The Greatest Knight (39 page)

The undergown was of ivory silk with tight-fitting sleeves and the overgown of deep pink silk trimmed with pearls. The women braided her thick blond hair with ribbons that matched the gown and pinned a light veil to the crown of her head. Then they brought a jewel casket, brimming with rings and brooches, and Isabelle could only gasp.

“You have a man there who values you,” said Madam FitzReinier with a smile. “And who also knows the value of show.” She presented Isabelle with a mirror. Banded in ivory, the disc of tinned glass startled Isabelle with a reflection that actually looked not unlike her mother, save that the eyes were wider and bluer and the lips fuller. There were no lines of control and disillusion either, only smooth features waiting to have their life story mapped.

“See, you are indeed lovely,” said Madam FitzReinier. “It will not take much to ensnare your husband. He’s halfway to besotted already.”

“He is?” Isabelle eyed her hostess with interest and blushed at the intimacy of the words “your husband.”

“Trust me, my dear, I know men. Yours doesn’t give away a great deal, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

Isabelle gave a rueful laugh. “He’s probably seeing Striguil, Ireland, and my estates in Normandy,” she said.

Madam FitzReinier laughed too. “Undoubtedly so, but he would have to be blind not to notice the other assets that go with it.”

In another chamber, William too was bathing—with some difficulty given his injured leg, but determined not to be defeated. A bath was as much a feature of the ritual of marriage as it was in the preparation for knighthood: a cleansing preliminary to a rite of passage.

“There has been little time to organise a feast, but I have done my best,” FitzReinier said. “I spoke to your Welsh groom and had the cooks prepare dishes of leeks and lava bread to honour the bride.” He wrapped his hands around his belt in a self-congratulatory gesture. “I even managed to find an Irish bard to sing at the feast.”

“I cannot thank you enough,” William said. “I know how much store women set by such things and even for myself I want my wedding day to be more than just a few words muttered in a dark corner. It should be a great celebration, and you are playing your part to the hilt.”

FitzReinier smiled. “It is always auspicious when business and pleasure combine.”

William nodded and clenched a yawn between his teeth. The hot water was filling him with lassitude.

“If I were you, I’d ask an apothecary for a potion to liven you up,” FitzReinier advised with a grin. “You’re not going to get much sleep with a new bride in your bed and you already look as if you’ve been ground through the mill.”

William pulled himself up in the tub and sluiced his face in the cold water jug standing next to it. “That’s because I have,” he admitted. “I don’t remember what sleep feels like and a feather mattress will seem like a ridiculous luxury. I won’t be able to close my eyes unless I bed down in a stable with my horse.”

“Hah, and I know what your bride would say about that.”

William looked wry. “Then you know more than me. If I were a girl of her age faced with a husband twice my years—and damaged goods at that—I’d probably be wishing him further away than a stable.”

“You underestimate yourself and your bride.”

“I don’t,” William answered. “We’ll both do our duty, but that’s the facade. What goes on behind it may be entirely different.”

FitzReinier conceded the point with a shrug. “But you have made a fine start. Even if she is not looking forward to being bedded, you have shown her that you are no ogre. Whatever her misgivings, this has to be a better life than the one she had cooped up in the Tower.”

“I hope she thinks so.” William fell pensively silent as he attended to his ablutions, but at length he looked up at the merchant. “I can do nothing until Richard arrives in England for his coronation. I’ve borrowed the manor at Stoke from Roger D’Abernon—it’s far enough from London to be secluded, but not too far to travel when the King lands.”

FitzReinier lifted his brows in surprise. “I thought you would be taking yourself off on progress to the lady’s lands?”

William shook his head. “I considered it, but I can’t travel any distance until my leg has healed and as I said I need to be close to the court. The lands have been in stewardship for so long that they can wait a little longer and there are others who can go in my stead. I need to recuperate and sleep—and spend some time alone with my wife. Once Richard arrives in England there will be precious little time for leisure and dalliance.”

His squires helped him from the bath and he dressed in the fine garments that FitzReinier had obtained for him. The brazilwood red of his tunic was of a deeper but toning hue with the gown that Isabelle would be wearing. His belt, which he hesitated over and then buckled on, was the one Marguerite had given him, stitched with gold bezants. After all, he reasoned, it was a gift from a friend and he knew the truth of the matter. He combed his hair and refused the use of a gazing glass, not sure that he wanted to see what Isabelle would see. Swallowing his apprehension, he presented his squire Jean with a bridal chaplet of twined fresh flowers: roses pink and white and clove-scented gillyflowers, interspersed with tendrils of ivy. “Go to the women’s chamber and bid my lady wear this to celebrate our wedding day,” he told the youth. “And tell her that I am ready to go to church, if it please her.”

***

Isabelle regarded William Marshal’s squire. She had paid him little heed before, but now she focused on him as he stood in the doorway, bearing a bridal chaplet on a silk cushion as he delivered his message in a voice tight with nervousness.

She felt nervous too, but because she was concentrating on her role it was not as bad as it might have been. The youth was an inner member of the Marshal household and as such she would come to know him well and sometimes have to rely on him. “Thank your lord,” she murmured, taking the chaplet from the cushion. “He has been naught but thoughtful of my welfare and I appreciate his concern. Tell him that I am almost ready.”

“My lady.” His colour bright, the squire bowed and retired.

Madam FitzReinier smiled. “Not a little smitten,” she said. “And I do not blame him.”

The women arranged the chaplet over Isabelle’s veil and once again showed her the result in the mirror. Isabelle swallowed. You are Countess of Striguil, she silently told the wide-eyed girl looking at her from beneath flower-shrouded brows. You are his prestige, and he is your freedom. You need each other; all will be well.

Her head high, she went down to meet William and found him waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. His dark red tunic complemented the colour of her gown and was girded with a beautiful and unusual belt made of metallic braid, stitched with gold coins.

“My lady,” he said and limped forward to take her hands in his and kiss them. “Are you ready to go to church?”

Ready to give herself and her lands into his keeping? What if she said no, ran back upstairs and slammed and bolted the door? For a moment she imagined doing just that and in her mind’s eye saw the mailed men breaking into the chamber with axes and seizing her by force. She blinked away the vision and stiffened her spine. “Yes,” she said, “I am ready.”

***

Isabelle lay in bed beside her new husband and, breathing shallowly, listened to the sounds wafting up from the torchlit courtyard and garth of FitzReinier’s house. The wedding guests were still celebrating with gusto and the strident throb of tabor and wail of bagpipe had replaced the liquid notes of the Irish harp that had played throughout the courses of the feast. She hadn’t been able to do full justice to the food, which had saddened her, since it had been prepared in her honour. The playing of the Irish bard had misted her eyes with tears and brought a lump to her throat, robbing her of speech and certainly the ability to swallow food.

Now she had to hope that her husband’s consideration would extend as far as the bedchamber. She knew a little about the act of procreation, none of it particularly reassuring. The detail that she would bleed was worrying, for surely if there was blood, there would be pain…but if there was no blood she would be disgraced. Not that he would repudiate her. Her lands were too valuable.

“You need not be afraid of me,” William said suddenly, as if he had stepped into her mind and seen her thoughts.

“I am not, my lord,” she replied valiantly, her words given the lie by the tremor in her voice.

He smiled. “Well then, if not of me, then of what is expected of us both this night.”

She clasped her hands. “I…I know my duty.”

He snorted. “I dare say that you do—as I know mine, but there is no reason why duty and pleasure should be separate things.”

“Yes, my lord,” she agreed apprehensively.

He made a sound, through his teeth, whether of humour or exasperation, she wasn’t sure. “We have been thrown together have we not, without any time for adjustment. I have no doubt that consummating this marriage tonight will be awkward at best and probably a painful disaster for both, given your virginity and my injured leg. I’ve waited long enough for a few days to make no difference.”

Isabelle continued to stare. “But what about the blood on the sheet? There has to be proof.”

“There will be blood.” Leaving the bed, he limped to his folded clothing and took the knife from his belt sheath. Isabelle’s eyes widened further, but then she steadied herself. He wasn’t going to hurt her, for without her he had nothing.

Raising his arm, tensing his eyelids, he made a swift, shallow cut in his left armpit. “Less noticeable there,” he said, going to the bed and taking blood on his fingers, smearing the centre of the sheet. “There doesn’t need to be a great deal. The better the lover, the less there is—or so I’m told,” he added with a smile. “Never having deflowered a virgin before, I can only speak from hearsay. We only need FitzReinier and his household to bear witness. It’s not as if the entire court is looking on.” He wiped the knife and returned it to its sheath. Pressing his fingers to his side, he went to the shutters and released the catch. The revellers had spilled into the garden. People sat on stools or stood in groups talking and laughing under the influence of the free-flowing wine. Candle lanterns made pools of light among the orchard trees and night-flying insects flurried around the glow. It was strange not to be amongst the crowd.

“Tomorrow we’ll set out for Stoke,” he said over his shoulder. “I need to be rested before the King’s coronation. Once he arrives, I suspect that I’m not going to know my head from my heels.” He smiled and held out his good arm towards her. “I also need some time to know my wife…and she me.”

Isabelle came to his invitation and took his hand. His grip was hard and warm and dry. Her own was moist with heightened tension. “Has the bleeding stopped?” she asked in a concerned voice.

“It stings, but yes, it’s stopped.” He gave a sudden chuckle. “I warrant that Adam had considerably more pain having a rib cut out for his Eve.”

Thirty-three

In the morning, the sacrificial cut that William had made mattered not a whit, for Isabelle had begun her monthly courses during the night and the sheet beneath her was puddled in blood. Her fluxes had always been regular but on this occasion were several days early—probably caused, Madam FitzReinier opined, by the shock of the sudden change in her life. Isabelle was chagrined and afraid that William would be angered, or revolted. However, he treated the happening with equanimity, remarking that it was God’s will and nature’s way, but had he known what was going to happen, he would not have bothered to take a knife to himself. Isabelle was still mortified, but Madam FitzReinier, who was helping her to pack her belongings for the morning’s journey to Stoke, was pragmatic and cheerful.

“He’s an experienced man, no foolish youngster,” she said. “It’ll have happened to him times before, considering the years he had a mistress.”

Isabelle’s eyes widened at this new information. “A mistress?”

Madam FitzReinier clucked her tongue. “A woman of Poitou, a tourney follower. No one knew much about her and they both seemed to prefer it that way. He never brought her to court, but she always had the best lodgings in the town. She bore no children, so I assume that he was well accustomed to the times of her flux.”

Isabelle digested the information thoughtfully. There was so much she did not know about her new husband—and that perhaps she was never going to find out. And yet it had shaped him as surely as her own shorter past had shaped her. “What happened to her?”

“They came to a parting of the ways. From what I heard, she left him and settled down with a vintner from Le Mans.”

“Oh.” Isabelle bit her lip. “Has he had other mistresses?”

Madam FitzReinier looked round from the coffer, a half-smile on her lips. “I dare say he has bedded women here and there along his route, but apart from that one time, he has kept no woman at his side. Your way is clear.”

“If I can find the path,” Isabelle said doubtfully.

Madam FitzReinier’s smile widened. “Oh, I don’t think you need worry, my dear,” she said. “For even if you do not, then it is bound to find you.”

***

The journey to Stoke took a full day and it was late in the dusk when they arrived. Bats swooped against a dark lavender sky and the first stars glimmered like new-kindled lanterns. Isabelle was bone weary, her thigh muscles were screaming, and she was suffering strong cramps from her flux. Once she had enjoyed long rides in the open air, but her time in the Tower had dulled her stamina and her muscles were no longer toned and accustomed to the activity. However, she endured without protest. She would not have her husband see her as a whining milksop. He too must be in some discomfort from his injured leg but he had not complained.

William had sent outriders ahead to Stoke and they arrived to a torchlit welcome with grooms waiting to take their horses and stewards to lead them into the hall. Bowls of warm water were brought to wash their hands, faces, and feet. A fine meal of stuffed mushrooms and trout baked with almonds was set before them, together with dishes of green herbs and preserved fruits. Isabelle had not realised how hungry she was until she began to eat. Despite her aching body and her cramping loins, she still had a healthy appetite.

She and William shared a trencher and a cup, served unobtrusively by his squires. As yesterday, the bard was on hand to provide soft music to accompany their dining, but this time there were no wedding guests, just a handful of retainers and the chaplains and clerks that William had picked up in London. The great retinue required of their status had yet to accrue.

“When I was your age,” William said, “people said that I was always either eating or sleeping and that, except in those occupations, I would amount to nothing.”

“Then they were obviously wrong, my lord,” Isabelle replied tactfully.

He chuckled. “No, they were right about the eating and sleeping, and I intend to do as much of that while I can. As to what I amount to…I’ve heard a variety of opinions and come to the conclusion that few of them matter save the one I have of myself .”

“And is mine one of the few, my lord?” she asked, emboldened by the strong wine in the cup they were sharing.

He nodded gravely. “Assuredly so, since it is by your hand in marriage that I have my reward. Queen Eleanor told me that I should consult you in all things and remember that what I have is yours.”

“I wager that hers is another of the few,” Isabelle said, touching the gold and sapphire brooch at the throat of her gown—one of Eleanor’s wedding gifts.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I have more time and respect for Queen Eleanor than for most men of my acquaintance…but her advice only confirmed my own thoughts on the matter of our marriage. I need you too much to ride roughshod over your wishes.”

Isabelle sipped again from the cup. Of course he needed her, for without her he had nothing—or at least not until she had produced an heir of their mingled blood. If she could make herself indispensable to him, then her opinions would stand on their own merits, rather than him humouring her out of diplomacy.

***

During the following week, he was as good as his word and spent a deal of time rising at a leisurely hour, enjoying the pleasures of the table, and being as indolent as the largest sleepy male lion at the Tower. Although Isabelle enjoyed her slumber, William seemed to have an infinite capacity that far outstripped hers. Had she not heard the tales of his deeds, some of them legendary, she would indeed have believed in the original sobriquets of “Guzzleguts” and “Slugabed.” During the few hours when he was not eating or asleep, he was content to stroll in Stoke’s well-stocked garden, inhale the perfume of the flowers, listen to the bard sing Irish songs, and to sing songs of his own. He had a fine voice. He played chess with her and merels, and laughed when she matched him. He wove her tales of the tourneys and his early life, but he seldom touched on serious matters, indeed seemed to be deliberately avoiding them, and Isabelle began to wonder what kind of man she had married and whether de Glanville’s sour tales of William Marshal’s frivolous nature were in fact true.

Gradually, however, as the days passed and his strained leg healed, he became less lethargic. Isabelle woke one morning to find his side of the bed empty. He was not in the chamber and his clothes were gone from the top of the coffer. “Out riding, my lady,” said the maid when Isabelle made enquiries as she washed and dressed. She noted that there was no blood on last night’s flux cloth, which meant that her husband could now bed her without incurring God’s displeasure. She wondered how she was going to impart such news without seeming immodest. Perhaps he would ask her, or just make assumptions based on the passage of time?

In the hall, a scattering of crumbs and drips of honey on the napery at the high table bore testament to breakfast devoured. There was no sign of the squires. Isabelle broke her own fast in haste and, with the maid in tow, went outside. The day promised to be hot, but it was still sufficiently early for the air to be fresh and scented with dew. Hearing masculine voices loud with camaraderie, she followed the sound until she came to the paddock beyond the stables, and then she stopped.

Her husband was putting his destrier through its paces. Watching man and horse execute a series of intricate manoeuvres, Isabelle was astounded, for the performance seemed to her nothing short of magical. The lightest touch of heel, a command from the hands, and the horse pivoted, changed lead legs, stopped, backed, caracoled. William and his mount moved as one. Isabelle knew that he was a good horseman, but until now she had not realised the true level of his skill. He was obviously teaching his squires various aspects of horsemanship, for the youths were mounted. Following the demonstration, he began to break down some of the simpler moves so that they could try them for themselves. Isabelle gazed, enthralled. As William performed a turn, he saw her watching and, with a word to the squires, reined about and trotted over.

“You are awake early this morning, my lord,” she said, with a smile.

He shook his head. “No, for once I am not abed late.”

“How is your leg?”

He rubbed his hand along his thigh. “Improving. It still twinges, but that might just be old age setting in.” The latter was spoken with a self-deprecating grin. “It’s a fine day—do you want to ride out and picnic in the forest?”

“I would like that.” She shaded her eyes on the palm of her hand. “I had not realised how skilled a horseman you were.”

William inclined his head. “It’s a while since I’ve practised,” he said. “I’ve grown a little rusty since my tourney days.” He slapped the destrier’s golden hide. “Fortunately Bezant hasn’t forgotten, and it’ll be a while before my squires are ready to challenge us.” He winked at Jean and Jack.

Isabelle returned to the keep to don a gown more suitable for riding. William exchanged his destrier for his black palfrey, his saddle pack laden with a rushwork basket and two costrels of wine. The squires accompanied them, but rode well back out of earshot. By the way the youths sat their mounts, heads up, spines proud, Isabelle could tell that they were pretending to be serious knights on a sortie and it made her smile. She wondered if she should lift her chin and try to look like an imperious noble lady, but since there was no one to see, save her husband and squires, it seemed a little foolish.

“I am sorry if I have been poor company for you thus far,” William said as they rode along the side of a field and entered broad, sun-dappled woodland. “If I were your age I would not be thankful to be buried in the middle of nowhere with a husband who spends most of his life asleep.”

“It is true that you do sleep a lot,” she said with a judicious wrinkle of her nose, “but my mother always said that sleep was good for healing, and I think you have been in much need of that.”

“More than you know,” he said softly.

She gave him a swift glance but he was staring ahead along the path. “I think I do know,” she ventured. “Oh, not the details,” she added quickly as he looked surprised, “but the very reason that you do not speak of them suggests that they are too sore to touch. You talk of light things and matters that you think will entertain a young wife…and they do, but I cannot be your consort without knowing more.”

There was a long hesitation, filled with the clop of hooves, the creak of harness, and the voices of the squires arguing a jousting point. Then he sighed. “If I have not bared my life to you, it is because I did not want to burden you with its weight until I knew how much you were capable of carrying.”

“How will you know unless you try me?” she asked. “How will
I
know?”

His smile was bleak. “Perhaps I was trying to break you in gently.”

“Like one of your horses?”

Genuine humour lit in his eyes. “If so, I don’t seem to be doing very well, do I?” He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then he shook his head and laughed. “When I was a very young knight, I was given a horse that would not tolerate one of these bridles.” He indicated his mount’s harness. “I had to fashion one especially for him, and even then I only rode him by his tolerance, not my mastery. His name was Blancart and he was unsurpassed.” He gave her a considering look. “Whatever you want to know, ask it of me and I will do my best to answer…and if I don’t then you will know that it is ground I choose to tread with no one at all.”

Isabelle gnawed her lower lip. “Is that to be my new bridle?”

“No, let it be the yoke that joins us from now on.”

Isabelle frowned at him, wondering how far he was humouring her. His expression was difficult to read, but learn to read it she must. “Ah,” she said, “like a team of oxen then.”

“Just so,” he answered seriously. “But hopefully not as ponderous nor as dumb.” Their eyes met and held, and suddenly she saw the humour deepening the creases at the corners of his and she giggled.

They rode along the banks of the River Mole, which twisted through the woodlands and pastures belonging to the demesne, and finally halted to rest their mounts and eat their food where a fringe of willows dropped over the brows of the bank. An otter plopped and swam downstream away from them. On the far bank, two swans and a clutch of half a dozen cygnets preened on a large, untidy nest of dead reeds. Fish made lazy rings out in mid-stream.

“What happened to your destrier?” she asked as the squires hobbled the horses to graze and William tied strings to the wine costrels and dropped them into the lazily flowing water to keep cool. “The one that wouldn’t tolerate a bridle.”

“He eventually retired to grass with a herd of Flemish mares belonging to the Count of Flanders.” William sat down beside her. “There are several young stallions on the tourney circuit that claim him as their sire. My brother John has a couple of brood mares that are of his getting too.”

“You have said little about your brother,” she murmured.

With a slight shrug he investigated the contents of the basket and produced a roasted fowl wrapped in a linen cloth, a small loaf, and some raisin tarts. “That is because there is little to say. We are of the same blood and we will watch each other’s backs, but we are not close. You’ll meet him soon enough because he’ll come to court when King Richard arrives. He holds the official position of the King’s Marshal and he’s been Prince John’s seneschal for two years now. And he’ll want to see his son.” He glanced over his shoulder at his squires who had sat down beside the horses to eat their food.