“No,” said Isabelle faintly, unsure how else to respond.
“He’s got a proper mistress. I know all about her. She won’t make the beast with two backs with him either. She says that it’s a sin outside of marriage and that’s the reason why their baby died. But he still visits her and pays for her keep. It’s good of him to make provision…he’s a good man…” Her voice faltered and wisped away like a fine trail of smoke. From being flushed she had begun to turn a delicate shade of green. Isabelle hastily escorted her from the keep and held her while she vomited up the wine that she had drunk to the detriment of both stomach and tongue.
With soothing voice and gentle guidance Isabelle returned Aline to her tent on the sward. The girl’s maids came hastening to attend to her, but Isabelle sat with her awhile, feeling sorry for her and also a little irritated. And because she was irritated, she felt guilty too. There but for the grace of God went all brides…and many bridegrooms too.
“Poor lass,” William said later in their tent when she told him about her encounter with Aline. He dismissed his squires and sat down on his campstool to remove his boots. “But her circumstances could be worse. My brother indulges her and he hasn’t bedded her—which he is within his rights to do, young as she is. He brought her with him to court, which he didn’t have to do.”
“Her family would object strongly if he didn’t,” Isabelle said sharply. “Her presence hasn’t stopped him from entertaining whores in his chamber.”
William reached for her and drew her into his lap. “I don’t condone what he does, but perhaps he seeks more than release of the body.”
“He won’t find that with a whore,” she sniffed.
“Mayhap a semblance if she knows her trade and has some touch of compassion. Certainly he won’t find it with that child-wife of his, and he can’t turn to Alais. That road is strewn with too many thorns.” He unfastened her veil and drew out the golden pins securing the jewelled net. “Your hair,” he said as her braids tumbled down, heavy as rope, glossy as silk. “I love your hair. I want daughters with your hair…” He buried his face in its softness.
She closed her eyes, her heart full, her loins liquid. The words were in her mouth that he might soon be getting that wish, when the tent opening flapped back and the evening breeze ruffled the interior, guttering the candles. His complexion as red as fire, Jean stepped inside. He avoided looking at Isabelle as she sprang from William’s lap, her tresses wild and the neck opening of her gown unfastened.
“My lord, I…” was as far as he got for hard on his heels came Prince John, who, as far as everyone knew, should have been enjoying his wedding night. William’s brother John followed him into the tent, his expression one of discomfort and unease. Isabelle curtseyed. William rose slowly to his feet and in his own time made his obeisance to the Prince.
The latter gave a mocking smile. “I am sorry to disturb your privacy, Marshal. You at least seem to be enjoying your bride.” He inclined his head to Isabelle, his gaze frankly admiring her state of dishabille. “Had I thought about it properly, I would have pushed Richard to give me the de Clare lands instead.”
William gestured his squire to bring more stools. “A good thing for me that you did not,” he replied. “To what do I owe the honour of this visit? It must be important if it brings you from your marriage bed.”
“Conspiracy is infinitely more interesting than futtering, don’t you think?” John said and taking the foldstool from the wide-eyed squire, opened it out and straddled it. “You can go,” he said.
Jean looked to William, who curtly nodded his head.
The Prince flicked his gaze to Isabelle. “My lady stays,” William said coldly. “She is mine to me and the de Clare lands are hers.”
John shrugged. “As you wish, but remember that women’s tongues need a firm bridle.”
“I trust my wife as I trust the Queen your lady mother—with my life and my honour,” William answered impassively. “The tongues that have done me the most damage throughout my life have been those of other men.” He rose to his feet, took Isabelle’s hand and made her sit in his chair. She gave him a quick look through her lashes compounded of pride and trepidation. Gathering her hair in her hands she swiftly tied it back with one of the ribbons from her loosened braid, but made no effort to don wimple or veil, thus saying without words that this was her and William’s private domain and that she would do as she pleased within it.
“Supping with the devil,” William mouthed at her in such a way that she was the only one to see. Her gaze widened briefly before she lowered it to her lap and clasped her hands.
“As you wish,” Prince John said, although he was plainly not overjoyed.
“What can I do for you, my lord?” William asked. “If this is about my wife’s Irish lands, then I’ll be glad to have the matter resolved.” He sat on the rope-framed bed and folded his arms. As lord of Ireland, the Prince had rewarded his followers with fiefs in Leinster that were rightly under Isabelle’s jurisdiction, and was proving loath to return that authority to her estate.
“No,” the Prince said curtly, “we can deal with that issue later. That isn’t why I’ve come, and you know it.”
William shrugged. “It did strike me as strange that you would abscond your marriage bed to discuss Ireland,” he replied.
The Prince looked annoyed and William’s brother stepped into the breach. “What my lord has to say is of great concern to us both,” he said. “You would do well to listen.”
William spread his hands. “You have my attention.”
For a moment the Prince looked as if he might leave, but he restrained himself, his irritation revealed in the choleric flare of his nostrils. “While my brother is on crusade, he intends to leave his lands in the hands of justiciars fit for the purpose.”
That much was obvious and William said nothing, merely rubbed his chin and waited.
“Some of those men are as good as appointed. Others will buy their way in. Richard has virtually every office in England up for sale.” John flicked William a keen glance. “William Longchamp will play a leading role. Richard’s made him Bishop of Ely and that means Longchamp’s fingers will be in the fiscal pie. It’s always the tradition that Ely watches the coffers.”
William nodded, still wary, but more interested now. “I heard from the Queen that the senior justiciars were likely to be the Earl of Essex and the Bishop of Durham,” he said.
“And if either of them should fail, then who do you think will step into the breach?” Prince John rose to his feet, paced the tent, and turned. “Longchamp will take advantage in any way he can.”
So will you, William thought, eyeing his royal visitor impassively.
