Richard paused while William waited, the experience a far worse moment than he had ever known in the height of battle. The new King never spoke hastily – still Richard Yea and Nay as Bertrand de Born had once called him – and then with one of those sudden bursts of generosity that he was renowned for and with a smile that bore no trace of rancour he said, ‘Very well. Marshal, I will confirm all my father gave you – you may marry your heiress and rule her lands and you shall be Earl of Pembroke in her right.’
‘Sire!’ William rose. He saw now why men followed Richard; why, when the terrible seriousness lapsed for a few moments he became a man to command men, why they called him ‘heart of a lion’ in more ways than one. In the swift rush of his own relief and joy, the warmth of it spilled over towards the new King. ‘You are generous, sire,’ he said, ‘and you will not find me ungrateful.’
‘I am not such a fool as to throw away loyalty and valour when I find them,’ Richard said succinctly. ‘You shall do homage to my brother John for the Lady Isabel’s Irish lands and take seizing of them when you may.’
John’s rather full lips had drawn suddenly together but he inclined his head gracefully as if he shared the gesture. Perhaps he thought his tenure of the lordship of Ireland was no sinecure and it would be as well to have a man of William Marshal’s calibre to keep order there. ‘Very well,’ he said indolently, ‘but are we to stand here all evening talking? I would change my clothes – I am mud to the knees after that storm – and please God my father kept some passable cooks in this place.’
Richard looked him up and down and laughed. ‘Go then, popinjay. William, come with me, my first commission for you will please you.’
He went up the spiral stair, climbing it two steps at a time and in the great chamber called for pages to bring water and fresh clothes, to ease him out of his mail tunic. For a while he talked of his plans, of his truce with Philip, their readiness to crusade together, of his coronation which must come first. ‘And a look at my father’s treasury in England,’ he added. ‘Please God there’s enough there to fit out my soldiers.’
Will Longsword, of whom Richard was genuinely fond, held out the bowl for him while William held the towel. Richard washed his face and hands, rubbing his skin until it tingled and his red-gold beard until it was dry.
Will you to go England for me, Marshal? To my mother? Tell her she is free to go where she will, but I wish her to act as my Regent until I come for my crowning. Is that task to your liking? Ah, I thought it would be. I remember it was she who paid your ransom long ago, when the Count of Lusignan held you and I was only a child.’
William was surprised that he should remember, should on that account choose him to go to Eleanor with the welcome news. He tried to express his thanks but Richard cut him short. ‘And while you are there, marry the Lady Isabel. You have my blessing and you may enjoy your marriage bed at your leisure until I come.’
‘My thanks, sire, I had not expected –’ William broke off. The prospect before him – in jeopardy so short a time ago – dazzled him so that he found it hard to keep his attention on the new King. Inadvertently he made an unfortunate blunder, for with a rare departure from his usual collected manner he went on, ‘I trust your grace will soon have equal joy. The Princess Alice is in the castle, sire, in the bower no doubt –’
He saw Richard’s face flood with angry colour, the blue eyes flash dangerously. ‘That bitch! I’ll not touch soiled goods. She shall be sent to suffer my mother’s fate until I come to some arrangement with her brother – no doubt Philip will want her back, with her dowry. I don’t wish to see her.’
William bowed at this outburst and laid the towel carefully on the table. Of course he should have known that all Richard’s demands for his betrothed had in the past been no more than ploys in the perpetual fencing with his father. ‘Your pardon, my lord, if I spoke inadvisedly. I meant no harm.’
Richard’s anger evaporated. ‘Yet not so inadvisedly, my friend, for a bride I will have. The King of Navarre is a friend to me and he has a daughter, the Lady Berengaria. She is little with dark hair like my mother had once.’ He threw himself down on the bed, holding out his feet to a page who knelt with his shoes. ‘Her eyes are black and her breasts small and her hands are beautiful. She looks at me as I think she looks at no other man.’
That was hardly surprising, William thought, for there were not many such golden young giants about, and it seemed to quash what he had always thought no more than ugly rumours, that Richard was guilty of great sin, of the preference for young boys to the company of the other sex. For the first time he felt at ease in Richard’s presence. ‘I understand, sir. My bride is also little and looks at me in that way, but her hair is yellow as Strongbow’s was.’
‘By God,’ Richard said genially, ‘we are fortunate, William.’ He seemed to have forgotten the unfortunate allusion to Princess Alice. ‘All men are not so blessed, I assure you. My cousin Philip has a son now but there was little to entice him to his bride’s bed. I’m sure he had the candle blown out before he entered it.’
John had come in to hear these last words, his travelling clothes changed for shimmering green sendal, rings on his fingers and bracelets on his wrists. ‘Well, there’s always beauty to be found somewhere if not in one’s own bed.’
‘Aye, in the kitchens or the taverns with you,’ his brother retorted good-humouredly. ‘Well, get you to England, Marshal, to my mother. I’ll give you a letter for her tomorrow.’
William sailed a few days later, his impatience such that he thought he could not have borne a contrary wind. At Southampton his horses were brought ashore and with two knights, his squires and Jehan in attendance he rode the short distance to Winchester.
The news of her husband’s death caused little change of expression in Queen Eleanor’s face but it lit with radiance as she read her son’s letter. Isabel stood behind her chair and in those few moments she and William exchanged glances of question and answer that brought an equal radiance to Isabel’s.
Eleanor was near seventy now. The long dark hair Richard had spoken of was white, but she still had the imperious lift to her head, the regal dignity, though age and captivity, mild as it had been, had given her patience, a wisdom she had not had before.
She lifted her head at last. ‘I am glad he sent you, Sir William,’ she said and her eyes fell on the amethyst brooch. ‘So you have kept that all these years?’
‘Always, madame, to remind me that you saved my life.’
‘I served our house better than I knew when I ransomed you,’ she agreed, ‘and now you are to have this dear child. We’ll ride to London tomorrow and you shall be married in the chapel at Westminster Palace. After that we shall have feasting, you shall be given the best apartments. Perhaps a tourney can be arranged?’
‘If your grace pleases –’ William paused and held out his hand to Isabel who came to him. When he felt hers, small and warm in his own, he wondered how he had endured this whole year without her. ‘All shall be as you say and we thank you for it except that –’ he looked down at his bride’s face, the deepening pink in her cheeks. It seemed to him she had matured during these long months, grown more of a woman and less of a child. ‘Except that the brother of one of my knights, Sir Engerrard d’Abernon, holds the manor of Stoke near Guildford from Isabel’s cousin, the Earl of Clare. He has generously suggested that as I hold no manor of my own as yet it should be at our disposal after the wedding. I have lived through a great deal since my young master died and I would rather my first days with my wife were spent quietly, away from the world.’
Eleanor was smiling as she listened to this speech and when he had finished she rose and kissed Isabel on the cheek. ‘You are fortunate, my dear. Not many women find so loving and thoughtful a husband. Guard your love; it is a thing that fades and autumn can be a lonely time.’ And then, swiftly throwing off the moment of regret for things long gone, she picked up a steel mirror from the table and surveyed herself.
The little manor of Stoke was a delightful place set on a slope above the narrow meandering stream that boasted the name of the River Mole. The August days were warm, the banks bright with willow herb and yellow ragwort. The house was timbered and thatched, a comfortable unpretentious place, and the servants, overwhelmed by attending so famous a man and his lady, saw to it that everything was of the best for their guests. The hall was small but enough for their needs, the chamber above the west end reached by a single stair and catching the evening sun.
On the day of their arrival William found a new destrier stalled in the yard, a fine grey gelding well up to his weight and height. When he inquired where it had come from Isabel said demurely that it was her wedding gift to him. ‘My father owed you a horse,’ she said demurely, ‘and I would not start my marriage with an unpaid debt on my conscience.’
William roared with laughter and named the animal Grisonné. When they rode out into the gentle Surrey countryside, hawks on their wrists, he commended her choice and she was forced to admit that Gilbert had gone to the horse market at Smithfield for her.
In the evenings they walked by the river watching the swifts diving over the water, the moorhens emerging from the rushes by the bank, and William forgot the long years of trial, of triumph and sorrow, of hard fighting and loneliness. At night, when they lay together in Sir Engerrard’s bed, Isabel’s small body folded within his, he knew a happiness he had not believed could exist. His experience of women was confined to those who made a profession of satisfying men’s bodies and he had never guessed at the joy of a physical union that was enhanced by such love as had come to him and to Isabel. The fact that he was so many years older than she only added to his tenderness, to the delicacy of it all, but young as she was he taught her so deftly that soon her passion matched his own. Sometimes in the morning when he awoke early, as he had done all his life, he looked down at her, her sixteen years seeming less in sleep, the woman of last night becoming a child again in the dawn, and he would kiss her eyes, her hair, her cheeks, her mouth until she stirred and nestled sleepily into his arms.
The idyll lasted four weeks and then one evening Gilbert rode in to say that the King had landed and was riding to London for his coronation. ‘It is to be the third day of September,’ he added gloomily, ‘a bad day – it has always been a day of ill-omen.’
But at supper he forgot his uneasiness and commended his young cousin on her looks, her pretty gown, her jewels, and surmised that wedlock suited her. ‘As for you,’ he said to William when she had retired up the stair, ‘you look as satisfied as a young stallion.’
‘I am content – as I think you are with Amicia?’
‘Do you so?’ Gilbert said drily. ‘Well, Amicia is amiable and she bears healthy children and that’s all I require of her. But you –’ he studied William’s face for a moment, puzzled at the expression there. Gilbert was settling into middle age though he was younger than William, his hair thinning, a paunch developing below his belt. His friend’s rare happiness in marriage seemed to him an odd thing. He scratched his head and changed the subject. ‘Have you heard who is to be our chancellor? No, I suppose you have not in this little Eden of yours. Well, there is a clerk in the chancellery at Rouen, a sly creature who calls himself William de Longchamp, though where he got that name God alone knows for it’s said his parents were serfs.’
‘Then why has Richard appointed him? I know he never has liked Geoffrey but Geoffrey knew his business.’
‘Of course he did, while this fellow –’ Gilbert gave a snort of disgust, ‘he ferrets about, poking his nose into other men’s affairs, snuffling into every deed. When the King goes to the Holy Land – and he thinks of nothing else – he believes Longchamp will keep everything running smoothly. The fellow’s more likely to stir up trouble and he’d best keep his long nose out of my affairs.’
‘I can’t recall him.’
‘Maybe not – you would not have noticed him. But if he is the kind of man Richard is going to appoint, God help us all – and England!’ Gilbert finished and emptied his tankard of ale. ‘Does this place boast a guest chamber, William, or am I to lie here in the hall tonight?’
William went to his own bed, somewhat disturbed by the news. His one hope was that Richard would be guided by his mother, for he heeded her and she had lost none of her ability to judge men. He held Isabel close, thinking that on the morrow they must leave this happy place, and it seemed to him that when he was old, if he forgot much else, he would remember Stoke d’Abernon in the warmth of August, the bright slopes and the little river, and Isabel in his arms.
King Richard’s coronation was celebrated with all the usual magnificence but it ended with bloody violence that made it seem Gilbert had been right in his doubts about the choice of date. The King had apparently also been aware of the hesitation of his household and he had forbidden all witches or anyone who dabbled in magic to attend. The Earl of Essex, who considered himself something of a wit, asked behind his hand if it was because the King recalled his evil ancestress Melusine. The prohibition also extended to all Jews, for Richard had for them a hatred almost as great as his hatred of the infidels in Palestine, born of his passionate desire to make the Holy Places Christian again.
As he processed into the abbey, his sceptre was carried by the new Earl of Pembroke, his spurs by Sir John Marshal, the two brothers sharing the office of marshal and the elder, to his credit, showing no jealousy at his younger brother’s prominence. He was mellowing with age and merely congratulated William on acquiring such vast properties by the hand of so young and pretty a wife. He commended his son John to William and William took the young man into his train of squires.
On this great day, bearing the golden sceptre behind the King, whose magnificent mantle of cloth of gold trailed behind him, William had a sudden flaring hope that despite Gilbert’s gloomy prognostications Richard might become a great ruler of his inheritance. The ceremony was only disturbed by a bat which, escaping from the tower, flew round the coronation chair. Some men looked anxious and crossed themselves, de Mandeville whispered that perhaps it was Melusine in disguise, and the King merely looked amused.
The tragedy of the day did not occur until after the crowning, during the banquet. This was a wholly male affair; Richard had little time for women on such occasions and even his beloved mother feasted with her ladies, including the new Countess of Pembroke, in her own apartments.
While the long elaborate meal was in progress, the talk getting louder, the passing of jugs of ale and wine more frequent, William had a short encounter with the new chancellor. They were sitting opposite each other and to William he seemed almost a dwarf, staring at the world out of eyes that held no expression and seldom seemed to blink.
‘I believe we have met before, my lord,’ Longchamp said and William, taking an instant dislike to the man answered shortly that he did not recall it.
‘Ah,’ the chancellor’s tone was smooth, ‘you would not perhaps have noticed me then. I must acquaint myself with the new situation with regard to the taxes from the Pembrokeshire lands. As you know, the Exchequer is in need of every shilling due to it.’
The sheer effrontery of this momentarily bereft William of speech. Then he said, ‘You will learn, sir, that I have been in the royal household long enough to understand such matters.’
‘No doubt,’ Longchamp agreed, ‘but I have seldom found that longevity of service was any guarantee. Though,’ he bowed slightly, ‘in your case, my Lord, I am sure all is in order, and I will soon have everything to hand.’ He took some bread, tearing it between thin fingers, his long velvet sleeves hanging awkwardly on ill-shaped shoulders. If he had been a horse, William thought contemptuously, he would have sent him away as worth nothing more than to pull a dray. But this man had been set in the shafts of England and he wondered with Gilbert what had possessed
Richard.
It occurred to him then that for a little while there had seemed to be a growing noise outside and now it burst into a wild crescendo. All around the open spaces outside men and women were celebrating the crowning, milling about, many of them drunk, most very merry, but there was an ugly note about the sounds now and at a signal from the King the two marshals went out to see what was happening.
William caught sight of Walter d’Abernon in the doorway and asked if he knew. ‘There’s been a scuffle over there,’ Walter told him, ‘and some blood-letting. Jews, I think.’
‘What are they doing here?’ John Marshal demanded, ‘I thought the King forbade them?’ He tried to look over the scuffling mob but not being of his brother’s height could see nothing. A fellow in the crowd turned and grinned obsequiously at the two noblemen emerging in all their finery from the feast. ‘The stinking unbelievers thought that only meant they might not enter the church; they said they had come with gifts, but we didn’t believe that. They plotted an attack on our new King, so we put a stop to it.’ He grinned into William’s face and a woman beside him screeched, ‘Aye, they would have stuck a knife into his belly. See – they’re paying for their treachery. Heathens! Scum!’
William pushed her aside and began to shoulder his way forward, followed by his brother, his squire and several men-at-arms. Over the heads he could see that the centre of all his trouble was a circle of men and women yelling, screaming, kicking and beating some half-dozen Jews, dragging them by their long curled beards, seizing their gifts of gold and jewels and fighting over these. There was blood on the stones, one man had a broken head, another had blood running from his mouth, while a third lay groaning on the ground, clutching at his groin. The other three were in an equally bad way and William pushed his way through, his anger rising. But already the worst element in the crowd had done with these, and were shouting to the mob round them to follow to the city, towards Jewry, to burn the hated people out of their houses and out of the city.
A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1) Page 13