* * *
The heiress of Pembroke and Striguil had been placed under the guardianship of Richard Fitz Renier, Sheriff of London, so it was Fitz Renier who welcomed the rain-soaked Marshal and entertained him while he changed into dry, come-wooing clothes.
They had been friends for many years, and the sheriff thought it safe to say, ‘She has been like a captured cricket. There’s too much to know about you, Marshal. Every visitor has a tale to tell, and every women she meets – well, it depends on their dreams. You’re either a chivalric ideal, or an irresponsible lecher, here for de Clare’s inheritance and her—’
‘In all the years,’ Marshal growled, ‘your mind has flourished in a cesspit. Hold this damn cloak for me. I could make a tent from it.’ He finished dressing, pressed his damp hair to his skull, then drank the wine his friend had provided. ‘Not that I place credence on your opinion, Fitz Renier, but is she likeable? And don’t say it—’
‘—depends what you like. She’s too controlled for my tastes, but you know I’ve always favoured the more unrestrained type – why are you grinning?’
‘I wonder who taught you that word. It’s the most restrained term you’ve ever used to describe your women. That Irish herbalist, do you remember her? Sold you that love potion, and damn near killed you? And the messenger, what was her name? The only woman in England who could out-run a charging horse? Oh, yes, Fitz Renier, you do like them unrestrained.’ He laughed quietly to himself, and draped the heavy, embroidered cloak around his shoulders.
The sheriff waited his chance, then said, ‘About the wedding.’ ‘What about it? I cannot afford to be married here. I’ll take her to Pembroke, or to another of her holdings. Lady Isabel may not approve, but she’ll have to foot the bill.’
‘No, she won’t. You’re to be married in London, and the costs have already been met.’ It was his turn to grin now, and Marshal’s to glower. ‘There’s money to spare where you’re concerned. A married Marshal is a sight to be seen. I doubt if we could have raised such a subscription for the king himself.’ He ignored Marshal’s expression, and pointed at the ceiling, ‘She’s directly above us. You can study the guest list later. God speed.’
* * *
The maidservant answered the door, recognized him from the weeks of description, and hurried down the steps. Fitz Renier stood in the doorway of the lower chamber and hissed her to a halt.
‘What did they say?’
‘I don’t know, my lord sheriff. They hadn’t met. I withdrew before they—’
He shook his head in disgust and turned away, slamming the door. What did she mean, before? Servants were supposed to be domestic spies. She should have stayed. She should have loitered. She should have played the servant! Why else had she been given eyes and ears?
* * *
Well, she thought, they were right, he would pass for an Arab. He’s not as thin as I imagined, and better dressed. And strong, one would need to be strong to carry that pavilion of a cloak. God, must he fidget, as though he had a thorn in each heel? Did he hop like that for Marie of Champagne, or Queen Eleanor. Be still, sir; I’m the one with the right to be nervous…
I shall be bedding my daughter. If I had a daughter she’d be no older than this. And not half so miserable, I hope. Look, woman, I’m smiling. See, you widen your mouth and— Yes, that’s better…
A grey wolf, like the stories. No wonder he won his jousts; he smiled them off their horses. He might have been poisoned, his face is so contorted. But he wears his age better than the cloak…
One step, I swear, and she’d hurl herself from the window. The heiress to half England, and she flinches like a lunatic. Welcome me, woman, or must I think I’ve found the wrong room? Invite me in, it’s commonly done with visitors…
His tongue has been ripped out. I heard he was in Palestine. The Arabs discovered he was an impostor, and tore out his tongue. Identify yourself, my lord! It’s not the woman’s place to guess…
Before he was ready, he said, ‘I-had-a-wet-ride-here-from-Winchester-so-I-changed-my-clothes-you-probably-saw-the-storm.’
She brought his name to her lips, but she would not tell him who he was. ‘Yes, I watched from the window.’
‘That was foolish, when you’re festooned with silver. It’s a known thing, lightning seeks metal. I was once near a man who was struck down. Hard to say who he was, afterward.’
‘Not only him,’ Isabel murmured, reminding Marshal of his omission.
‘I’m sorry. I am Sir William Marshal, son of John Marshal, who served under King Stephen, and of the Lady Sybil. I did send word of my arrival, but—’
‘It was well received, Sir Marshal, and it was good of you to risk the storm. If lightning seeks metal, and you were wearing a hauberk and helmet…’ She let the retort lie, and bowed him into the room. It is not often that a bride and groom meet for the first time within hours of their wedding, but by now they had recovered their composure, and their stride. Courtesy dictated an exchange of compliments, and Marshal said, ‘I would normally have taken my own advice, but this journey was of a special nature. I have travelled through storms before, though I was never so well rewarded at the finish. You are, my lady, without peer, and not even the English weather will keep me from you.’
It was nicely said, and Isabel acknowledged it graciously. ‘I did not think it would,’ she replied, ‘for your determination is renowned.’ The studied phrases put them at their ease, but she could not resist adding, ‘I am flattered that you should think I stand comparison with the enviable Marie of Champagne.’
Marshal frowned, as though dredging his memory. Then, placing the relationship on the right level, he mused, ‘The Countess Marie? Oh, yes, she was attractive, in her way; to a young man’s unschooled eye. But you, my lady, must accept a more worldly view. Do you mind?’
No, she indicated, she did not mind at all, and moved aside unnecessarily, drawing him into the room. ‘I’ve some Bordeaux wine put by. There, in the alcove. I don’t know your tastes, how could I, but—’
He came forward and took her hands in his, and the marriage was made as assuredly as if they had been in church, with a thousand witnesses. Fitz Renier would get his chance to grin later, but it was already confirmed by the hand-clasp of a middle-aged knight, and a woman not half his age. She had been kept aside, like the wine, for the right man. It was a courtship that lasted a few moments and, compatible or not, it would lead to the altar. And from there the marriage would survive for as long as the husband decided, or until he was killed.
But, so far, they both felt it had gone well. Isabel de Clare might have been a griffon, or self-centred, or of a diseased mind. And William Marshal might have been stunted, or a riot of boils, or a hater of women. That they were none of these was an advantage and a blessing.
There was no romance in it yet, for he was a battle-hardened soldier, collecting King Henry’s promised reward, while Isabel de Clare was merely the heiress to lands and income, valued only for what she possessed. But the compliments had been sincere, and he thought it remarkable that she should have guessed his fondness for Bordeaux wine.
* * *
Guided and financed by Fitz Renier and Marshal’s city friends, the couple were married on the first day of August in the Chapel of St John, a superb pillared chamber in the southeast corner of the Tower. During the ceremony Marshal decided, for no particular reason, to grow a moustache. For her part, Isabel acknowledged the solemnity of the occasion and dedicated herself to the advancement of her husband. She could not say she loved him, but she respected him, and was impressed by the interest he had shown in her wedding gown. This warrior knight, who had fought so long for King Henry and had dared unseat the bellicose Richard Lionheart, had not been at all ashamed to converse with seamstresses, or offer advice on the hang and stitch of her gown. She could think of no other man who would show such interest in the colour of a thread, or the jab of a needle, yet earn his reputation on the field and in the lists. No, it was not
yet love, though the tide was running.
* * *
There was to be another wedding that month, according to the rumours that emanated from Normandy. Young John was reconciled with his brother, and had been promised the hand of Hadwisa, heiress of Gloucester. In fact, she had been betrothed to him twelve years earlier, but as she had grown into an attractive young woman, he did not oppose the union. If she was enjoyable company, so much the better. And if not, the income from her lands would enable him to stay out a little later at night.
However, there was opposition to the marriage, and from a powerful quarter. Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, was appalled to learn that John and Hadwisa were second cousins, and that their marriage would violate the Church’s law of consanguinity. He issued a dire warning to both parties, and Hadwisa hesitated, fearful of divine retribution. John, on the other hand, kept the Archbishop’s letter in his purse, and reread it until the parchment cracked. Outside bed, nothing aroused him so much as the opportunity to goad the Church, particularly when its senior servant was the pompous, do-right Baldwin of Canterbury. Until now, John had been too busy with Norman women to find time for Hadwisa, but Baldwin’s letter kindled a sudden passion for the heiress. How dare the old fool come between lovers? The Church was throwing too long a shadow! Of course he would marry Hadwisa. It would be his first act on reaching England. And no pious prelate would stand in his way. He wrote to her, to keep up her courage.
In the week preceding his departure from Normandy, John remained celibate and indignant. Richard was astonished at the change that had overtaken his libertine brother, and realized that Baldwin would never deter him. ‘L’amour triomphe surtout,’ was John’s new catchphrase.
Chapter Four
The Massacre of Joy
August 1189 – August 1190
They did not know how they would be received when they reached England. They had hounded their father to his grave, and might well stand accused of treason and regicide. True, Queen Eleanor was at liberty, and travelling the country, encouraging the people to accept her favourite son. But there were many who regarded her as a dangerous and meddlesome woman, and these were not likely to be blinded by the flash of her silver tongue.
So it was with some trepidation that Richard and John stepped ashore at Portsmouth. Wisely perhaps, Geoffrey had chosen to come alone, a few days later.
The brothers were both dressed in full armour and escorted by two hundred men-at-arms. But, before they had reached the landward end of the quay, they found themselves confronted by a seething mass of citizens. The soldiers hefted their spears and drew together, their shields held edge to edge, fencing off the quay. Archers had roped themselves to the masts, or were crouched in the bows. It needed only a shout from Richard, or the sight of his gloved hand, and the arrows would fly.
But Queen Eleanor had done her work well, and it was soon apparent that the crowd had come to cheer, not charge. They milled about, blocking the narrow streets that wound up from the port, delighted by the Lionheart’s military-style arrival. He had a fine sense of the dramatic, did Richard Plantagenet. To come ashore like this, as though he was invading his own country! He was ever the general, God knew it!
They roared their welcome – ‘Richard-le-roi! Coeur-de- Lion!’ – and the giant slapped his brother on the shoulder. Raising his crested helmet high in the air, he said, ‘Don’t be so furtive, boy. We’re at home now. Go on, salute them. They’re your people, too.’ He made a grab at John’s helmet, but he had already moved away.
‘How long are we to be detained here?’ he called. ‘I’m being drowned in the spray.’ He snapped at the sergeants to clear a path through the crowd, then followed Richard along the shifting corridor. He heard his own name being shouted, but it was Richard they wanted, and Richard who responded. Dear Christ, John thought, doesn’t he love it so? He was born for this, the mouthings of the mob, and the flags and flowers and— He would conquer a country, just to receive its welcome. Give him a battle in the morning, and a parade at noon, and he’s a satisfied man. Oh, and a kiss from dear Eleanor.
Horses were urged through the crowd, so that the brothers might mount and be more easily seen. They rode into town, Richard bellowing jokes at men he had never met, or snatching at hastily-picked bouquets. John followed, his stomach still unsettled by the voyage. He glanced at Richard’s broad, armoured back and wondered how it was that the Lionheart, a notoriously bad sailor, could stage such a quick recovery. The answer, of course, was that he devoured applause, and stilled his churning belly.
Fearing the worst, Richard had kept secret the exact date and port of arrival, so neither Eleanor nor William Marshal were present. But the ships had been spotted when they were still an hour from shore, and the civic dignitaries had had time to don their regalia. They were now assembled in the town square, practising their speeches on each other.
They need not have troubled, for once he was free of the portside crowd, Richard spurred ahead, through the square and along the road to Winchester. He knew his mother had already left the city, but he had associated the place with her for so long that he felt drawn towards it. In part it was filial devotion, in part a sense of duty, in part a need he could not explain. He did not feel inferior to Eleanor, nor did he regard her as a lesser creature, so he did not go as supplicant, or suzerain. He simply felt they should be together, as soon as possible.
They were lions, that’s what they were, two lions roaring free in the wilderness. The other animals, the deers and bulls and wild boars, they had their own lives to lead, but they were not lions. As no other woman was Eleanor of Aquitaine. As no man was Richard of Normandy, soon-to-be of England.
Even brother John, well, God protect him, he was hardly a lion. He was more of a – what could one say? A member of the family, certainly, and yet, with the best will in the world, scarcely one of the pride. One could not imagine him reared up, fangs bared and claws extended, snarling defiance at the world. He was more of a—
Lost for an example, Richard turned in his saddle, to see John spurring in his wake. The duke laughed in his throat, a deep, indulgent rumble, and waved John level. ‘Seeing you back there,’ he said, ‘you brought to mind a ferret at a fair. You’re all pinched-in, boy. What is it, the pace I set?’
John glanced at him, looked away until he had bridled his tongue, then sibilated, ‘Yes, that’s it, the pace. I don’t have your turn of speed, brother, no one does.’
Richard saw no reason to contradict the truth, and gave John an encouraging slap on the leg. ‘Tell you what,’ he boomed. ‘You see that farm ahead? I’ll race you to it. Five marks if I win; twenty if it’s you. But watch how I hold the reins. You see the way my knees grip. And my back arched for balance, you see that?’
John nodded imperceptibly, and Richard shouted, ‘Two! One! Go!’ Then he was off, and unable to see John ram the heel of his hand against his helmet. The metal casque slipped back and hung by its strap from his shoulders. He let his hand rest on his head, as though locating a sudden sharp pain. ‘Go on,’ he snarled to himself, ‘ride to Hell! Watch-my-reins, see-my-knees. Christ, you are a bag of noise, brother. And was ever a bag so pleased with its seams?’
By which time Richard was well along the road, the certain winner of the race to the farm.
* * *
To display his love for Hadwisa, John travelled north to Marlborough, where the heiress was being held in ward for her husband. En route, he enjoyed an uninhibited evening with a family of gypsies in Savemake forest, and arrived at Marlborough next morning, red-eyed and dishevelled. Hadwisa’s appearance held promise, and he did not regret his celibate week in Normandy. However, his own appearance was less well received, and Hadwisa’s first words to him set the pattern of the marriage.
‘You should not have exhausted yourself, riding through the night. My father’s friends call by here every day, my lord, but now I shall have to swear my household to secrecy. You are in no condition to meet them; you must first recover, an
d be measured for some proper clothes, and that means hiding you away and pretending you have not yet reached us. You should have broken your journey, and not risked the dangers of the night roads. Salisbury, that’s where you should have stayed. Or Amesbury. Or even Rushall, that’s an easy ride from here. But to come non-stop from Portsmouth! It shows you are in earnest, but it makes more problems than it solves. I’ll tell the stewards to pour you a bath.’
Again John nodded imperceptibly, and conversed with himself when she’d gone.
* * *
Richard had meanwhile turned east from Winchester, and was continuing his triumphal journey towards London. Half his escort became emissaries, sent in search of Queen Eleanor, and his progress slowed, as he waited for her to join him. Eventually she did so, and those crowds that had gathered to welcome their new king were now swollen by those older members of the population who revered his mother. They rode hand-in-hand through the towns and villages, and shared a covered cart on the country roads.
In the privacy of the cart, he told her he would do what Henry had done, and imprison her for another sixteen years. Why not, mother, when you bear it so well?
It was not something to joke about, she admonished. He would not survive sixteen months. Not that one could ever cage the Lionheart.
‘I’d tear aside the bars.’
‘I believe you would.’
‘And chew the gaoler to gristle.’
‘Yes, and spit him out.’
‘Then I’d take an axe and chop the building to the ground.’
‘Yes, you would, yes. It would be a slack profession, being a gaoler, when you were about.’
He put his arm around her, and she rested her head against the wall of his chest. They had no secrets from each other – he had not known Henry would arrest her, so long ago – and, more important perhaps, they never found the other worthy of ridicule. So he did not mind that she hummed quietly, like an exploring bee, and she found nothing strange in his sudden gasp and long, drawn-out sigh. They were lions, were they not, the only lions in England…
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