were brought forth for her inspection.
“I am not certain how well they will fit,” said Madam FitzReinier apologetically. “Lord William left us very little time to organise the purchase and he had to tell us your size from memory.”
Isabelle blinked. “He only saw me fleetingly three years ago.”
The older woman chuckled. “Well, you must have left a lasting impression on him, for he knew what he wanted. No,” she amended, “he knew what he thought you would like.”
Isabelle shook her head in bemusement. In her experience thus far, the only men who thought they knew a woman’s wishes were either effeminate or smooth-tongued troubadours. She could not envisage any of the dour knights of her father’s entourage or de Glanville’s being concerned with the kind of garments a woman might like—unless of course their preference was for a delightful package that was titillating to unwrap. The latter thought made her blush, and then laugh. When Madam FitzReinier looked at her askance, Isabelle shook her head and raised her arms so that the women could dress her in the undershift of finest linen chansil with a silk ribbon tie. There were hose of pale silk with garters of delicate braid. Isabelle shivered to feel such luxury whispering against her skin. Although she was an heiress, precious few funds for clothing had come her way while she was in de Glanville’s care. She had grown accustomed to make do and mend. Now, she began to wonder if her husband to be was a spendthrift. De Glanville had spoken grimly of the profligate household of the Young King and how William Marshal had been one of the main instigators of the squandering of wealth. But the fabric felt glorious to wear and it was a pleasure to be indulged after so much privation.
The undergown was of ivory silk with tight-fitting sleeves and the overgown of deep pink silk trimmed with pearls. The women braided her thick blond hair with ribbons that matched the gown and pinned a light veil to the crown of her head. Then they brought a jewel casket, brimming with rings and brooches, and Isabelle could only gasp.
“You have a man there who values you,” said Madam FitzReinier with a smile. “And who also knows the value of show.” She presented Isabelle with a mirror. Banded in ivory, the disc of tinned glass startled Isabelle with a reflection that actually looked not unlike her mother, save that the eyes were wider and bluer and the lips fuller. There were no lines of control and disillusion either, only smooth features waiting to have their life story mapped.
“See, you are indeed lovely,” said Madam FitzReinier. “It will not take much to ensnare your husband. He’s halfway to besotted already.”
“He is?” Isabelle eyed her hostess with interest and blushed at the intimacy of the words “your husband.”
“Trust me, my dear, I know men. Yours doesn’t give away a great deal, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
Isabelle gave a rueful laugh. “He’s probably seeing Striguil, Ireland, and my estates in Normandy,” she said.
Madam FitzReinier laughed too. “Undoubtedly so, but he would have to be blind not to notice the other assets that go with it.”
In another chamber, William too was bathing—with some difficulty given his injured leg, but determined not to be defeated. A bath was as much a feature of the ritual of marriage as it was in the preparation for knighthood: a cleansing preliminary to a rite of passage.
“There has been little time to organise a feast, but I have done my best,” FitzReinier said. “I spoke to your Welsh groom and had the cooks prepare dishes of leeks and lava bread to honour the bride.” He wrapped his hands around his belt in a self-congratulatory gesture. “I even managed to find an Irish bard to sing at the feast.”
“I cannot thank you enough,” William said. “I know how much store women set by such things and even for myself I want my wedding day to be more than just a few words muttered in a dark corner. It should be a great celebration, and you are playing your part to the hilt.”
FitzReinier smiled. “It is always auspicious when business and pleasure combine.”
William nodded and clenched a yawn between his teeth. The hot water was filling him with lassitude.
“If I were you, I’d ask an apothecary for a potion to liven you up,” FitzReinier advised with a grin. “You’re not going to get much sleep with a new bride in your bed and you already look as if you’ve been ground through the mill.”
