“And of course you’re infallible…the flawless knight, the perfect courtier, the greatest that’s ever lived outside a minstrel’s lay,” John snarled. “Only you know what deeds lie on the other side of that coin!”
William recoiled from the accusation as if from a striking snake. The baby woke in his cradle and began to wail with fretful hunger. John jumped at the sound and then huddled into himself as if protecting a wound. Going to the cradle, Isabelle lifted her son in her arms. Retiring a little from the men, her back turned to her brother-in-law for modesty, she put him to suck. John studied mother and child with bitter eyes. “My wife miscarried of a son during the riots at York,” he said.
William stared at his brother. “Jesu, John.” He couldn’t keep the revulsion from his expression or his voice. “I thought you weren’t going to bed her yet?”
John flushed. “She’d begun her fluxes,” he said defensively, and rubbed his hands together as if washing them. “She took me to task over one of the Marlborough whores I’d had in my bed and I said that she’d not like the alternative.”
William’s nostrils flared. “You raped her?”
John shook his head in vigorous negation. “Why do you think the worst of me? No, I didn’t rape her! She was willing to do her duty—insistent, in fact, for it was she who came to me. I was drunk and I hurt her, but it wasn’t rape. I wish it hadn’t happened but sometimes things unravel despite the best of intentions. I didn’t touch her again, but once was enough. At least she didn’t die.”
Isabelle looked over her shoulder, her underlip caught in her teeth. “Oh, John,” she said softly with appalled dismay and compassion.
“You wouldn’t want to walk a mile in my shoes just now,” he said wearily and stood up. “I’ll wait for you in the courtyard.”
“God’s bones,” William cursed as the door closed behind John. He released the tension of the moment in a long shudder and crossing the chamber began jerkily to gird on his sword. Isabelle finished feeding the baby, handed him to the nurse, and hastened to her husband. William adjusted the weight of the blade at his hip and took her in his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I lost my temper,” he said. “I should not have done that.”
“Better than letting the anger fester within you,” she replied. “You had to say those things to him for both your sakes.”
He was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “He is right though. There is a reverse side to the coin of my honour.”
She tightened her grip on his arms. “Then that makes you a whole man, and I count your honour untarnished.”
William regarded her with a deep swelling of affection. She was half his age, yet she had a feminine wisdom that outstripped his own paltry efforts at sagacity. “Ah, Isabelle,” he said softly, and kissed her with gratitude and tenderness before going out to find his brother.
Thirty-seven
London, Christmas 1190
Isabelle watched her son crawl across the floor of Madam FitzReinier’s solar towards the coloured ball she had just rolled for him. Occasionally his coordination failed and he shuffled backwards or had to pause to decide which limb to move next, but he was determined.
“Men are so delightful at this age,” declared Madam FitzReinier. “What a pity they have to grow up.”
Isabelle laughed. “There’s some truth in that,” she agreed, “although I shall enjoy watching him develop. I wonder if he’ll look like William.”
“Likely so,” said Madam FitzReinier. “He has the same good nature.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen him yet when he’s tired and hungry,” Isabelle said.
“The babe or your husband?” the dame jested.
Isabelle giggled. “No, they’re not at all the same. My son will scream and fret. William just grows quiet and sombre.” The mirth left her expression. “These are difficult times,” she said softly as she watched the infant stretch small fat fingers for the ball that was just beyond his reach. He gave a squeal of impatience, tried harder, and went backwards instead.
“And worse to come before they get better,” Madam FitzReinier predicted gloomily. “Between the ambitions of the Bishop of Ely and Prince John, we’ll be ground like grain between two millstones.”
Isabelle sighed agreement. York had only been the beginning of Longchamp’s bid for power. Two months after that, while she and William were still in Normandy, he had attempted Gloucester Castle and only the arrival of the Bishop of Winchester with a substantial escort of soldiers had forced him to back down. Longchamp had stripped his fellow justiciar, the Bishop of Durham, of his powers and ridden like a roughshod conqueror throughout England, his power bolstered by a large band of mercenaries. Richard, overwintering in Sicily, had done little to curb his chancellor’s excesses. Perhaps Longchamp’s ability to squeeze funds out of every last corner and crevice mattered more to Richard than the complaints coming from those who were being squeezed.
A commotion in the yard heralded the return of the men from their visit to the wharves where FitzReinier had been eager to show off his new barge to William. It had been an excuse as well for the men to stretch their legs and leave the women to their own gossip. The baby finally reached his ball, grasped it in his chubby hand, sat up, and threw it down again, his lower lip thrust out in concentration. Deed accomplished, he squealed at his own cleverness and looked round at his mother in search of praise. But Isabelle wasn’t paying attention to her son, she was listening to the voices of the men as they mounted the outer stairs to the solar. Worryingly, they were not filled with the pleasure and bonhomie she would have expected from their outing, but were muted and anxious. When they entered the room, their expressions were bleak.
The baby abandoned his ball and stretched his arms towards his father, demanding to be picked up. William did so, but the gesture was instinctive, without conscious thought.
“What is it?” asked Isabelle. “What’s happened now?”
FitzReinier advanced to the brazier to warm his hands. “I am a loyal man,” he said, “and I bow the knee to my King, but I begin to wonder if he will have a kingdom to return to. One of my men came to me at the warehouse with grave news.” “One of my men” was a euphemism for “spy,” of which FitzReinier had as efficient a network as any magnate or prelate in the land. “Longchamp claims to have a letter from Richard designating his nephew Arthur of Brittany as his heir should he die whilst on crusade and entrusting Longchamp as regent.”
“But Arthur of Brittany is still a child in smocks,” Isabelle said. “How can Richard choose a baby above his adult brother?”
“Whim, spleen, misrepresentation,” FitzReinier said curtly. “And Longchamp is not above forging documents, as Hugh of Durham could tell you. Longchamp owns a copy of Richard’s seal and he doesn’t always use it for legitimate purposes.”
