The Greatest Knight (40 page)

Isabelle glanced also. “His mother will want to see him too, I warrant.”

“Yes.” William said. He hesitated. “The boy’s not his heir, but his bastard, and there’s a daughter too. Alais has been John’s mistress for a long time.” He divided the chicken neatly into portions with his hunting knife, wiping the blade on the linen and his hands on the grass. “Alais is no whore,” he added emphatically, “and I am fond of her.”

Isabelle took note of the warning in his tone. “The Irish and the Welsh are more flexible about such matters. You will not find me disparaging or judging a woman I have not met,” she reassured him, using a napkin to lift one of the chicken pieces. Damask immediately came to claim her share. She hesitated. “Madam FitzReinier said that you had a mistress for a long time…but that your ways parted.”

For a moment Isabelle thought that she had crossed the line on to ground that he would not share, but then he set the chicken aside, rested his hands on his knees, and sighed. “Her name was Clara and she once saved my life. We rode the tourney circuit together when I was a young knight, but she grew weary of the amount of time I had to spend at court, time I couldn’t give to her, and yes, we parted.”

“You had no children?”

“She was barren—which was both a blessing and a pity.”

Isabelle gnawed her lip. “Irish or Welsh, I do not think I have the generosity to share you with a mistress.”

“Isabelle—”

“I will give you children,” she said with sudden ferocity. “Strong sons and daughters with the blood of the High Kings of Ireland and Earls of Pembroke in their veins. Heirs for Striguil and Leinster and Longueville. I will go whither you go, even into the thick of the fight…I will…” Feeling foolish, not understanding the storm she had unleashed upon herself, she made a small sound and turned away.

He gripped her arm and pulled her back to face him. “Yes,” he said. “You will give me sons and daughters, and yes, you will accompany me even into the thick of the fight. If you are with child by then, so much the better. If ever I hear complaint from you, I will remind you of this day and what you said.”

He drew her into his body and kissed her, and Isabelle, who had not been kissed by any man except within the bounds of affection and courtesy, was ravished. The first pressure of his mouth was hard and forced her lips apart, but as she prepared to fight in panic, it changed, becoming a silken thing of subtle strength that turned the marrow in her bones to liquid fire. Clinging to him, she answered him fiercely, and when the kiss broke for want of air, they stared at each other, breathing hard.

“You will not need to remind me,” she gasped. “Every step of the way I will match you.” The words emerged almost as a challenge. She did not understand the wildness, except that it was somehow connected with a dull ache low in her pelvis somewhat akin to the cramps of her flux. The feel of him breathing just as rapidly as she was, the look in his eyes, exacerbated the sensation.

“You don’t know where you’re going yet,” he said in a harsh voice.

She lifted her chin. “Neither do you…”

His arm tightened around her body and he drew her in close. “Don’t wager on it, because you’d lose.” His words were a hot whisper against her earlobe and made her shiver. “I know exactly where…”

A loud noise of crunching bones distracted him from the end of his sentence and Isabelle from the drug of lust. Tired of waiting for her share, Damask had helped herself to the roasted fowl that had been lying on Isabelle’s napkin and, clutching it between her front paws, was engaged in chewing her way down the drumstick. Beyond her, the two squires were pretending to be very busy with their own meal, but Jean’s ears were the hue of beetroot and Jack was studying a cloud of fungus on the branch of a tree as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

William cleared his throat and dropped his hand. Blushing furiously, Isabelle smoothed out her gown. She risked a glance at her husband through her lashes and saw the humour sparkling through the frustration. He gave a reluctant chuckle. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know where I’m going, only where I want to go. I suppose we could tie up the dog with the rest of our dinner and tell the squires to go for a walk, but there’s a fine feather bed in our chamber at the manor…if you are…”

Isabelle looked down. “I no longer have my flux,” she murmured.

He nodded and rescued the rest of the chicken. “Eat,” he said, handing her another portion and taking one for himself, a playful gleam in his eyes. “We’ll need our strength.”

The rest of their ride passed in a haze for Isabelle composed of lust, anxiety, and the fact that she had too much to think about. His brother; his mistress. The things he had and hadn’t said, and her own words which had come from a suppressed part of her that she had not even realised existed…and now the consequences, which brought her back to the beginning. She wondered what he would do on their return. Take her by the hand and lead her past all their attendants and retainers to the bedchamber? Or perhaps she should take him! Her face was already hot, but the latter notion made it burn. William said little on the ride back, but the looks he sent her made her shiver to the bone.

When they arrived, however, their intentions were thwarted by the sight of several mules being led away to the stables. “Visitors, my lord,” said Rhys as he came to take their horses. “Monks from Bradenstoke. There’s also a messenger from the Queen.”

William groaned softly. “It’s beginning already,” he said. “Mark me, by the end of our stay, this place will be as busy as a castle.” He lifted Isabelle from her mare and she slid down his body. For a moment they stood within each other’s breath, pressed together. He shook his head. “My own fault. I should have tied the dog and sent my squires for a wander.” He glanced into the stables at the mules and palfrey. “There isn’t even an empty stall.”

Isabelle reddened and glanced quickly at Rhys who was looking into the middle distance, lips pursed as if he were about to whistle. “I had better go and change my gown if we have guests,” she said and stepped away from intoxication.

William watched her hurry across the yard, admiring the fluid movement of her young, lithe body. He had either been hard or half-hard since sitting down by the stream. Having to concentrate on other matters when most of his mind was currently south of his belt was going to be difficult. At first the waiting had been easy enough. Indeed, her flux had been of benefit for it had given him the time he needed to recoup his energies, both physical and mental. To rest and sleep and recover. He hadn’t bargained for her intensity and forthright sense of possession, but then he supposed that her father’s personality had hardly been shrinking and the Irish were known for their turbulent spirit. But he suspected that, like himself, she was pragmatic and a workhorse too. She wouldn’t shirk what had to be done, yet there was a gentleness about her—a vulnerable core that resonated in a deeper part of himself that had not been touched since the days when Clara had ridden at his side.

***

Brother Daniel was the leader of half a dozen monks from the priory at Bradenstoke, a cheerful, vigorous man in his thirties, the dark hair around his tonsure beginning to thread with the silver of wisdom and experience. William desired to found an Augustinian monastery on his northern lands at Cartmel, which were his own and no part of Isabelle’s portion. Although the charter had yet to be written and witnessed, he wanted the monks of Bradenstoke to form the nucleus of Cartmel’s community and required them to be established as soon as possible. The six monks who had arrived at Stoke were the first volunteers and their visit was by way of gaining William’s approval. Although he had yet to be formally endorsed, Daniel’s position as Prior of the new foundation was a foregone conclusion.

William spoke of the charter he intended for the priory and which he would have confirmed as soon as he returned to court. “It is to the honour of God,” he said. “And in payment of the debt I owe Him for granting me His mercy and showing me His great favour.” He took a drink from his goblet. The wine was from a barrel that they had brought from FitzReinier’s house in London and silken as it slipped over the tongue. He was aware of Isabelle listening at his side. She was wearing her pink silk dress, but her hair and throat were modestly covered by a plain linen wimple in deference to the monks and she had been demurely silent, although William knew that she was paying close attention. He cleared his throat. “The foundation is also for the souls of myself and my wife and any heirs we may have…” He darted her a swift glance and she responded with the faintest curve of her lips and a slight pinkening of her cheeks, “and for the souls of King Henry, King Richard…and my lord, Henry the Young King.” He spoke the last words in a voice filled with poignant sadness. “He has much troubled my thoughts and I would have peace of mind for myself as well as for him.”

“Prayers shall be said every day, my lord,” Daniel replied gravely. William nodded, feeling relieved. Although the charter had yet to be ratified, it was good to know that by the time it was, these men would have laid the spiritual stones and be at work. He needed to pay his debts to the past and to God so that he could go forward on a clear road.

Having spoken with the monks, he had then to deal with the Queen’s messenger, a slender, young cleric named Michael who, it emerged, was Wigain’s cousin. William was not surprised. Trades often ran in families and there was a definite resemblance in the jaunty air and slight build. The letter was written in the Queen’s elegant hand, but since William could not read, he handed it to her messenger to do so.

Michael licked his lips and reddened slightly. His voice was not that of a herald, for it was pitched high and flat. However, he was fast and assured. The first item to emerge after the salutation, which was to both William and Isabelle, was that the Queen was recommending Michael to them as a skilled clerk and lawyer, fluent in Latin, French, and English, of whom they could make valuable use. His discretion was assured.

“You come highly recommended, Master Michael,” William said drily. “What can I do but take you on? A position is yours if you desire it.”

“Thank you, my lord. Shall I have someone else read this lest you think I am spinning a tale?”

William laughed at that. “I wouldn’t put it past Wigain if he were japing, but since you have come to me in earnest and it would be easy to check, I’ll believe your integrity. Pray continue.”

The remainder of the letter contained the wish that William and Isabelle were finding marriage agreeable, and then the meat of the matter—the detail that Richard would be arriving in London, winds permitting, by the beginning of August, with the coronation planned for the third of September in Westminster Abbey. The language grew more circumspect, but hinted at further advancement for William and his family and praised his loyalty. William thanked the clerk when he had finished, had him repeat the message so that he could commit it to memory, and then sent him to find food, drink, and a bed.

Thoughtfully, William cupped his chin. While he might be unable to read, he could read between the lines. So could Isabelle.

“You were given Striguil for more reasons than a mere reward for loyalty. You were given Striguil to raise you up and give you authority,” she said.

He twitched his shoulders. “The Queen remembers those who have served her well. Now that she is in a position to bestow favours, she is generous.”

“Indeed, but she is also sharp. When Richard goes on crusade, there will need to be loyal and willing men to shoulder the responsibility for keeping his domain intact. You would not have been raised to the dignity of an earl without a stronger motive than reward.”

“I am not an earl,” William said, his tone distracted as he was caught off guard. If Queen Eleanor was sharp, then his new wife was not far behind her.

“In all but name you are, and you are promised more. It is obvious that you are being fitted for a high position when Richard rides to war.”

He gave her a wry look. “So it seems.”

“And you are not pleased?”

He took her hands in his. “I know I can do whatever is appointed to me. I have never shrunk from challenge; indeed I enjoy it.” He studied her face and her enquiring expression. “But there is a part of me too that craves tranquillity. I came to Stoke not only to recover from the storms of the past year, but to garner serenity for the future because there will be more dark weather to come, mark me.” Still holding her hands, he rose to his feet and pulled her with him. “Come to bed,” he said. “Be my harbour; give me shelter.”

***

While Isabelle could still think, she came to the conclusion that she was the one needing shelter as she was caught on hot riptides of sensation that dragged her out to sea and threatened to drown her. She had thought she had known what to expect but the reality was at once more brutal and more tender than anything she had imagined. The heat of his lips at her throat, at her mouth corner, then on her mouth; lover’s words breathed upon and into her body until she was turbulent with them and gasping. The request of tongue and intricate delicacy of fingertips that cajoled her to respond. She was teased and coaxed until sensation swelled like a full moontide under the stars and surged shorewards in a mingling of purpose and abandonment.

Isabelle tossed her head on the bolster, her long fair hair unbound like a siren’s and webbing her pale body. The July heat had built up in the timbered upper storey of the hall during the day and the shutters were open to admit snatches of cooler air. The sky through the aperture was a deep marine-blue. Sweat ran in delicate trickles down the declivity of her breasts and made her flanks shine as if she had just stepped from the sea. And he shone too, as wet as herself, his hair tangling and dripping at his brows and his eyes as dark as a river at night, running to the sea, swift and hard.