The Prince sighed. “I can see you are hostile, Marshal, and I can understand that. You think ill of me because of my father, but I had to make some difficult decisions. If I chose differently to you, that does not mean that you are right and I am wrong.”
“No, my lord,” William said stiffly, knowing that he would never forgive John for abandoning his father on his deathbed. Whatever his reasons, none could be strong enough—not even fear for his own life. The Bible said that love was as strong as death, but that applied to honour too.
The Prince’s gaze hardened. “How would you feel if you were subject to the tyranny of William Longchamp? Which of us would you choose then?”
“My choice is Richard.”
“Who will be gone years at best. I’m not asking you to compromise yourself, just to think. My bride has vouchsafed me lands throughout the south-west of England. Your brother has lands there too as well as being granted custody of Marlborough and the shrievalty of York. With your Giffard manors and the estates of Striguil, you can either add your strength to mine, or oppose me—should we come to trouble…I am making contingency plans, no more than that.”
There was always more than that with John, William thought cynically, and yet the Prince did have a point. Once Richard was gone, even if his lands remained stable and well governed, there were bound to be power struggles and every man would have to decide who were his allies and who were not.
“The shrievalty of Gloucester is for sale at a cost of fifty marks,” John said softly. “That means the control of Gloucester Castle and the Forest of Dean. You are in great favour with my brother. He’ll sell it to you willingly.”
“And if I do this and then choose to oppose you?”
John shrugged. “Then you would be mad. My brother is keen to promote the Marshal family, but Longchamp is not. We may not always see eye to eye, but it makes sense for us to do so now.” He rose to his feet and went to the tent flap. “Think on what I have said. My mother would tell you it’s good advice.”
‘Perhaps I should consult her then.”
John gave an arid smile. “Do so. She will doubtless warn you against me, but she is no lover of William Longchamp either. She has no time for men who do not see the sunrise in her face. I bid you goodnight. I have my duty, as you have your pleasure.” He lifted a sardonic eyebrow in farewell to Isabelle.
There was a short silence after he had gone. John Marshal cleared his throat and pushed his hands through his greying hair. “He’s right. We should look to our own interests. You should ask Richard to give you Gloucester. He won’t deny you. Fifty marks is no great sum.” His tone was brittle and edgy, like a man on the eve of a battle campaign, and it filled William with unease.
“But a price to be paid.” He looked at Isabelle. “What do you think?”
John Marshal blinked, plainly surprised that William should consult his wife.
Isabelle chewed her lip. “I think it would be a good thing to offer for Gloucester,” she said after a moment. “The more powerful you become, the more choices you have. Prince John is the King’s only adult heir and your overlord for your Irish lands. You need to tread a careful path, neither leaning too far towards him, but not rejecting his overtures either. The men with the best sense of balance are going to be the ones who remain intact.”
John Marshal stared at her with a dropped jaw. William’s expression was one of pride and admiration. “I agree,” he said. “I have given my oath to King Richard and I will hold by it until death, but I must protect myself as well.” He looked at his brother. “As Isabelle says, we must tread carefully. I will not condone any attempt by the Prince to take the crown whilst his brother is gone, but the more land and influence we have as a family, the better protected we are.” He poured himself a cup of wine and swilled his mouth as if to rid himself of the taste of his words.
John Marshal shrugged. “I will do what I must,” he said. “You protect me from Richard if it becomes necessary, and I will do what I can to smooth your path with John…and hope that none of it comes to pass.”
William nodded. “Pray God,” he said.
When his brother had left, William sighed and rubbed his palms over his face. “Jesu, I begin to think I should have stayed in Kendal.”
Isabelle came to him. Picking up his wine from the coffer, she took a drink herself. “No,” she said. “You would never have warmed your hands at such a small fire. You know that.” She handed him the cup. “You said to me at Stoke that you were preparing for the storms ahead. This is the first squall and it may well blow over. Whatever happens, you should take Gloucester.”
William drank, set the cup aside, and lay down on the bed, his arms pillowed behind his head. Isabelle leaned over him, unbound her hair again, and let it tumble around them, scented like a distant rose garden.
Thirty-five
Striguil, Welsh Borders, Christmas 1189
Drawing rein, William sucked crystalline air through his teeth and gazed at the massive walls rising out of the frozen winter haze. Ermine snow puffed the ground, bordering the rough grey silk of the River Wye. Deeper snowfall was threatening in the yellowing clouds and the light was fast spiralling away from midday towards dusk.
“Striguil,” he said on a billow of dragon’s breath. “Thank God.” He curled his mittened fists around the bridle and wondered how stiff his knees would be by the time he attained the keep.
“Cold enough to freeze the tits off a witch and the cock off a warlock,” said his knight Alan de Saint Georges.
William’s lips twitched. “Let us hope for their sakes there are not many of them around here then, hmmm?”
Roger D’Abernon spat over the side of his saddle. “William Longchamp would certainly be cockless if he ventured away from his hearth—spawn of hell.”
William said nothing. He had been attending on King Richard for the past four months, himself and his brother given prominent positions at the royal counsel table. Isabelle had spoken of storms and there had been plenty of those to weather. Richard was opinionated and volatile. At times, with so many offices for sale, government had been more like a session of beast trading at London’s Smithfield Fair. Factions were rife, and although everyone smiled at everyone else, or at least strove to be civil, the knives were out and awaiting an unguarded moment. In spite of the dangers and tribulations, William was enjoying his new responsibilities. As a household knight, he had had limited authority, much of it grounded in his military prowess. Now his opinions were sought and weighed in full counsel rather than on an informal basis. His brother’s too, although John was less adept at playing courtly politics and put on the defensive by Richard’s chancellor Longchamp who seemed to take a particular pleasure in baiting him. William’s eyes narrowed in response to his thoughts. Longchamp’s contempt for the Marshals was thinly disguised beneath a veneer of strained courtesy. However much William mistrusted him, Prince John had been right. Longchamp would bear watching—especially now.
Wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, Isabelle was waiting in the bailey to greet him and William’s heart swelled with pleasure to see her. Her cheeks and lips were flushed with cold. Showing below her veil, her gold braids were lustrous and as heavy as ripe corn, and through the opening in her cloak, her body showed a glimpse of fruitfulness too, just beginning to round.
