William pulled himself up in the tub and sluiced his face in the cold water jug standing next to it. “That’s because I have,” he admitted. “I don’t remember what sleep feels like and a feather mattress will seem like a ridiculous luxury. I won’t be able to close my eyes unless I bed down in a stable with my horse.”
“Hah, and I know what your bride would say about that.”
William looked wry. “Then you know more than me. If I were a girl of her age faced with a husband twice my years—and damaged goods at that—I’d probably be wishing him further away than a stable.”
“You underestimate yourself and your bride.”
“I don’t,” William answered. “We’ll both do our duty, but that’s the facade. What goes on behind it may be entirely different.”
FitzReinier conceded the point with a shrug. “But you have made a fine start. Even if she is not looking forward to being bedded, you have shown her that you are no ogre. Whatever her misgivings, this has to be a better life than the one she had cooped up in the Tower.”
“I hope she thinks so.” William fell pensively silent as he attended to his ablutions, but at length he looked up at the merchant. “I can do nothing until Richard arrives in England for his coronation. I’ve borrowed the manor at Stoke from Roger D’Abernon—it’s far enough from London to be secluded, but not too far to travel when the King lands.”
FitzReinier lifted his brows in surprise. “I thought you would be taking yourself off on progress to the lady’s lands?”
William shook his head. “I considered it, but I can’t travel any distance until my leg has healed and as I said I need to be close to the court. The lands have been in stewardship for so long that they can wait a little longer and there are others who can go in my stead. I need to recuperate and sleep—and spend some time alone with my wife. Once Richard arrives in England there will be precious little time for leisure and dalliance.”
His squires helped him from the bath and he dressed in the fine garments that FitzReinier had obtained for him. The brazilwood red of his tunic was of a deeper but toning hue with the gown that Isabelle would be wearing. His belt, which he hesitated over and then buckled on, was the one Marguerite had given him, stitched with gold bezants. After all, he reasoned, it was a gift from a friend and he knew the truth of the matter. He combed his hair and refused the use of a gazing glass, not sure that he wanted to see what Isabelle would see. Swallowing his apprehension, he presented his squire Jean with a bridal chaplet of twined fresh flowers: roses pink and white and clove-scented gillyflowers, interspersed with tendrils of ivy. “Go to the women’s chamber and bid my lady wear this to celebrate our wedding day,” he told the youth. “And tell her that I am ready to go to church, if it please her.”
Isabelle regarded William Marshal’s squire. She had paid him little heed before, but now she focused on him as he stood in the doorway, bearing a bridal chaplet on a silk cushion as he delivered his message in a voice tight with nervousness.
She felt nervous too, but because she was concentrating on her role it was not as bad as it might have been. The youth was an inner member of the Marshal household and as such she would come to know him well and sometimes have to rely on him. “Thank your lord,” she murmured, taking the chaplet from the cushion. “He has been naught but thoughtful of my welfare and I appreciate his concern. Tell him that I am almost ready.”
“My lady.” His colour bright, the squire bowed and retired.
Madam FitzReinier smiled. “Not a little smitten,” she said. “And I do not blame him.”
The women arranged the chaplet over Isabelle’s veil and once again showed her the result in the mirror. Isabelle swallowed. You are Countess of Striguil, she silently told the wide-eyed girl looking at her from beneath flower-shrouded brows. You are his prestige, and he is your freedom. You need each other; all will be well.
Her head high, she went down to meet William and found him waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. His dark red tunic complemented the colour of her gown and was girded with a beautiful and unusual belt made of metallic braid, stitched with gold coins.
“My lady,” he said and limped forward to take her hands in his and kiss them. “Are you ready to go to church?”
Ready to give herself and her lands into his keeping? What if she said no, ran back upstairs and slammed and bolted the door? For a moment she imagined doing just that and in her mind’s eye saw the mailed men breaking into the chamber with axes and seizing her by force. She blinked away the vision and stiffened her spine. “Yes,” she said, “I am ready.”
Isabelle lay in bed beside her new husband and, breathing shallowly, listened to the sounds wafting up from the torchlit courtyard and garth of FitzReinier’s house. The wedding guests were still celebrating with gusto and the strident throb of tabor and wail of bagpipe had replaced the liquid notes of the Irish harp that had played throughout the courses of the feast. She hadn’t been able to do full justice to the food, which had saddened her, since it had been prepared in her honour. The playing of the Irish bard had misted her eyes with tears and brought a lump to her throat, robbing her of speech and certainly the ability to swallow food.
Now she had to hope that her husband’s consideration would extend as far as the bedchamber. She knew a little about the act of procreation, none of it particularly reassuring. The detail that she would bleed was worrying, for surely if there was blood, there would be pain…but if there was no blood she would be disgraced. Not that he would repudiate her. Her lands were too valuable.
“You need not be afraid of me,” William said suddenly, as if he had stepped into her mind and seen her thoughts.
“I am not, my lord,” she replied valiantly, her words given the lie by the tremor in her voice.
He smiled. “Well then, if not of me, then of what is expected of us both this night.”
She clasped her hands. “I…I know my duty.”
He snorted. “I dare say that you do—as I know mine, but there is no reason why duty and pleasure should be separate things.”
“Yes, my lord,” she agreed apprehensively.
He made a sound, through his teeth, whether of humour or exasperation, she wasn’t sure. “We have been thrown together have we not, without any time for adjustment. I have no doubt that consummating this marriage tonight will be awkward at best and probably a painful disaster for both, given your virginity and my injured leg. I’ve waited long enough for a few days to make no difference.”
Isabelle continued to stare. “But what about the blood on the sheet? There has to be proof.”
“There will be blood.” Leaving the bed, he limped to his folded clothing and took the knife from his belt sheath. Isabelle’s eyes widened further, but then she steadied herself. He wasn’t going to hurt her, for without her he had nothing.
Raising his arm, tensing his eyelids, he made a swift, shallow cut in his left armpit. “Less noticeable there,” he said, going to the bed and taking blood on his fingers, smearing the centre of the sheet. “There doesn’t need to be a great deal. The better the lover, the less there is—or so I’m told,” he added with a smile. “Never having deflowered a virgin before, I can only speak from hearsay. We only need FitzReinier and his household to bear witness. It’s not as if the entire court is looking on.” He wiped the knife and returned it to its sheath. Pressing his fingers to his side, he went to the shutters and released the catch. The revellers had spilled into the garden. People sat on stools or stood in groups talking and laughing under the influence of the free-flowing wine. Candle lanterns made pools of light among the orchard trees and night-flying insects flurried around the glow. It was strange not to be amongst the crowd.
