The Greatest Knight (37 page)

Thirty-two

The news of old King Henry’s death had thrown everyone at the Tower of London into turmoil, even the keeper of the menagerie, who had been stamping about growling like one of his lions. On the few occasions that Isabelle had seen Ranulf Glanville, he had looked grey and preoccupied. She had attended several masses to honour the old King’s soul and all the talk in the great hall was of what Richard would do when he arrived in England. Men feared for positions they had held for a lifetime. Glanville was particularly concerned, for he had little rapport with Queen Eleanor who was currently responsible for governing the country. Isabelle tried not to think of what was going to happen to herself. King Henry had been content to milk her lands and keep her walled up in the Tower. She knew that the Count of Poitou, now the King of England, had sworn to go on crusade and liberate Jerusalem from the infidel, and to do that he would need money—a lot of money, and that meant selling heiresses, shrievalties, positions, and titles to the highest bidder. He might decide to continue milking the lands of Striguil or he might sell that privilege elsewhere. He might even give her to his younger brother, John, although there was another heiress first in line for that honour. Havise of Gloucester didn’t seem to know whether to preen or be terrified at the notion of wedding Richard’s brother, currently the heir to the throne.

In the meantime, all of Isabelle’s needs were met by the Crown, who paid for them out of the revenues that came from her lands. She never saw any of that revenue personally. She had almost forgotten what a silver penny and a tally stick looked like. Her mother had been at pains to have her educated to fit her position as a wealthy heiress and that meant more than smiling sweetly and sewing a fine seam. Being the daughter of a Norman warlord and granddaughter of Irish royalty, Isabelle knew her pedigree, knew what it was worth, and also knew that it wasn’t worth a damn whilst her wings were clipped and there was no one to fight her cause.

Of late she had been kept under closer guard than usual. Her walks around the grounds of the Tower had been curtailed and she was confined to a small area of sward in front of her lodgings. She was watched at all times—even when she was sitting over the privy there was a maid within earshot. She would have laughed had the scrutiny not made her so irritated and anxious. What did they think an abductor was going to do? Clamber up the waste shaft and ravish her in the latrine?

Arms folded, Isabelle paced to the window of her chamber, but there was little to see but sky through the narrow slit cut into the stone. It was a fine summer’s day; she could tell that by the expanse of pale woad-blue. A day to ride out and enjoy the surge of a sleek Spanish palfrey beneath her, to watch Damask nose hither and yon among the bracken for small game, and to feel hot life surging in her veins.

It surprised her that she could still recall the intensity of that kind of pang for it came from her life in Ireland. There the colours and the memories were dappled green and grey, mossy and soft as light summer rain: the smell of turf fires, the harps of the bards in the dark winter halls, and the long summer nights of May and June. She had a recollection of her father swinging her up in his arms and of his beard tickling against her neck while she squealed. His hair had been deep madder-red, and his voice husky with laughter.

Isabelle blinked to clear her eyes and turned from the window. It was in the past, long gone. Even if she returned it would never be the same, for then she had been a small child running in her smock, and now by her very status she was not allowed to run anywhere.

In her basket near the door, Damask whined and thumped her tail on her cushion. Isabelle sighed and summoned her maids, who were de Glanville’s creatures and would do as he bid them. Her own women had long since been dismissed. Walking her dog on a limited course was the nearest she could come to any kind of freedom these days. Queen Eleanor might have released prisoners throughout the land as a boon to mark the start of the new reign, but that generosity did not apply to heiresses in royal care.

When her serving woman opened the door, Isabelle was startled to see guards standing either side of it, and shocked when they would not permit her to leave.

“Lord Ranulf ’s orders,” one said, refusing to meet her widening gaze.

“What?” Isabelle’s throat tightened in panic. “He has no authority to confine me. I demand that you let me pass.”

He shuffled his feet. “My lady, I cannot. It is more than my life is worth.”

She felt hollow and sick. “And what is my own life worth? I demand to see the justiciar.”

The other guard cleared his throat. “That is not possible at the moment, my lady.”

“It is for your own good, my lady,” said his companion.

Isabelle scorched him with a look that he would not answer. “Whoever is benefiting from this, it is not me,” she said in a low voice. Then she indicated Damask. “If my dog squats in the rushes they will stink and be foul underfoot. At least find someone to walk her.”

The guards exchanged glances but didn’t reply and she knew they were waiting for her to do the predictable thing: turn back and slam the door against them in a female tantrum. Stemming that urge, she drew herself up. The sound of footsteps mounting the tower stairs caused the men to turn and present their spears. Isabelle remained where she was as de Glanville’s nephew, Theobald Walter, arrived. Panting from his climb, he waved his hand and bade the soldiers lower their weapons. Isabelle’s heart began to pound as she met Walter’s impassive gaze. She knew that de Glanville harboured designs of conferring her on him. He was a handsome man in his late prime, with fair curls cropped sternly short. Isabelle had met him several times and liked him, but that did not mean she desired to be his wife.

He bowed to her with impeccable manners: de Glanville’s nephew was a polished courtier. “Lady Isabelle, you have a visitor. Since he cannot climb the stairs, I have come to fetch you to him.”

His words were so unexpected that she could only stare at him while she struggled to find her manners. “Who?” she managed to say, smoothing her hands nervously over her gown. Whoever it was must be important, otherwise an ordinary attendant would have borne the summons. Surely not the new King or his brother Prince John? Why could he not climb stairs? Her mind raced through the various older men who might have reason to visit the Tower, but could think of none who would make a point of summoning her.

Theobald Walter’s mouth tightened. “William Marshal has come with letters from King Richard and the Queen,” he said a trifle curtly. “No doubt he will explain to you why he is here.”

William Marshal. The name was more familiar to her than their single brief meeting three years ago warranted. Heloise had sent her occasional letters from Kendal about her doings in the north and the disposition of her warden. It had become clear that he was not about to exercise the right he had been given to take Heloise in marriage—and that Heloise was relieved to be forgoing the honour. “He would have asked too much of me,” she had written.

Her maids in tow, Isabelle followed Theobald Walter down to the lower chamber. Her heart was pounding but there was no time to compose herself. The door was already open and she was ushered straight into the presence of William Marshal. He was leaning against a trestle table, but he pushed himself upright as she entered the room. Vaguely she took in the detail that he had two squires with him, a couple of knights, and a clerk. Feeling acute apprehension, she met his composed dark stare.

“If I were you, Marshal, I would be quick about the matter,” said Theobald Walter with a meaningful look. “My uncle does not like to be crossed, and even if his days are numbered, they are not yet over.”

The calm stare left Isabelle and fixed instead on Theobald Walter.

“Is that by way of threat or just friendly advice?” said Marshal.

Walter shrugged, his gaze equally unruffled. “You do not know me well, my lord, or you would not ask such a question. It is not my way to threaten, and I have no quarrel with you. My uncle’s ambition brought me to court and, as you know, a man has to make the best of the opportunities he is given, but I am not a fool to go against the will of a king.” An acerbic smile curved his lips. “And especially not the will of a queen. I do not believe that my uncle Ranulf will go against it either, but it would still be wise not to linger.” He nodded in salutation, went to the door, and on the threshold turned. “I hope you will remember my goodwill in times to come. I wish you both well.”

Isabelle looked at William, feeling shaky. If Theobald Walter was wishing them well, then it could only be for one reason.

“My lady,” he said. “Will you be seated?” He indicated one of the benches at the side of the room.

Isabelle knew that if she sat down she would probably not be able to stand again. His assumption that she needed to be seated made her feel contrary. “Thank you, messire,” she said, “I would rather stand and face you.”

“Then perhaps we should both sit. It would certainly be more comfortable for me.” He limped heavily to the bench. “An accident when boarding the ship to England,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I may be an old warhorse, but I’m usually sound of wind and limb.” He eased himself carefully down and she saw his eyes tighten with pain.

Since it would have been ungracious to continue standing, Isabelle reluctantly followed suit, glad that the full skirts of her gown prevented him from seeing how much her legs were trembling. She forced herself to meet his eyes. Fine lines were etched at their corners as if he smiled a lot, or spent time narrowing his gaze against the weather. Their hue was that of a stormy winter sea.

“My lady, I do not know if you remember me. My visit to the Tower was brief then, and we met for a few minutes only.”

Isabelle touched her throat. “Yes, I remember it. You came for Heloise and I thought that you were going to marry her.”

He opened his hand. “I thought so too, but matters changed.”

He had a pleasant voice, neither high nor deep, but well modulated and without any particular accent—unlike her own which bore the cadences of her Irish childhood.

“Heloise wrote to me and said that you were not of a mind to wed her.”

“Did she?” He raised an eyebrow but didn’t look particularly disturbed. “I know that she wrote to you: she told me herself; but I never asked what she had the scribe write. It seemed to me that she was entitled to a little privacy.”

Isabelle eyed him, uncertain whether to approve or feel slighted. Giving a little privacy sounded suspiciously like placating a potentially fractious child with a sweetmeat, yet having lived with none of late, such a gesture would feel like consideration beyond price. “Are you going to ask me what she wrote?” she asked.

“Since it was from her to you—no.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I dare say if I had married her, we would have tolerated each other’s failings—either that or driven each other mad and settled for different households once our heirs were begotten. I’m still fond of her and I hope she remembers me with a smile too.” He studied Isabelle. “In truth, for more than two years my mind has been set on a greater prize.”

Isabelle stiffened. “Heloise’s northern lands must pale in comparison to the estates that come through me,” she said.

“I was offered Denise de Châteauroux instead of the lady Heloise, but I refused because I knew what I wanted…and, truth to tell, had wanted since I laid eyes on you.”

Her face grew hot. He was a courtier; such words came easily to him. Any landless knight would desire her for the lands and prestige she brought, irrespective of her person. “And if Heloise had been the lady of Striguil?” she asked.

He spread his hands and she noticed that his fingernails were clean and that he wore more rings than a soldier, but fewer than a court fop. “Then we would have learned to live with each other. I may have a few romantic bones in my body, but not enough to overthrow reason…However, one always hopes for the best of both worlds.”

“And what of me?” Isabelle asked. “What choice do I have?”

“How pragmatic are your own bones, my lady? You have no choice in the matter of your marriage, even if the Church plays lip service to the fact that you do. Your lands and yourself have been entrusted into my keeping. You can make the best of your bed or shroud yourself in martyrdom.”

Isabelle returned his stare and then lowered her lids. Anything was better than remaining here and, as he said, she had no choice in the matter. “I do not know you,” she murmured, “nor you me.” She wondered if her parents had ever spoken thus. Her mother too had been a prize. She had seldom spoken of her marriage to Richard Strongbow, and on the rare occasions she had made mention of it, she had done so with a tight mouth and sad eyes. Isabelle didn’t want to look like that.

“That’s a remedy I have no cure for except time, my lady. I swear to you that I will treat you with all the honour and deference due to your rank, if you will do the same for me as your husband.”

Isabelle tried to steady her panic by breathing slowly. She felt sick and the palms of her hands were cold. Slowly she raised her head. “I do not know how pragmatic my own bones are,” she said, “but I will try.”

He was careful to exhale without making a sound, but she saw the long movement of his chest and realised that he too was under considerable strain, although he was better at concealing it. “Thank you,” he said and, pushing to his feet, reached out his hand to her. She saw the beads of sweat on his brow and the way he held himself. She didn’t want to place her hand in his for then he would know how frightened she was, and her mother had said that one should never show fear in the face of challenge. Soon it would be more than just the joining of hands; soon they would be sharing the bed of which he had just spoken. Not that she knew much concerning that aspect of marriage. Her usually forthright mother had been singularly uncommunicative on the matter. Heloise had been a fount of information, but Isabelle was unsure how much of the detail was the result of an over-active imagination. Thinking swiftly, she laid her hand to his sleeve instead, in the manner of the court, and saw his eyelids tighten, but whether in amusement or displeasure was hard to tell.