“Tomorrow we’ll set out for Stoke,” he said over his shoulder. “I need to be rested before the King’s coronation. Once he arrives, I suspect that I’m not going to know my head from my heels.” He smiled and held out his good arm towards her. “I also need some time to know my wife…and she me.”
Isabelle came to his invitation and took his hand. His grip was hard and warm and dry. Her own was moist with heightened tension. “Has the bleeding stopped?” she asked in a concerned voice.
“It stings, but yes, it’s stopped.” He gave a sudden chuckle. “I warrant that Adam had considerably more pain having a rib cut out for his Eve.”
Thirty-three
In the morning, the sacrificial cut that William had made mattered not a whit, for Isabelle had begun her monthly courses during the night and the sheet beneath her was puddled in blood. Her fluxes had always been regular but on this occasion were several days early—probably caused, Madam FitzReinier opined, by the shock of the sudden change in her life. Isabelle was chagrined and afraid that William would be angered, or revolted. However, he treated the happening with equanimity, remarking that it was God’s will and nature’s way, but had he known what was going to happen, he would not have bothered to take a knife to himself. Isabelle was still mortified, but Madam FitzReinier, who was helping her to pack her belongings for the morning’s journey to Stoke, was pragmatic and cheerful.
“He’s an experienced man, no foolish youngster,” she said. “It’ll have happened to him times before, considering the years he had a mistress.”
Isabelle’s eyes widened at this new information. “A mistress?”
Madam FitzReinier clucked her tongue. “A woman of Poitou, a tourney follower. No one knew much about her and they both seemed to prefer it that way. He never brought her to court, but she always had the best lodgings in the town. She bore no children, so I assume that he was well accustomed to the times of her flux.”
Isabelle digested the information thoughtfully. There was so much she did not know about her new husband—and that perhaps she was never going to find out. And yet it had shaped him as surely as her own shorter past had shaped her. “What happened to her?”
“They came to a parting of the ways. From what I heard, she left him and settled down with a vintner from Le Mans.”
“Oh.” Isabelle bit her lip. “Has he had other mistresses?”
Madam FitzReinier looked round from the coffer, a half-smile on her lips. “I dare say he has bedded women here and there along his route, but apart from that one time, he has kept no woman at his side. Your way is clear.”
“If I can find the path,” Isabelle said doubtfully.
Madam FitzReinier’s smile widened. “Oh, I don’t think you need worry, my dear,” she said. “For even if you do not, then it is bound to find you.”
The journey to Stoke took a full day and it was late in the dusk when they arrived. Bats swooped against a dark lavender sky and the first stars glimmered like new-kindled lanterns. Isabelle was bone weary, her thigh muscles were screaming, and she was suffering strong cramps from her flux. Once she had enjoyed long rides in the open air, but her time in the Tower had dulled her stamina and her muscles were no longer toned and accustomed to the activity. However, she endured without protest. She would not have her husband see her as a whining milksop. He too must be in some discomfort from his injured leg but he had not complained.
William had sent outriders ahead to Stoke and they arrived to a torchlit welcome with grooms waiting to take their horses and stewards to lead them into the hall. Bowls of warm water were brought to wash their hands, faces, and feet. A fine meal of stuffed mushrooms and trout baked with almonds was set before them, together with dishes of green herbs and preserved fruits. Isabelle had not realised how hungry she was until she began to eat. Despite her aching body and her cramping loins, she still had a healthy appetite.
She and William shared a trencher and a cup, served unobtrusively by his squires. As yesterday, the bard was on hand to provide soft music to accompany their dining, but this time there were no wedding guests, just a handful of retainers and the chaplains and clerks that William had picked up in London. The great retinue required of their status had yet to accrue.
“When I was your age,” William said, “people said that I was always either eating or sleeping and that, except in those occupations, I would amount to nothing.”
“Then they were obviously wrong, my lord,” Isabelle replied tactfully.
He chuckled. “No, they were right about the eating and sleeping, and I intend to do as much of that while I can. As to what I amount to…I’ve heard a variety of opinions and come to the conclusion that few of them matter save the one I have of myself .”
“And is mine one of the few, my lord?” she asked, emboldened by the strong wine in the cup they were sharing.
He nodded gravely. “Assuredly so, since it is by your hand in marriage that I have my reward. Queen Eleanor told me that I should consult you in all things and remember that what I have is yours.”
“I wager that hers is another of the few,” Isabelle said, touching the gold and sapphire brooch at the throat of her gown—one of Eleanor’s wedding gifts.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I have more time and respect for Queen Eleanor than for most men of my acquaintance…but her advice only confirmed my own thoughts on the matter of our marriage. I need you too much to ride roughshod over your wishes.”
Isabelle sipped again from the cup. Of course he needed her, for without her he had nothing—or at least not until she had produced an heir of their mingled blood. If she could make herself indispensable to him, then her opinions would stand on their own merits, rather than him humouring her out of diplomacy.
During the following week, he was as good as his word and spent a deal of time rising at a leisurely hour, enjoying the pleasures of the table, and being as indolent as the largest sleepy male lion at the Tower. Although Isabelle enjoyed her slumber, William seemed to have an infinite capacity that far outstripped hers. Had she not heard the tales of his deeds, some of them legendary, she would indeed have believed in the original sobriquets of “Guzzleguts” and “Slugabed.” During the few hours when he was not eating or asleep, he was content to stroll in Stoke’s well-stocked garden, inhale the perfume of the flowers, listen to the bard sing Irish songs, and to sing songs of his own. He had a fine voice. He played chess with her and merels, and laughed when she matched him. He wove her tales of the tourneys and his early life, but he seldom touched on serious matters, indeed seemed to be deliberately avoiding them, and Isabelle began to wonder what kind of man she had married and whether de Glanville’s sour tales of William Marshal’s frivolous nature were in fact true.
Gradually, however, as the days passed and his strained leg healed, he became less lethargic. Isabelle woke one morning to find his side of the bed empty. He was not in the chamber and his clothes were gone from the top of the coffer. “Out riding, my lady,” said the maid when Isabelle made enquiries as she washed and dressed. She noted that there was no blood on last night’s flux cloth, which meant that her husband could now bed her without incurring God’s displeasure. She wondered how she was going to impart such news without seeming immodest. Perhaps he would ask her, or just make assumptions based on the passage of time?
In the hall, a scattering of crumbs and drips of honey on the napery at the high table bore testament to breakfast devoured. There was no sign of the squires. Isabelle broke her own fast in haste and, with the maid in tow, went outside. The day promised to be hot, but it was still sufficiently early for the air to be fresh and scented with dew. Hearing masculine voices loud with camaraderie, she followed the sound until she came to the paddock beyond the stables, and then she stopped.
Her husband was putting his destrier through its paces. Watching man and horse execute a series of intricate manoeuvres, Isabelle was astounded, for the performance seemed to her nothing short of magical. The lightest touch of heel, a command from the hands, and the horse pivoted, changed lead legs, stopped, backed, caracoled. William and his mount moved as one. Isabelle knew that he was a good horseman, but until now she had not realised the true level of his skill. He was obviously teaching his squires various aspects of horsemanship, for the youths were mounted. Following the demonstration, he began to break down some of the simpler moves so that they could try them for themselves. Isabelle gazed, enthralled. As William performed a turn, he saw her watching and, with a word to the squires, reined about and trotted over.
“You are awake early this morning, my lord,” she said, with a smile.
