“Indeed, but she is also sharp. When Richard goes on crusade, there will need to be loyal and willing men to shoulder the responsibility for keeping his domain intact. You would not have been raised to the dignity of an earl without a stronger motive than reward.”
“I am not an earl,” William said, his tone distracted as he was caught off guard. If Queen Eleanor was sharp, then his new wife was not far behind her.
“In all but name you are, and you are promised more. It is obvious that you are being fitted for a high position when Richard rides to war.”
He gave her a wry look. “So it seems.”
“And you are not pleased?”
He took her hands in his. “I know I can do whatever is appointed to me. I have never shrunk from challenge; indeed I enjoy it.” He studied her face and her enquiring expression. “But there is a part of me too that craves tranquillity. I came to Stoke not only to recover from the storms of the past year, but to garner serenity for the future because there will be more dark weather to come, mark me.” Still holding her hands, he rose to his feet and pulled her with him. “Come to bed,” he said. “Be my harbour; give me shelter.”
While Isabelle could still think, she came to the conclusion that she was the one needing shelter as she was caught on hot riptides of sensation that dragged her out to sea and threatened to drown her. She had thought she had known what to expect but the reality was at once more brutal and more tender than anything she had imagined. The heat of his lips at her throat, at her mouth corner, then on her mouth; lover’s words breathed upon and into her body until she was turbulent with them and gasping. The request of tongue and intricate delicacy of fingertips that cajoled her to respond. She was teased and coaxed until sensation swelled like a full moontide under the stars and surged shorewards in a mingling of purpose and abandonment.
Isabelle tossed her head on the bolster, her long fair hair unbound like a siren’s and webbing her pale body. The July heat had built up in the timbered upper storey of the hall during the day and the shutters were open to admit snatches of cooler air. The sky through the aperture was a deep marine-blue. Sweat ran in delicate trickles down the declivity of her breasts and made her flanks shine as if she had just stepped from the sea. And he shone too, as wet as herself, his hair tangling and dripping at his brows and his eyes as dark as a river at night, running to the sea, swift and hard.
When he entered her there was pain, and she let it out on a single breath, indrawn hard and exhaled on a soft cry that welcomed the intrusion too. He held himself above her, suddenly still, his own breathing ragged and shallow. She touched his ribs, exploring each ridged contour and the breadth of his chest, then followed the breastbone down to the hollow of his diaphragm, and grew accustomed to the feel of him within her. She felt too stretched and full to move, and yet beyond the strange discomfort the sea song whispered of pleasure and of deep, muscular tides that waited the turn.
He spoke her name softly and took his weight on his left arm so that he could cup and stroke her face with his hand. She turned her head and kissed his fingers. She would have asked him if this was it, had he found safe harbour and shelter, for she knew no different, but he lowered his head and sealed her lips with his own, pre-empting her question. His right hand moved to cup her breast, and his hips gently surged and retreated with the rhythm of the kiss and the motion of his thumb across her nipple. Isabelle wanted to gasp at the intensity of the feeling, but she couldn’t because he would not relinquish the kiss. She clung to him and arched her body. The pain arrowed through her loins, but so did the pleasure, until her eyes widened and her voice mewed in her throat. Still he would not let her go and the relentless, gentle friction brought her to a precipice and held her there, trembling, desperate. And then she was tumbling fearfully, blissfully over the edge, and as her climax rippled through her loins he finally broke the kiss, buried his face against her throat, thrust hard, twice, and shuddered in her arms like a ship wrecking in a storm.
Stillness descended by degrees as harsh breathing softened and thundering heartbeat slowed. As Isabelle returned to herself she became aware of mingled twinges of pain and pleasure, like strings on a musician’s lyre next to each other and softly plucked. There was the capacity for renewal of both. He raised up and, still within her, gazed down into her face.
“Jesu,” he croaked. “That was a close-run race.” He dipped his head to kiss and nuzzle her. “I haven’t felt like this since I was a green youth…”
Warm gratification flooded Isabelle at his words. “So it was like your first time?” she teased shyly.
He laughed and it was strange to feel that mirth inside her. “Oh, nothing like it—for you at least, I hope. Lads of seventeen summers might have a great capacity for the sport and wander around with their pricks permanently to attention, but consideration and experience are sadly lacking…but tonight it was good to be reminded of that desperation.” He eased from her body and, rolling to his side, pulled her against him. The faint breeze drawing from the window cooled the sweat on their bodies.
“I do not suppose that a man’s first time is like a woman’s,” she murmured as he gently stroked the valley of her spine.
“No,” he said and lifted his head to look at her with anxiety in his expression. “I know there must have been pain, but I hope you gained at least some pleasure.”
Isabelle smiled and touched his face. “A little,” she agreed mischievously. “Madam FitzReinier said to me that for a woman to conceive, she needs to enjoy the act of mating,” she said, “otherwise her seed will not descend and mix with her husband’s.”
He gave an amused grunt. “Yes, I’ve heard that before. It’s what the Saracens say. At Queen Eleanor’s court in Poitou, when I was a young man, it was widely known. I’m not sure that the men were entirely convinced. The women liked the notion of being pleasured, but some of them were doubtful about being turned into mothers.”
“And did you make any of them mothers?” she asked lightly.
He chuckled. “If I say that no woman grew a big belly because of me, you might infer that either I am an unskilled lover or not potent enough to sire a child.” His hand slipped over the curve of her buttocks, drawing her against his groin. “I hope tonight I have proven that neither is true. No, when I was a young knight, I lay with women who knew how to protect themselves, and Clara was barren. Since we parted I’ve mostly slept alone. I suffered some troubled times at court and decided that taking a woman to bed would cause more trouble than the deed was worth. In the end it became a habit.”
“Weren’t you ever tempted to break it?” Isabelle murmured sleepily. Lassitude was creeping through her limbs. She pressed closer to him in a snuggling movement.
“Not until now,” he answered.
She recognised the courtliness of the response, but also something deeper, and lifted her head off his chest to look at him. His expression was relaxed, his eyes heavy with tiredness and satiation…and peace.
“Not until I found a safe harbour.”
Thirty-four
Marlborough, Wiltshire, August 1189
“I spent much of my childhood here,” William told Isabelle. They were preparing to celebrate the marriage of Prince John to Havise, heiress of Gloucester. “My father was the seneschal and I and my brothers used to drop pebbles on each other from that window up there.” He pointed through the open flaps of their tent towards an aperture high in the tower. “That was our chamber. It had red hangings on the walls and we all slept in one bed like a tumble of hound pups.” His voice was nostalgic. “King Henry took Marlborough from my father soon after he came to the throne. I haven’t set foot here since I was ten years old, and it feels strange.” Very strange indeed, especially to think that Prince John would be spending his wedding night in William’s former boyhood chamber, while William and his entourage slept in tents in the bailey with the rest of the court, Marlborough’s keep being reserved for the royal entourages. Richard was back in England, the preparations for his crowning were well in hand, and he was making his way to London via some of his southerly holdings. On the morrow, the tents would be taken down and the court would progress to Windsor.
“But at least your family is to have Marlborough again,” Isabelle said pragmatically. “Your brother has been entrusted it by the King. You can visit that chamber whenever you want.”
William made a non-committal sound and took his swordbelt from Jean, saying that he could buckle it on himself. He had given Jack leave to go and spend time with his father who was camped in another part of the bailey. Father and son had awkward matters to discuss, given that John Marshal had also joined the ranks of the married, having recently wed the thirteen-year-old daughter of Sussex landholder Adam de Port. “It would not be the same,” he said. “You can never go back.” He latched the belt and tugged his tunic straight. “Ready to gild the lily?” he asked, holding out his arm to his wife.
She laid her hand upon his sleeve to show that she was. She was wearing her pink silk wedding gown. Although she had other fine dresses now, it was still her favourite. All that she had done was to embellish the sleeves with added embroidery of gold and pearls. “You are not comfortable here,” she said. “You’ve been looking at the keep and circling like a dog that scents something amiss.”
