Castle of Dreams

by Speer, Flora

  Guy should have been here but he was far away, storming the walls of Jerusalem most likely, and she was left alone to deal with a half-mad king who hated her. And Thomas – thank heaven Lionel had sent Thomas to Prince Henry. The boy had been gone a year. She scarcely missed him. His absence was one less responsibility on her shoulders now.

  She knew she was entitled to a third of Lionel’s estate. Would William try to marry her off at once to another of his dear, intimate friends, using her portion as dowry and claiming a huge marriage fee from her new husband? He had done it before, to women she had known. William would pay her back for what little influence she had held over Lionel, for the small concern Lionel had shown for her, by finding her the most unsuitable and unattractive second husband he could. Someone cruel or old and sickly, who would insist that she not go to court but rather stay with him in some moldering fortress far from civilization and gaiety. William would enjoy seeing that happen to her.

  Well, there was nothing for it but to go to Winchester and meet William, and see what he planned. Joan appeared, and Isabel began listing on her fingers the gowns she wanted to take.

  She set out from Adderbury on Wednesday, August first, traveling as slowly as possible, wanting to avoid the meeting with William as long as she could. She planned to drag the trip out for four days, arriving in late evening so William would not see her until morning, when she was rested. She would claim grief as an excuse for taking so long.

  Her party reached the outskirts of Oxford early on Friday afternoon. The captain of her little band of guards had ridden ahead to find suitable lodgings for them, but he came galloping back to her, his horse’s hooves kicking up a spray of mud from the road.

  “He comes too quickly. Something’s amiss,” Father Herbert said, reining in his mule and looking pale and nervous.

  Isabel rode bravely forward. When he was closer, she could see by her man’s face it was excitement and surprise that animated him, not fear.

  “My lady,” the captain shouted while he was still some distance away, “the king is dead.” He drew up beside her and began to relate the circumstances of William’s mysterious death.

  Isabel heard the murmurs around her as her traveling companions clustered close and took in the news. She saw Father Herbert and several others cross themselves. She was too numb to do anything but stare back at her guard as he spoke.

  “It is a sign,” Father Herbert intoned solemnly, “a sign from heaven. The wicked shall perish from the earth unshriven.” He crossed himself again.

  “Be quiet, please,” Isabel admonished him. “Let us hear what else there is to tell. Captain, where is Prince Henry? Is he safe?” Something very like fear now clutched at Isabel’s heart both for Henry, the youngest and best of the Conqueror’s sons, and for Thomas, his page, her own golden-haired child, of whom it was said Prince Henry was fond.

  “They say in the town that Henry has ridden to London to be crowned,” the captain told her. “Oxford is all in an uproar of celebration. I did not take lodging there, my lady. I came back to report to you instead. I was not certain what you would want to do after hearing this.”

  Isabel sat a moment, absently patting her horse’s neck while she considered the situation.

  Gone. William and Lionel, both of them were gone, and she was free. No, not free after all. William’s laws were still in effect until the next king decided to change them. Until that happened, she belonged to whoever was king. Let it be Henry, she prayed, and not his belligerent older brother, Robert. Let there be no war for the throne of England.

  “Will the barons support Henry?” she asked, and then realized her captain of the guard could have no way of knowing that.

  “The people support him,” her captain said, grinning. “One man told me a mob gathered at Winchester and threatened to tear down the palace and hang every nobleman inside if Henry were not our next king. The barons who were there had no choice. They elected Henry.”

  “And he has gone to London, you say?”

  “Yes, my lady. What shall we do now? Is it back to Adderbury for us?”

  “No.” Isabel had made her choice, sitting in the middle of the muddy road upon a restless horse, her heart and mind filling with the same hope that no doubt was presently flooding all England. Henry would be different from William, a much better king. She knew it. “We ride to London. I would speak with our new king.”

  London was a seething mass of people pouring through the streets in celebration. King Henry had been crowned that day, in Westminster Abbey, and his subjects drank his health in wine or mead, ale or beer, laughing and cheering as they did so.

  Isabel and her companions picked their way carefully through the crowded, garbage-littered streets, riding slowly. As at Oxford, she had sent a man ahead to seek out rooms for them. Accommodations had been found at an inn that was not overly dirty or noisy, and not too far from the King’s House at Westminster.

  Early the next morning Isabel sent Father Herbert to the royal household. He was not the most intelligent of messengers, but his clerical robes would guarantee respectful treatment when he requested an audience for her. He was not successful that day, or the next, but on the third afternoon the priest returned to their lodging to say King Henry would see her the following Sunday after early mass. Isabel at once began planning her costume.

  While waiting for Sunday to come, she went to see Lady Aloise. Sir Stephen of Dol had died of old age two years earlier, and Aloise had remarried promptly. She and her new husband, Sir Valaire, a Norman knight attached to Henry’s court, had produced a daughter exactly nine months after their wedding day. Aloise was full of the latest gossip, particularly on the two subjects about which all of London was chattering.

  “Ralph Flambard has been arrested,” Aloise informed Isabel. “He is the first prisoner to be held in the White Tower. I knew you would be delighted about that. You never liked him, did you?”

  “I despised him,” Isabel admitted. “I still do. I hope they keep him in chains for the rest of his life. Have you heard anything about the king’s betrothal?”

  “It’s definite,” Aloise said. “Henry is going to marry the daughter of the king of Scotland. Her mother is a Saxon, a former English princess. I can hardly believe it.”

  “They say she is beautiful,” Isabel offered. She, too, had been listening to the rumors sweeping through London. “I have heard she has agreed to change her name from Edith to a more Norman name. Matilda, I think someone said.”

  “It won’t make any difference. Everyone will ignore her.” Aloise’s elegant Norman nostrils flared as if she were already snubbing the odious Saxon queen-to-be. “They are calling her Goody Godiva. One would think Henry would have made a better choice. He could have almost any princess in Europe, certainly any countess. Why couldn’t he have chosen a Norman?”

  Isabel made some inconsequential answer. She saw opportunity opening before her, a chance to regain her rightful status and remain at court. Isabel knew the question of arranging a second marriage for herself would most likely arise during her Sunday interview with the king. She did not want to remarry, not just yet. She had had no choice the first time. She wanted to look around Henry’s court, to examine the potential of any possible candidates for her hand. Isabel hoped eventually to make a brilliant second marriage that would wipe out the gossip and the unhappy memory of her first. Most of all, she wanted to stay at court. No more confinement at Adderbury, or anywhere else, for her.

  As she spoke to Aloise her mind was working, examining all possibilities. Aloise was right. Many of the Norman barons and their ladies would find ways to be unkind to the new queen. Isabel thought she had discerned the real purpose behind the king’s marriage. Peace with Scotland, of course, but there was more to it than that. Henry had made it clear in other ways while he was still a prince that he believed the time had come for Norman and Saxon to put aside their differences and bind themselves together into one nation. His marriage was one step in that dir
ection. He would look with great favor upon those who treated his new wife with respectful friendliness. Isabel would be the new queen’s first, and best, friend. When she left Aloise that day, her hopes and her ambitions were soaring.

  “Sire.” Isabel made a deep curtsey before King Henry. When he put out one hand to raise her, she gave him her most dazzling smile. “What joy it is to greet you as king.”

  Isabel was tall, but Henry was taller. His dark, handsome face looked down at her, and Isabel had the uncomfortable feeling that the man saw into her mind and knew everything she had so carefully planned to say.

  Henry offered formal condolences on Lionel’s death.

  “It was a terrible thing,” Isabel agreed. ‘Those dreadful Welsh.”

  “They will regret what they have done.” Henry smiled, and Isabel could have trembled for the Welsh, had she not detested them all.

  “You understand, I hope,” Henry said, “that Lionel’s properties have now escheated to the crown, and you have become my ward.”

  “Yes, my lord. And Thomas?”

  “He’s my ward, too, and I’m glad of it. I like that boy.”

  Isabel breathed a sigh of relief. If Henry really was fond of Thomas he might agree to what Thomas’s mother wanted.

  “I have sent a letter to Guy,” Henry said.

  “Guy?”

  “I want him to return to England.”

  “Oh.” Isabel had not expected this. “Guy,” she said again, puzzled. Henry did not seem to hear her. He kept on talking.

  “Now, as to your remarriage,” he said. “You have a third of Lionel’s estate held in trust as dowry. I will consult with my clerks about finding a husband for you. You must understand I am very busy just now. It may take a while.”

  “My lord, I do not wish to marry again just yet.”

  “Of course you do, and the sooner the better. All women want to be married. Unless you would rather enter a convent. Is that it? I would not have thought it of you, but one never knows about a religious vocation. It happens suddenly sometimes. Very well, I will arrange it if you want. Where would you like to go?”

  Isabel shuddered. Somehow, with this new and most unwelcome possibility before her, it was easy to squeeze out a few tears. The very thought of being shut up in a convent made her weep. She sank to her knees before the king, fully conscious of the lovely picture she made in her green silk gown with the gold trim and her white linen coif.

  “Oh, sire, I am afraid to tell you what I desire most for fear you will refuse me!”

  There was silence. Isabel peeped upward beneath her long lashes and saw Henry watching her with a shrewd gleam in his eyes. She recalled, too late, that he had acknowledged twenty illegitimate children and was wise in the ways of women.

  “Isabel,” Henry said, obviously smothering laughter, “get off your knees and tell me what you really want, and perhaps I can give it to you.”

  “What I would like most,” Isabel said, rising, “is to remain at court. I do not wish to remarry for a while, and I would be most honored if you would present me to your new queen when she arrives here.”

  “That’s more like it. So you approve of my choice, do you? You are unusual, Isabel.”

  “There has never been the slightest blemish on my personal honor, my lord,” she went on.

  “I am aware of that.” Henry looked at her sharply, and again she thought he knew exactly where this was leading.

  “What more suitable companion for the queen than a blameless widow? And were I a lady to the queen, I could see Thomas more often,” she added triumphantly.

  Henry began to laugh.

  “You are the first, and possibly the cleverest,” he said. “Unfortunately, you will not be the last Norman lady who seeks to advance herself or her husband, if she has one, by a position close to my queen. She will be a stranger, perhaps homesick, and I am concerned about the treatment she will receive from my nobles. Will you honor her and deal kindly with her?”

  “I will, my lord, with all my heart. I was once a stranger in England, and a new bride, myself.”

  “Yes.” Henry regarded her a moment with those searching dark eyes of his, eyes that seemed to bore right through her, to the core of ambition and self-interest that lay at Isabel’s heart. “I think it would be a good idea to keep you where I can see you. Very well. I will appoint you one of the queen’s ladies. And we will delay the search for your new husband. We can say your duties to the queen will keep you busy.”

  “I thank you, my lord.” Now real tears, tears of joy and relief this time, ran down her cheeks as she smiled at him.

  “Until,” Henry added, “Guy returns. But that will not be for a while yet. Then we shall see. We shall see.”

  Chapter 14

  Winchester, Easter, AD 1103

  Guy of Adderbury, newly returned from the Holy Land after five years’ absence, knelt before King Henry in a richly appointed, tapestry-hung room and pledged his loyalty.

  “You may rise.” Henry embraced the young man, completing the formal oath-taking. To Guy’s surprise, he then dismissed all his retainers save one. “It is good to see you again, Guy. Unfortunately, I welcome you home only to send you away again.”

  “My life is at your disposal, my lord.”

  “I know that and I plan to use you well. I need strong, dependable men at my back to guard the Welsh border while I am in Normandy dealing with my recalcitrant brother, Duke Robert, who has once again laid claim to the throne of England.”

  “You have the marcher barons to guard Wales,” Guy said.

  “The earl of Shrewsbury has taken himself overseas to join Normandy against me,” Henry replied.

  “I had heard you confiscated Shrewsbury’s lands when he left.” Guy grinned, thinking of the income the clever king had gained for the crown by that move.

  “Aye, and now the earls of Chester and Hereford are left to rule the marches between them, becoming even more powerful. I am now prepared,” Henry went on, “to confirm you in all of your late brother’s titles and lands and to remove his family from my guardianship to yours.”

  “I thank your majesty, but I feel my nephew, Thomas, is the rightful inheritor.”

  “Thomas is not yet of age, Guy. Eleven is much too young to inherit such vast lands in times like these. You may make whatever provision for him you like, from your secondary titles, when he is older.”

  Guy felt this arrangement was not fair to Thomas. By the law William Rufus had made, the crown now owned all of Lionel’s property and Henry could do with it what he wanted, but Guy silently vowed to share Lionel’s estate freely with his nephew. Then he returned to the original topic of discussion.

  “Sire, I think you have something in mind for Lionel’s Welsh holdings.”

  “I have. This is Reynaud.” King Henry turned to the third man in the room, who had stood quietly to one side. “I have used his services and found him completely trustworthy.”

  Reynaud came forward. He was a tall, ascetically thin man in his mid thirties, with pale brown hair and light blue, slightly watery eyes. In a black wool cleric’s robe that hung loosely on his bony frame, Reynaud was colorless, inconspicuous enough to melt into the background of any room. Guy had scarcely been aware of his presence.

  “You and Reynaud are to go to Afoncaer,” Henry said, “Reynaud will be your architect, engineer, and when you need one, your secretary. I want you to rebuild Afoncaer, in stone, as Lionel had planned to do. You will be wiser than your brother was, and not drive the natives to revolt. I charge you, Guy, keep my order with as little bloodshed as possible. I detest violence, unless it’s necessary, of course, but usually violence is simply wasteful. I do not want lives wasted, and I want the growing power of the marcher barons balanced by the power of a man completely loyal to me. I want you well settled at Afoncaer and strong enough to give Chester and Hereford and their vassals pause if they think of challenging me as Shrewsbury did.”

  “I will do as you wish, sire.”
Guy sensed Henry was now about to dismiss him. He hastily brought up a subject close to his heart. “May I make a request, your majesty?”

  “What is it?”

  “May I take my nephew to Wales with me?”

  “Thomas?” Henry thought a moment, and Guy saw a strange twinkle in the king’s eye. “Agreed. I know of no finer knight than you to train him. I will miss the lad, but yes, I think it would be best for Thomas to be with you. But you have no wife. Who will teach him manners? Who teach him how to serve a lady?”

  “I am certain he has already learned much during four years in your household, my lord,” Guy said smoothly, and was rewarded by Henry’s appreciative chuckle.

  “You should have a wife, Guy. You will need an heir.”

  “For now, from what I’ve heard, Afoncaer is no place to take a gently bred woman. Possibly, after the castle is finished, I would consider marriage.”

  “Perhaps to a Saxon lady.” Henry was reportedly very happy with his own Saxon wife. “She could manage your English estates while you are occupied in Wales.”

  “I believe my brother left a competent seneschal at each of those properties, my lord.” Guy’s back was stiff, his blue eyes cold. Henry’s Norman knights had not approved of their king’s marriage to one of the conquered race. No Norman of any pride would

  willingly ally himself with a Saxon unless directly ordered by the king to do so, for the members of the old Saxon nobility had no lands or titles left to bring to their marriages. Henry seemed to understand Guy’s feelings.

  “I’ll not press you now, since you are so unwilling. But think on it. Begetting legal heirs is part of your baronial duty.” When Guy said nothing to this, Henry motioned with one hand. “You may go. Leave for Wales as soon as you can, and send me regular reports through Reynaud.”