“Then bring me with you,” Isabelle said.
He started to shake his head but she pre-empted him. “It was right that I came to Striguil in October. I was greensick and, besides, it was necessary for one of us to take fealty of the vassals, but I am well now; I want to come with you.”
William opened his mouth, but again she stole his words. “I could take homage of the Longueville vassals in Normandy. Let them now see their lady and the store she sets by the father of their future heir.”
He considered the point and had to agree. Her presence in Normandy would certainly advance his position with the Norman vassals who were hers by right of blood.
“Not only that,” she said, “but I can rest at Longueville while you are in service to the King and you can escape to me there whenever you can.”
William gave an admiring laugh and shook his head. “My love, you should have been sitting in the counsel chamber in my stead. I’m certain that you would have run rings around William Longchamp.”
Isabelle gave a shudder. “To the contrary, my sickness would have continued. He reminds me of a black hairy blowfly.”
The analogy made William grin with appreciation, although he wasn’t really amused. With his heavy black hair growing wild around his tonsure, his long black beard and bright black eyes, Longchamp did indeed resemble a corpse fly—annoying and dangerous and giving no respite to his victims. The only hope was in swatting him when he was too bloated to avoid the blow. “His downfall will come,” he said. “I have no doubt of that, but we have to be careful that ours doesn’t precede his. It is like the tourney. You have to be able to control your lance and your horse without thinking and then you have to know when to launch yourself into the fray and when to hold something back.” He pushed his cup and bowl aside and went to unlatch the shutters and peer out through the squint on a world of whirling whiteness.
Isabelle joined him and stood on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder. “A good thing you arrived when you did,” she said. “Otherwise you’d have had to turn back for Gloucester. It looks as if we’re going to be snowed in for a while.”
“I’m sure we can find things to do,” William said, setting his arm around her thickening waist.
Thirty-six
Longueville, Normandy, April 1190
William clattered into the courtyard at Longueville at a gallop, flung down from his sweating courser while still reining the beast back, and strode into the keep. There was something so close to frenzy in his gait that the servants eyed him askance. Ignoring them, he ran up the twisting stairs, almost losing his footing but refusing to slow. His chest was pounding, his breath roaring as he reached the level, strode down the passage, and came to the bedchamber. Setting his shoulder to the door, he burst inside.
Several pairs of female eyes turned in surprise and shock at his precipitous entry. His wife, whom he had expected to see in bed, was kneeling Madonna-like on the floor, bathing a tiny pink skinned rabbit in a shallow bronze basin. The rabbit was squeaking. Isabelle’s hair hung free to her waist and she was dressed in her chemise and a loose bedrobe. Her dark blue gaze had widened in alarm, but seeing William, she smiled. She raised the rabbit from the bowl, wrapped it gently in the towel that a maid was holding out, and crossed the room to him.
“I told you it would be a son,” she said. “He has been christened William to follow in your name.” She placed the bundle in his arms and took a moment to issue orders to her ladies with a few hand gestures and murmured words.
William gazed down into the baby’s face. He had been attending on Richard when a messenger from Longueville had arrived on a lathered horse to tell him that his wife was safely delivered of a son. Richard had given him brief leave to return home and see his heir—although the way he felt just now, permission or not, he would have left anyway. He had tried to outride his demons on the way here, but no matter how relentless his pace, they had kept up with him. Now, for a moment, they receded as he gazed into the pink, wizened face of his newborn son and marvelled anew at the wonder of God’s creation. Even unformed and without definition, he could recognise Isabelle in the feathery pale brows and the little cleft on the chin. A small arm wriggled free of the towel and waved with determination but no purpose. William captured the miniature hand in his and was himself captured. He swallowed a constriction in his throat and looked at Isabelle. There were tears in her eyes too, and a tremulous smile on her lips. He drew her to his free side and kissed her. “This is the greatest gift you could have given me,” he said hoarsely.
She gave a wobbly laugh. “Better than Striguil, Leinster, and Longueville?”
“Better than all those,” he said. “You do not know…” He swallowed again and forced control on himself. “How are you faring? Should you not still be abed?” Looking at her more closely, he noticed the shadows beneath her eyes.
Isabelle threw a defiant look at one of the midwives who was nodding agreement with William’s remark. “I am sore and tired,” she admitted, “but women of less degree have to bear their children and begin work again the next day. If I had stayed a moment longer abed, I would have set with boredom.”
The baby’s squeaks had subsided to soft murmurs and William saw that his son was on the edge of sleep, one little hand still curled around his wide tanned thumb. Isabelle took the baby gently from her husband, bore him to the cradle, and laid him on the soft fleece lining. He gave a few sleepy, protesting cries, but as she set the cradle rocking with the gentle rhythm of a moored craft on a summer river, he drowsed off to sleep.
William watched entranced. “I think adult beds should have rockers too,” he said. While he had been occupied with his wife and child, Isabelle’s women had been preparing a bathtub. His squires had arrived and were duly brought to view their lord’s new heir. Jack was indifferent, Jean regarded the infant with an expression compounded of fear and fascination.
“It’s all right,” William grinned. “I won’t hold it against you if you don’t think he is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen—although my wife might. As long as you pledge him your loyalty, I’m content.”
“He’s so small,” Jean said in a wondering voice.
“He was quite big enough,” Isabelle answered with mock severity. “Don’t leave your lord standing there in his sweat. There is a bath prepared and food to hand.”
A tad sheepishly, the squires went to attend William, taking his sword and spurs, and handing the clothing he discarded to the maids for laundering. William dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “We’ve ridden hard,” he said. “Put away my weapons and then take your own food. You can have the bathwater when I’m done, if you want.”
Isabelle had seated herself on a cushioned bench running parallel to the foot of their bed and was watching him thoughtfully. William ducked his head under the water and sluiced his hair, but there came a point where he had to raise his head and look at her. It was ridiculous when he thought about it. At court he could dissemble with the best and the skill came to him as naturally as breathing. But Isabelle could see straight through to his core and was not content to let him conceal things.
“You might as well tell me what nest of serpents you are sitting on,” she said. “I will find out sooner or later. Why should I have the double ordeal of worrying about what it is that you won’t say?”
William pressed water from his eyes and faced her with a sigh. “I hope that you have a wet nurse at the ready lest what I tell you curdle your milk.”
Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“There have been more riots in England against the Jews…”
