A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘I am so glad,’ she said involuntarily and then lowered her gaze. He seemed for all his friendliness too important now to be interested in her beyond the fact that she was her father’s daughter. Later, when he came down to supper wearing a silken surcoat made from a cloth she had never seen, a belt of Moorish design about his waist and a chain of wrought gold hanging from his neck, he seemed a very great man indeed so that she wondered how, while so much in awe of him, she found it so easy to talk with him.

  That night, in the chamber allotted to him, William lay watching a shaft of moonlight moving slowly across his bed and a similar thought occurred to him. He had never found it easy to talk to a woman other than in polite surface conversation, yet with Isabel it had been different. Perhaps he could once have so confided in Margaret, had he been free to do so; it was his very love for her that had kept him restrained in her presence – but that was a long time ago and now that she was married again, to the King of Hungary, it was unlikely that their paths would ever cross. It was better so – and the old wound, if not forgotten, was healed.

  It was strange to be back in England. Riding from the coast he had rediscovered the beauty of the English countryside even in winter – large tracts of forestland full of game, the gentleness of rolling farmland waiting for springtime and seeding, the bare branches of trees making patterns in the road in the pale winter sunlight. A sharp frost under a blue sky exhilarated him, and he wondered how he had endured the heat, the dryness, the flies, of the desert lands for so long. He had had dysentery once, and so had John, but they had both recovered thanks to the attention of a skilled Arab physician and he would be able to advise the King on the care of his troops once they landed at Tyre.

  He remembered his last meeting with the Old King, when he had brought him the news of his son’s death. Henry had wept and then said simply, ‘I trust to God for his salvation.’ The Young King had been laid to rest in Rouen Cathedral amidst universal mourning and his father had given William permission to go at once to Palestine to keep his vow. He had set out the next day bearing his dead master’s consecrated surcoat, and journeying across Europe had stayed a week with the Princess Joanna, Queen of Sicily. She seemed to him to have all the Plantagenet virtues with none of the vices so prominent in her brothers, and he told her all she wanted to know about them. She grieved for the loss of Henry but it was Richard she wanted to hear of and it was with great reluctance that she bade farewell to William at the end of his stay. Three weeks later he was in Jerusalem.

  With awe and reverence he bent low to enter the Holy Sepulchre and there knelt for a long while, reaching out to lay the surcoat with its Cross on the stone slab, to touch the rock where Christ had lain in death, and the thought that He had risen from this very spot filled him with overwhelming wonder. It was something he was never to forget in all his life and he came out into the sunlight again determined to fight the infidel with all his strength, to preserve the places where Christ had walked and taught and died for men.

  For a time William had contemplated joining the Knights Templar, that order half monk, half soldier, who gave their lives and their swords to the Christian cause, but in the end the desire to return home proved stronger. He had won a great deal of plunder in his years abroad and brought several laden packhorses with him. He had also acquired another squire, a certain Walter d’Abemon, one of four brothers the eldest of whom, Sir Engerrard, held the manor of Stoke, near Guildford. It had been enfeoffed to the d’Abernons by the first Earl of Clare, and this connection had induced William to take the lad into his service. Walter might not be very quick in the head but he had evinced a dogged devotion for his master and he had a love of horses that further commended him. Furthermore John d’Erleigh had also taken a liking to him and if there was one thing William would not tolerate it was squabbling among his attendants. Despite all this, however, he was still without so much as a manor to call his own, and he was glad to accompany Gilbert to Suffolk.

  His mind turned on their arrival. Isabel de Clare had taken him by surprise. As a little girl he had thought her a pleasant enough child and like her father, but now as a woman the resemblance was even more marked. In the few words they had had together she seemed to him to have a quick intelligence, an immediate grasp more of what he left out than of what he did say. He had a sudden swift memory, rising out of the long dead past, of Richard Strongbow’s laughing words – ‘Maybe I’ll give her to you,’ and his own reply, ‘By that time she will think me a greybeard.’

  He had not in all these years thought of marriage, but he thought of it now.

  Over the next weeks he spent as much time as he could with Isabel, riding out with her into the frosty woods, the broken twigs cracking beneath their horses’ hooves, watching her with one of Gilbert’s peregrines on her wrist, sending it off after its quarry, using her lure to bring it back. He commended her on her handling of the bird, though he considered it too strong for her, and when she said eagerly that she did not mind the fierce talons digging into her hand for she loved the sport, he rode to Sudbury one morning to a raiser of falcons. With a keen eye for a good bird as well as a bargain, he bought a little merlin that he thought would sit more gently on her wrist and her delight in it brought him extraordinary pleasure. He watched her too in the hall, playing with the children, listening to the minstrels in the evening, and he contrived to sit beside her at table. Gilbert kept several players to give them music and he danced with her, laughing when she said with daring mischief that she was surprised how well he danced, having supposed that there would be no ladies to dance with in Syria and he might have forgotten how.

  ‘Mark me, wife,’ Gilbert said to Amicia within their curtained bed, ‘William has his eye on our heiress. Isabel would make him master of Pembroke as well as her Irish lands and Longeuville in Normandy. A great inheritance if King Henry would grant it.’

  ‘Mark me,’ Amicia retorted sleepily, ‘he is not thinking of that. William is falling in love,’ and her husband was too astonished to answer.

  William himself was not aware of that, only that he found Isabel delightful company. She was little more than a child and he must seem like an uncle to her but telling himself it was for her father’s sake, and because he sensed a certain loneliness beneath her pleasing manner, a loneliness he understood, he found himself seeking her out each time he entered the hall, looking for her before anyone else, being ready to lift her down from the saddle, to walk with her to Mass.

  Matters might have gone no further for the moment, but for Gilbert’s desire to take his wife with him to visit the Benedictine house at Eye, where his cousin was Prior. William excused himself from accompanying them as he wished to ride to Lavenham to visit a knight he had once fought with in Syria and this seemed a good opportunity.

  He was going along the passage to the stair with his mantle over his arm when the Lady Constance, shortly to leave with her son for Brittany, called to him from the bower.

  ‘Are you deserting us too, Sir William?’

  He paused in the doorway, and smiled across at Isabel where she sat with Arthur on her knee. ‘Only for today, lady. I shall be back tomorrow.’

  ‘And then I have to make this tiresome journey, in midwinter too, to join my lord in Hatfield to ride with him to London. I wish the King had allowed us to wait until the spring.’

  ‘No doubt he feels your country needs its rulers,’ William answered formally. He was never at ease with Constance.

  She gave him a swift look and then glanced at Isabel, seeing the girl’s eyes as she looked across at the knight standing in the doorway. She gave a yawn. ‘I think I shall take the Lady Isabel with me. It will make a change for you, child, and perhaps I’ll find a fine Breton to husband you.’

  Isabel gave a start and her ready colour flooded into her face ‘Oh, but – I do not think – my cousin Amicia…’

  ‘Why should she mind? She has her own husband and children to attend to. I’ll speak to the King –’

 
‘Madame,’ William interrupted with less than his usual courtesy, ‘I believe the Lady Isabel is to return to Queen Eleanor shortly, and it is for her grace –’

  ‘The Queen is a prisoner,’ Constance said spitefully. She had never liked her mother-in-law and had enjoyed snubbing her in the matter of Arthur’s naming, choosing to call him after the man who was a Breton hero instead of after a Norman or Angevin. The Queen had been furious and Constance still relished the memory. ‘I think my word will carry some weight with his grace.’

  ‘I doubt it, my lady.’

  Constance sat up stiffly, her dark eyes angry. ‘You are impertinent, Sir William.’

  He laid his cloak on a stool and came further into the room. ‘And you, madame, speak discourteously of Queen Eleanor; she is not to be described in those terms. Did you not know she will join the King for Easter at Westminster?’

  Constance did not know and she was clearly put out. Then she gave a shrug. ‘A show put on for the benefit of the Pope, I imagine – everything must be regular for the sake of this crusade. Anyway, the child’s marriage is not in her gift.’

  ‘No,’ William agreed. ‘It is in King Henry’s.’

  ‘True enough, but I –’ Constance got up and took her son from Isabel, setting him on his feet. ‘I will see that he attends to it soon. It is time and more and she must have a husband –’ she paused deliberately, touching Isabel’s head with what was meant to be an affectionate gesture, ‘a husband who is her equal in rank and possessions.’

  For a moment William was too angry to speak and it was Isabel, aware of the veiled insult, who sprang to her feet to answer the Countess.

  ‘My lady,’ she said and lifted her head in a manner that reminded William of her father, ‘you cannot make me go to Brittany. I wish to stay here with my cousin, or with the Queen.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ Constance retorted coolly. ‘You must not act the child.’ She looked the girl up and down. ‘You are certainly of an age to be bedded.’

  Isabel flushed, her moment of defiance evaporating into awkwardness, aware of William standing so close to her, of his defence of her; and feeling a sudden rush of tears she turned and ran into the inner room.

  Constance gave an elaborate sigh. ‘Silly child – so emotional. I am sure you will agree, Sir William –’

  ‘Pardon me,’ he broke in, ‘but I do not think you should discuss this with me. When the Lady Isabel returns to Queen Eleanor no doubt the King will consider the matter.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Constance gave him a sly look. ‘And he will consider what a man has in his money chests first, I assure you. But I shall take a hand in it. I hope you have a pleasant journey to your friend – he lives in some small manor near Lavenham, I believe? I think it is going to snow.’ She turned away to her embroidery frame and William, bowing stiffly, turned and left her.

  He rode away from the castle, his anger fed by the memory of Isabel in tears, running from the room. By God, it was he who would speak to the King, to Queen Eleanor if he had the chance before that spiteful bitch could take Isabel away – and she so gentle yet with something of the spirit of Richard Strongbow.

  He spent the night at his friend’s ‘small manor’, but though he enjoyed the meeting, his mind was on the scene with Constance and he wondered why she had chosen to speak thus to him. Was it because she had some desire to secure Isabel’s fortune for one of her own Breton favourites? It seemed likely but quite why she thought him a threat, to the extent of reminding him of his position, he did not know.

  In the morning he left earlier than he had intended, anxious to return to Clare. There he found his squires John d’Erleigh and Walter d’Abemon grooming his other horses, for he had only taken Jehan with him. As he dismounted, shaking the light dusting of snow from his mantle, he asked if the Lady Constance had gone.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ John told him. ‘She left over an hour ago.’ He added, a faint smile on his face, ‘I fear she did not like the inclement weather – her squires and ladies will not have a pleasant journey.’

  Thank God she has gone, William thought, and strode off into the hall and up the stair, intending to seek Isabel, half hoping she might be alone in the bower. But there, at the top of the spiral, he saw her. She was sitting on a stone ledge by a window, staring out across the moat to the flat meadows and the leafless trees beyond.

  ‘Child,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here? It is cold and there must be a fire in the bower.’

  She raised her head and he saw a sadness in her face that was oddly touching. ‘It is – a little cold, but there is so much chatter in the bower, and – and I wanted to be quiet.’

  He took her hand and found it icy, and throwing off his cloak wrapped it about her shoulders. Then he sat down beside her, ‘At least the Countess has gone,’ he said. ‘I am sorry she spoke as she did yesterday, but pay no heed to her: King Henry is not likely to do so where your marriage is concerned.’

  She twisted her head away. ‘I do not think I want to be married.’

  ‘What else is there?’ he asked, half smiling, ‘unless –’ and the smile went, ‘unless you wish to enter a convent?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she answered swiftly. There was a little pause and then she gave a deep sigh. ‘I know I must wed at the King’s command, that it must be for state reasons or for land or because he wishes for some alliance, but I wish it could be to someone who – who –’

  ‘Yes?’ Involuntarily he had taken her cold hands and was warming them between his own, lifting them to hold close to his breast. ‘A man who could care for you, love you, Isabel?’ And then he knew why he had been so angry yesterday. He put both hands, so small in his brown ones, to his lips. ‘But Constance was right in one thing. I have nothing, no land, no standing. I am a knight and no more.’

  ‘But I have enough for two –’ she began impulsively and then stopped, her face suffused.

  He gave a low laugh, glanced up and down the passage to be sure it was empty, and then letting her hands go, put both arms about her to draw her into their circle. ‘Isabel! Is it possible? Would you take me, landless fellow that I am?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes,’ she whispered, her face against the warm blue wool of his pelisse. ‘If I thought that you –’

  ‘I love you,’ he said and astonished himself, ‘and I have never wanted to wed before.’

  She kept her face hidden. ‘And I you – oh, I think from that first moment I saw you, six years ago. Only I did not think you would notice me.’

  ‘It is the other way about. You are an heiress and I am no match for you, as the Countess rightly hinted, though why she should have thought it necessary, I don’t know. Perhaps she saw more than we guessed.’

  ‘She is a horrid woman,’ Isabel retorted in a muffled voice, and a note of fear crept into it. ‘But she is the Countess of Brittany and the King’s daughter-in-law. Maybe he will listen to her and make me wed some fierce Breton. I have heard terrible tales of those people.’

  ‘You shall not marry where you don’t wish,’ he said, so sharply that she started and looking up saw his face set in determination. ‘It is I who shall speak to the King,’ he went on, ‘but are you sure? I am forty-two, Isabel, and you are fifteen. It would be more fitting if you were to wed a younger man.’

  ‘Oh no.’ She shook her head with equal determination. ‘I do not want to marry anyone else. I never have.’

  He looked down at her in surprise and then, as he read her face, he was aware of happiness, of a joy he had never known. The corridor was still empty and holding her closer he bent his head and kissed her and nothing that had gone before seemed to matter.

  At last he raised his head and she settled hers against his shoulder with a contented sigh, but after a moment he said, ‘Isabel, we must consider – the King may well tell me I am presuming too far to ask for you. Quite apart from the fact that he may have some baron in mind for you, a far better marriage, I was in rebellion against him before I went to Syria, and although in a sense
he pardoned me for the sake of his son, he may not look kindly on me when I make such a request of him.’

  ‘He will; he must be glad and grateful for what you did for the Young King. Besides,’ she added fiercely, ‘I will tell him I will take no other man. If I have to I will take only the veil, for I won’t wed anyone but you. I am not Richard Strongbow’s daughter for nothing.’

  He gave a low amused laugh. ‘By Our Lady, you are not. I’ve never told anyone this, but once when you were six months old your father said, only he was half joking, that when you were grown he might give you to me.’

  ‘Did he? Oh!’ Suddenly bold, she sat upright and catching one of his hands held it to her cheek. She had always been in such awe of him but now, now that he had confessed his love, they had come together somehow on the same level, and her father’s approval set the seal on it. ‘Then I am determined. I will marry you, Sir William or,’ a little smile lifted her mouth, ‘or I will enter the nunnery near here and become Prioress and be very horrid to all my nuns because I could not have the man I wanted.’

  After that he could only put his lips to hers again, their laughter merging into more kisses.

  But it was not going to be easy, he knew that. He was the second son of a minor landowner and his elder brother John had a son to succeed to their small property; he had fame, enhanced perhaps by all he had done in Syria, but he did not know how the Old King would view him now.

  He spoke to Gilbert who raised his eyebrows and said cryptically, ‘Amicia is wiser than I, it seems. Well, William, I wish you well. I would welcome your alliance with my family, you know that, and Isabel would make you a good wife, I think, apart from the possessions she would bring you. Amicia says she sews well and has a considerable knowledge of herbs.’ He belched and slapped his stomach. ‘She made a brew that eased the gripes in my bowels, I can tell you.’