by Jack Whyte
Isabella waited with him while Bruce doused the candles and lamps and looked to the safety of the dying fire in the big hearth, raking it and banking what was left of it so there would be no danger of stray embers falling loose. He then took the last remaining candle and set out to conduct Isabella to the large room she shared with her ladies.
He kissed her halfway up the stairs, turning her easily to face him from the step above him and holding the candle safely at arm’s length, and she had come to him willingly, making a little sound of happiness as she raised her lips to his. But then, in an instant, the lighthearted, loving kiss changed and she was locked in the crook of his arm, her arms tight around his neck and her small, pliant body pressing against him fiercely enough to send him reeling down to the step below as her mouth blossomed into a moist and hotly demanding thing that covered his own and threatened to bruise his lips. He protested with an agonized moan and then, one-handed and with surprising difficulty, he pulled her arms from around his neck and stooped quickly to place the candle holder on the stair, safe against the wall. He wanted to extinguish it completely, but it was the only light left burning in the house, and he felt a ludicrous burst of fear as he imagined them stumbling and fumbling afterwards, trying to find their way along the passageways to their rooms in the pitch-darkness. So he left it burning and returned to her, and her hands locked behind his head and pulled him down to her mouth again.
What followed was a conflagration of sudden passion that took no heed of anything other than its own urgencies; a fiery blaze of lust and longing; ravening mouths and groping hands that dug in frenzied efforts to thrust cloth aside and find the living heat of naked, straining flesh and welcoming warmth, until a blinding flash of self-awareness caught him in the glare of his own folly and he froze and thrust himself back and away.
“Christ Jesus, lass! This is madness.” He could hear the overwrought tension in his own voice as she, too, froze into immobility, her breath caught in her throat. He forced himself to turn away from her, reaching for the candle, and as he picked it up he noted how the flame, the very candle itself, shook in his grasp. Isabella exhaled explosively, and he sensed rather than heard her sit up straight on the stairs at his back. Then came a rustle of clothing followed by the pressure of her hand on his shoulder as she pushed herself to her feet and stood above him, breathing raggedly. As soon as he was sure she was standing firmly he flexed his legs and straightened up beside her, aware of his thighs quivering strangely as he hooked his free arm around her waist and drew her against him, her head on his shoulder. He held her close for long moments, feeling her shaking die away slowly, and then he kissed the top of her bowed head.
“Oh, my dear,” he whispered, speaking into her hair and only realizing then that her head covering was no longer in place. “That was wonderful, but folly … Aye, and dangerous.” He chuckled. “Suppose someone had come while we were at that? From above or below, there we would have been, rutting like a country lover and his lass caught in the byre.” He laughed again. “Now there would have been a story to tell the cooks in the morning … The earl and his countess on the stairs, doing what should be done between the blankets.”
Then Isabella whispered, “But we are a country lover and his lass, my lord. Or we were then … So close. And it was so beautiful—” She held her breath for an instant, and then she, too, giggled. “It might have been worth being caught, just to see the reaction.”
Suddenly they were both laughing madly, fighting to keep quiet and hugging each other for support. Eventually, when he felt fit enough to speak again without laughing, Bruce disengaged himself and leaned back, holding up the candle as he looked about him at the articles of clothing scattered on the stairs.
“Amazing how quickly those come off,” he mused, “considering how long they take to put on. Here, let me help you.” He stooped and gathered up her discarded head covering, its formal wimple now no more than a loose square of cloth, and by the time he straightened she had the remaining bits and pieces folded over one arm. He looked at her then, still holding the candle high, and smiled. “Well,” he said easily, “at least we know now that we like and want each other. That’s going to make our wedding night less frightening.”
Isabella of Mar looked back at him wide-eyed. “Had it been frightening to you, my lord of Bruce?” She shivered. “Lah! It came on so quickly! I had no intent—”
“No more had I, my love. But right you are, it came on quickly.”
“And it was wonderful—frightening, almost, but wonderful.”
His smile had widened. “Aye, but the best part, the even more wonderful part, is that it will do the same again, time after time, now that it knows us vulnerable to it. But within the month we’ll be wed and nothing—no one—can stop us from enjoying it whenever we please … And now let’s get you to bed, lass.”
He turned her easily back towards the ascent before dropping his hands to her buttocks and urging her forward and up.
* * *
Three days later the young pair were back in Westminster and swept up again in the myriad preparations for the wedding, this time involving rehearsals for the ceremony and the rituals surrounding it as a royally attended event. Informal at first as they were carried out under the eyes of various dignitaries, the rehearsals grew progressively more complex and ritualized, until Bruce began to think his entire life revolved around the mere repetition of meaningless patterns of movement accompanied by music. He had always enjoyed music, but overfamiliarity with the music involved here quickly dulled his appreciation of it and he grew bored, and finally annoyed, with the mind-numbing sameness of the incessant practicing. Equally predictable—as he reflected ruefully far more than once—was the virtual impossibility of finding time alone with Isabella, for she was even busier than he, with a multitude of bridal things to do when she was not caught up in practice and rehearsals.
He was distracted from the now chronic annoyance at the interference in his daily life by the unexpected reappearance of his father, back from his scouting expedition to Carlisle, and he found it hard to believe at first that Lord Bruce had been gone for almost four whole weeks. A fortnight in surveying the town and its requirements, with a week of travelling on either side, had sped by.
They shared one meal alone together, two nights after his lordship’s return, and in the course of it his father outlined all that he had discovered—and all that he achieved and hoped to achieve—about conditions in and around the fortress town he was to govern. He was to meet with Edward the following day, he said, to make a full report on his tour of inspection, and he was quietly confident that it would be well received by the King. It was his royal belief, the King had told Lord Robert prior to his departure for the north, that Carlisle was in sore need of refurbishment should there be any possibility of hostile actions from the Scots army under Balliol. Lord Robert could now confirm Edward’s suspicions to be accurate, and he felt sure his recommendations would be put into practice.
* * *
The cloudless dawn sky was pink through the open shutters of his bedroom window as Robert Bruce, propped up on his elbow, gazed down at his sleeping wife. Exhausted from a night of making love, she was exquisite, her hair tousled and tangled, her cheeks flushed with health, and one perfect, surprisingly large breast exposed by the way she had thrown off the coverings at some point. She was his at last, he thought, smiling. At last, indeed … Two short months before, he had been panting like a hound in pursuit of Lady Gwendolyn de Ferrers, and when he had found out about Isabella’s arrival, he had done everything in his power to avoid her.
He should be up and abroad by now, with the sky brightening rapidly and promising another brilliant summer day, and on any other day of his life he would have been; how many times in the past had he cursed himself as a slug-abed at the mere thought of wasting a moment of such a magnificent morning? But this morning was different from any other. This morning was his and Isabella’s, to be shared with no one else, for this
morning was the very first of their married life; they could spend the entire day in bed, naked and entwined, if they so wished. Indeed, it was expected of them. Nigel had promised him the previous night, before the wine and festivities took hold completely, that he would personally ensure that food and drink would be discreetly left for them on the other side of their locked doors.
God, she was beautiful!
On the point of yielding to a compulsion to bend forward and kiss that innocently bared, berry-tipped breast, he paused instead and then leaned backward gently, lowering himself until he lay beside her again and linking his fingers behind his head. She slept on, oblivious to his presence, and the swell of tenderness in his chest precluded any possibility of disturbing her rest. He himself had barely slept that night; he had dozed from time to time, but sprung awake each time Isabella moved, so unaccustomed was he to sharing a bed with anyone. Not that he had never shared a woman’s bed, he thought then, for he had, perhaps too many, but he had seldom slept in them. He had enjoyed them, used their occupants and been used by them, but always he had risen afterwards and crept away under the concealing cloak of darkness.
Those days, and nights, were past now, and Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, long celebrated as a night-prowling tomcat, would stray no more. He knew that now beyond a doubt. Thinking back to the ceremonies of the previous day, he examined again the two clear memories he had retained; two sharply focused memories among a sea of formless impressions. He could recall being awed by the daunting magnificence of the abbey church, its slender, soaring columns sweeping up to the arched and vaulted roof so far above the heads of the worshippers, and by the mitred splendour of the robed bishops and abbots as they moved pontifically among the clouds of precious, sweet-smelling incense that filled the sanctuary; could recall, too, the haunting beauty of the choirs, the solemn, majestic chant of the abbey monks and the lighter, younger singing of the choristers. And, as clear in his mind now as it had been at the time, his bride had emerged from a light-filled haze, gowned and veiled in mists of green and golden fabrics as she came forward to meet him with one hand on her father’s arm. There had been music, he knew, loud music that had been sustained throughout the nuptial Mass, but his awareness had been focused tightly on her approach and on the veil that concealed her face, hiding the smile that was the sole thing in the world that he wanted to see at that moment.
When at last she raised the veil as he bent to kiss her as his wife, the sight of her pure and stainless beauty struck at his heart and robbed him of all breath, and he had thought he might die happy at that moment. That was all the memory he needed of his wedding day, he knew.
Edward had come forward to greet them as they left the high altar, and behind him came a host of well-wishers, eager to meet the King’s new favourite liegewoman, and as expected, a long and tedious course of introductions followed as Isabella and Bruce accepted the congratulations of all there. At one point, as he straightened up from kissing some unknown woman’s hand, he saw the King beckoning to him.
“You have a treasure there, young Robert,” Edward had growled. “A perfect pearl beyond price. Nurture her and she will nurture you. You have my word on that as one who spent four decades in the company of such another. May God bless your marriage and make it fruitful. But you’ll need money more than ever now, if you’re to treat your new countess the way she should be treated. Talk to Walter Langton. Tell him I said to fund you from my privy purse. A hundred pounds should see you on your way.” He raised a hand abruptly, cutting off Bruce’s startled thanks before they could be uttered, for a hundred pounds was a staggering sum, the equivalent of a full year of Bruce’s lost rents in Scotland. “My wedding gift to you, intended for your wife. Now go and save her from those slavering hounds surrounding her.”
* * *
In the week before the wedding the young pair had met twice with Edward, both times privately, and Bruce knew beyond a doubt that those privileges stemmed directly from the King’s touchingly spontaneous and surprising paternal affection for Isabella. On the first occasion, purely on impulse, he had invited them to share the meal that was being served for him, for he had been working alone and planning to eat while he continued working. The unplanned sharing of an intimate meal with the monarch was an unheard-of honour that had gone unnoticed by no one at the court of Westminster.
The second meeting, the very next afternoon, had been private in name only, for the King had been accompanied by several dignitaries, few, to be true, but among the most powerful in the realm. As Bruce discovered afterwards, the business with which they were dealing had concluded and Edward had begun telling them about the enjoyment he had gained “from young Bruce’s amazing wife,” as he himself put it. And then, presumably still filled with goodwill from the previous evening, he had promptly summoned the young couple to come at once, as they were, and meet his ministers.
Foremost among them all, Bruce knew, was Master Walter Langton, Master of the Wardrobe until a few days previously and now newly appointed Lord High Treasurer of England. Bruce had met Langton several times over a period of years and liked the man, finding him refreshingly open and amiable despite the grave responsibilities he bore. As Master of the Wardrobe, Langton had controlled the privy accounts of the royal household for five years, including the so-called wardrobe treasure of gold and jewels that was funded by the treasury—but crucially free of the control of parliament—and used to fund the private and often urgent personal needs of the monarch, from secret diplomatic endeavours to waging war.
Now, as Lord High Treasurer, Langton would play another role, akin to but vastly different from his former one. Both involved the stewardship of vast amounts of money, but as Lord Treasurer, Langton was now nominally answerable to parliament for all monies disbursed by the exchequer. One of his duties would be to dispute and confound the wiles and wishes of his own successor, the new Master of the Wardrobe.
Bruce knew, without being told, that Langton’s advancement to the treasurer’s post had been a master stroke of policy on Edward’s part. Bruce had in fact met briefly with Langton, within days of their arrival in Westminster, merely to pay his respects to the friend of an old friend. Langton, now in his fifties, had been a protégé of Robert Burnell, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, and before Burnell died he had recommended Langton’s services to the King. Now, four years later, Langton had replaced his former mentor as one of the King’s few real friends and most trusted advisers. His advancement from Master of the Wardrobe to the post of Lord High Treasurer had been Edward’s political equivalent of deliberately setting a fox to watch the henhouse. By placing a trusted friend to safeguard his privy funds against the jealous interference of parliament and its tight-fisted, fractious barons, Edward had ensured the safety of his own continued funding. Were Langton to carry out the task as skilfully as Bruce was sure he would, he would be guaranteed a wealthy bishopric one day as his reward.
There were two other clerics with the King at that second meeting, one of them the newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Winchelsea. Bruce knew nothing about this man, and he suspected that Edward Plantagenet might know little more than he, for the King was uncommonly reticent when speaking to the archbishop, and Bruce sensed that might be born of not yet having gauged the fellow’s mettle. The mutual dislike between Winchelsea and Langton, however, was painfully obvious, communicated openly in the way they tended to sneer at each other, as though each was trying to outdo his rival—and rival for what? Bruce wondered—in superciliousness. Edward ignored their barely cloaked hostility, and Bruce knew the King had reasons for pretending blindness to it.
The third churchman there that evening was Walter de Wenlock, the Abbot of Westminster, a man incapable of posturing or pretense. This was the man who later officiated at the wedding, a plain, good-natured, and genuinely pious man, tall and stooped and elderly, without a trace of malice in his soul. Isabella delighted him by approaching him immediately and enthusing over his magnificent church, an
d he was her willing slave within moments, enchanted by her innocence and her complete lack of guile. Nor was he alone in being entranced by her; without exception, every man in the room fell quickly under Isabella’s spell, and she manipulated them all artlessly and with equal ease, even drawing laughter from the Archbishop of Canterbury with one of her quips. Edward, of course, had been completely under her control from their first meeting; now it looked as though the three most influential men at court would share his fascination.
* * *
The Earl of Carrick and his new countess returned to Writtle two weeks after they were married, glad to leave the glittering but exhausting world of Edward’s Westminster safely behind them at a distance of some twenty miles, and to have an opportunity now to set about establishing their own home in Essex during the long, mild autumn that must surely follow such a glorious summer. In the serenity of the countryside surrounding their home, they wrought miracles in the four months that followed, transforming the old Writtle House that had seen little change in the previous hundred years.
Thanks to the munificence of the royal wedding gift, they could afford to hire stonemasons and fine carpenters, and so with the help of the King’s seneschal, Sir Robert FitzHugh, and the agreement of the King himself, they had temporarily hired the young Jeffrey of Canterbury from the currently suspended work of reconstructing St. Stephen’s Chapel at Westminster. It had been an inspired choice on Isabella’s part, because under the enthusiastic young mason’s guiding hand, the ancient house was quickly rebuilt into a thing of beauty, with wide, soaring windows of leaded glass through which the light poured in to illuminate rooms, staircases, and even nooks and corners that had known nothing but darkness before then. The outer buildings were rebuilt as well, in keeping with the functional strength and rugged solidity of the newly resurrected stables, and as the new outbuildings rose, so did the crops that had survived the flooding, maturing into a finer, healthier crop than anyone could remember ever having seen.