“What will that do to Prince John? He’s already on edge because of what Richard said about making his nephew his heir.”
“I think that issue has been resolved of its own accord in John’s favour. No English baron is going to swear for a French-backed Breton brat of three years old above a man of four and twenty with Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine for parents.” He rubbed his jaw. “Of course, Richard’s heir would be a different matter…I suppose it would depend how much John’s ambition eats him up. I know full well that he envies Richard his possessions and he craves power and adulation. You’ve seen what he is like for yourself. But how far he would go…” He shook his head. “Only John knows that.”
“Does he? I think perhaps he doesn’t.” Isabelle shivered. John’s charisma was powerful and she was not immune to it, but she had an intuitive awareness of the dark twists in his soul. He wasn’t to be trusted, and in his turn he trusted no one and sought to strike before being struck. Quickly she pressed her palms over William’s eyes while she composed her expression. “I am troubling you with John when you have Longchamp to deal with,” she said lightly.
William snorted. “In truth I don’t want to talk about either of them.” Abruptly, as if shutting off his thoughts in movement, he sat up and turned and placed his hand upon her belly. “Richard,” he said. “We’ll call the new little one Richard—or Richenda if it’s a girl.”
“For the King?” Isabelle raised her brow.
He looked wry. “It won’t do any harm for Richard to think so, but I had your father in mind. I knew him somewhat, and I liked him—although not as much as I love his daughter.”
“Flatterer,” she laughed. “Small wonder you rose so high at court.”
“But I never lie because lies will always find you out.” He captured one of her hands and kissed it.
Isabelle was facing the door, and the sleepy laughter froze on her face as her husband’s brother suddenly barged into the room, shoving two clerks and a steward out of his way. Alerted by his wife’s gasp, William hastily turned and then stared. His brother’s clothing was dusty from the road and he was wearing his hauberk. The expression on his face precipitated William off the bed and sent him reaching for his tunic.
“Longchamp is besieging Lincoln,” John said before William could ask what he was doing here. “De Camville has ridden straight to the Prince for aid and left his wife defending the castle against the bastard. The whoreson’s got footsoldiers, knights, serjeants, and a company of two score underminers. You can’t sit on your arse any more, brother, he has to be stopped.” He bared his teeth. “Prince John has seized Nottingham and Tickhill in retaliation, and if Longchamp does not retreat from Lincoln, he will visit him with a rod of iron. You’re a justiciar, what are you going to do?” Hectic colour blazed across his cheekbones.
William listened to the joyful squeals of his infant son; he felt the silent wideness of Isabelle’s stare. “Keep my wits about me,” he replied more calmly than he felt. “Contrary to what you think, myself and the other justiciars have not been sitting on our arses. Neither William Longchamp nor John will be permitted to start a civil war, I promise you that.”
“How will you stop them?” John demanded. “The Prince is recruiting mercenaries from his Glamorgan lands and men are flocking to his banner because they are sick of Longchamp’s rapacious ways.”
William waved his brother to a chair. “Sit,” he commanded. “A few moments on your own backside won’t make any difference to the outcome, and I can’t talk to you while you’re snarling like a baited bear.”
Still glowering, John threw himself into the chair, which creaked with the violence of his action. For the first time he acknowledged his sister-in-law, giving her a slightly shame-faced nod of the head. Isabelle returned the gesture graciously. Aware of the way his glance lingered on her exposed fair plaits and the fecund swell of her belly, she quietly veiled her hair and arranged her gown so that her pregnancy was less obvious. She was not in the least embarrassed, for this was her private chamber where she could dress with as little formality as she chose, but she could sense John’s discomfort; given the circumstances of his own marriage, this warm domestic scene must be like salt in a raw wound.
“I’ll fight under my lord’s banner if it comes to the crux, and with pride.” Challenge gleamed in John’s eyes. “My oath is to him. I’m his seneschal and his vassal. You’re his vassal too for Cartmel and the Leinster lands, brother. You might want to think about that.”
“I do, constantly,” William answered. “But I am also the King’s justiciar. I have duties and loyalties that lie beyond my personal desires and possessions.”
“Well, you’re going to have to decide one way or the other,” John said. “If you have any sense, you’ll join the Prince.”
William felt Isabelle’s involuntary twitch of movement beside him and he responded with a swift, surreptitious lift of his forefinger. “I will gladly speak with Lord John,” he said, “but I won’t be joining his battle lines. When I ride out of here, it will be to Walter of Coutances and the other justiciars. You might believe that we don’t know our brains from our buttocks, but I promise you that we do.”
John started to sneer but William silenced him with a raised hand. “Take my word for it…and you can pass that message to the Prince. The Archbishop of Rouen will repeat my stance when he speaks with him.”
John jerked to his feet. “I hope you know what you are doing,” he said curtly.
“And I you,” William retorted, then pushed one hand through his hair in an exasperated gesture. “Jesu, I don’t want to quarrel with you. For what it’s worth, should it come to the crux and, God forbid, Richard die on this crusade, I will support John as the next King of England—but only in those circumstances, no other.”
His brother nodded stiffly. “I don’t want to quarrel with you either. I’ll hold you to your word though.”
“You won’t need to. It’s given, that’s enough.”
The brothers embraced in a stilted fashion. Declining to remain to eat, John accepted travel rations for himself and his men and rode out of Caversham, his son accompanying him for several miles so that the pair could have at least some time together.
Awaiting Jack’s return, William made his own preparations to leave. “I have a suspicion that today really was the still before the storm,” he said to Isabelle.
She set her arms around his neck and kissed him. “But you and the other justiciars can hold the country steady,” she said, “especially with Walter of Coutances at the helm.”
“I pray so,” William said grimly. “The alternative does not bear thinking about.”
Thirty-eight
Caversham, Berkshire, October 1191
Richard Marshal’s entry into the world was a protracted struggle. Although he was positioned head down, the angle was difficult and he was a large baby. Labouring to deliver him, Isabelle realised that they both might die. She wasn’t ready to leave the world yet, but God’s will frequently took small notice of human desires. Battling anger, fear, and self-pity, she squeezed her prayer beads in her fists and trapped a cry behind gritted teeth as another pang tightened her womb. A midwife wiped Isabelle’s brow and murmured words of encouragement and exhorted her to direct her prayers to the wooden figurine of Saint Margaret, patron saint of labouring mothers. The image stood on a prie-dieu surrounded by lit candles. Twice they had burned down to the stub and been renewed.
