The Greatest Knight (41 page)

When he entered her there was pain, and she let it out on a single breath, indrawn hard and exhaled on a soft cry that welcomed the intrusion too. He held himself above her, suddenly still, his own breathing ragged and shallow. She touched his ribs, exploring each ridged contour and the breadth of his chest, then followed the breastbone down to the hollow of his diaphragm, and grew accustomed to the feel of him within her. She felt too stretched and full to move, and yet beyond the strange discomfort the sea song whispered of pleasure and of deep, muscular tides that waited the turn.

He spoke her name softly and took his weight on his left arm so that he could cup and stroke her face with his hand. She turned her head and kissed his fingers. She would have asked him if this was it, had he found safe harbour and shelter, for she knew no different, but he lowered his head and sealed her lips with his own, pre-empting her question. His right hand moved to cup her breast, and his hips gently surged and retreated with the rhythm of the kiss and the motion of his thumb across her nipple. Isabelle wanted to gasp at the intensity of the feeling, but she couldn’t because he would not relinquish the kiss. She clung to him and arched her body. The pain arrowed through her loins, but so did the pleasure, until her eyes widened and her voice mewed in her throat. Still he would not let her go and the relentless, gentle friction brought her to a precipice and held her there, trembling, desperate. And then she was tumbling fearfully, blissfully over the edge, and as her climax rippled through her loins he finally broke the kiss, buried his face against her throat, thrust hard, twice, and shuddered in her arms like a ship wrecking in a storm.

Stillness descended by degrees as harsh breathing softened and thundering heartbeat slowed. As Isabelle returned to herself she became aware of mingled twinges of pain and pleasure, like strings on a musician’s lyre next to each other and softly plucked. There was the capacity for renewal of both. He raised up and, still within her, gazed down into her face.

“Jesu,” he croaked. “That was a close-run race.” He dipped his head to kiss and nuzzle her. “I haven’t felt like this since I was a green youth…”

Warm gratification flooded Isabelle at his words. “So it was like your first time?” she teased shyly.

He laughed and it was strange to feel that mirth inside her. “Oh, nothing like it—for you at least, I hope. Lads of seventeen summers might have a great capacity for the sport and wander around with their pricks permanently to attention, but consideration and experience are sadly lacking…but tonight it was good to be reminded of that desperation.” He eased from her body and, rolling to his side, pulled her against him. The faint breeze drawing from the window cooled the sweat on their bodies.

“I do not suppose that a man’s first time is like a woman’s,” she murmured as he gently stroked the valley of her spine.

“No,” he said and lifted his head to look at her with anxiety in his expression. “I know there must have been pain, but I hope you gained at least some pleasure.”

Isabelle smiled and touched his face. “A little,” she agreed mischievously. “Madam FitzReinier said to me that for a woman to conceive, she needs to enjoy the act of mating,” she said, “otherwise her seed will not descend and mix with her husband’s.”

He gave an amused grunt. “Yes, I’ve heard that before. It’s what the Saracens say. At Queen Eleanor’s court in Poitou, when I was a young man, it was widely known. I’m not sure that the men were entirely convinced. The women liked the notion of being pleasured, but some of them were doubtful about being turned into mothers.”

“And did you make any of them mothers?” she asked lightly.

He chuckled. “If I say that no woman grew a big belly because of me, you might infer that either I am an unskilled lover or not potent enough to sire a child.” His hand slipped over the curve of her buttocks, drawing her against his groin. “I hope tonight I have proven that neither is true. No, when I was a young knight, I lay with women who knew how to protect themselves, and Clara was barren. Since we parted I’ve mostly slept alone. I suffered some troubled times at court and decided that taking a woman to bed would cause more trouble than the deed was worth. In the end it became a habit.”

“Weren’t you ever tempted to break it?” Isabelle murmured sleepily. Lassitude was creeping through her limbs. She pressed closer to him in a snuggling movement.

“Not until now,” he answered.

She recognised the courtliness of the response, but also something deeper, and lifted her head off his chest to look at him. His expression was relaxed, his eyes heavy with tiredness and satiation…and peace.

“Not until I found a safe harbour.”

Thirty-four

Marlborough, Wiltshire, August 1189

"I spent much of my childhood here,” William told Isabelle. They were preparing to celebrate the marriage of Prince John to Havise, heiress of Gloucester. “My father was the seneschal and I and my brothers used to drop pebbles on each other from that window up there.” He pointed through the open flaps of their tent towards an aperture high in the tower. “That was our chamber. It had red hangings on the walls and we all slept in one bed like a tumble of hound pups.” His voice was nostalgic. “King Henry took Marlborough from my father soon after he came to the throne. I haven’t set foot here since I was ten years old, and it feels strange.” Very strange indeed, especially to think that Prince John would be spending his wedding night in William’s former boyhood chamber, while William and his entourage slept in tents in the bailey with the rest of the court, Marlborough’s keep being reserved for the royal entourages. Richard was back in England, the preparations for his crowning were well in hand, and he was making his way to London via some of his southerly holdings. On the morrow, the tents would be taken down and the court would progress to Windsor.

“But at least your family is to have Marlborough again,” Isabelle said pragmatically. “Your brother has been entrusted it by the King. You can visit that chamber whenever you want.”

William made a non-committal sound and took his swordbelt from Jean, saying that he could buckle it on himself. He had given Jack leave to go and spend time with his father who was camped in another part of the bailey. Father and son had awkward matters to discuss, given that John Marshal had also joined the ranks of the married, having recently wed the thirteen-year-old daughter of Sussex landholder Adam de Port. “It would not be the same,” he said. “You can never go back.” He latched the belt and tugged his tunic straight. “Ready to gild the lily?” he asked, holding out his arm to his wife.

She laid her hand upon his sleeve to show that she was. She was wearing her pink silk wedding gown. Although she had other fine dresses now, it was still her favourite. All that she had done was to embellish the sleeves with added embroidery of gold and pearls. “You are not comfortable here,” she said. “You’ve been looking at the keep and circling like a dog that scents something amiss.”

William rubbed the back of his neck. He was rapidly discovering how perceptive of his inner moods Isabelle was. A smile and a genial comment might fool the world at large but not his bride of six weeks. She would question him or touch him or give him a look and he would feel as if she had peeled away his skin and left him exposed to the air. “You are right,” he admitted, “I do feel like a dog that scents something wrong, but were you to ask me what, I would have to say I do not know—unless it be the presence in one place of de Glanville, Longchamp, and Prince John. That’s enough to raise the hackles of any hound!”

Isabelle looked thoughtful. “I was never fond of de Glanville, although he did nothing to harm me…”

“Beyond shearing the revenue of your estates to the bone while he could and paying himself from the proceeds,” William said acidly. “Nor were you the only one. Wigain told me that he’s guilty of embezzling more than fifteen thousand marks which should have gone into the exchequer.”

Isabelle silently mouthed the amount, her eyes widening.

“Wigain does tend to elaborate, but usually about his love life and the size of his equipment. He’s reliable when it comes to gossip. Being in Richard’s household he’s in a position to hear all kind of things.” He shrugged. “De Glanville sets my teeth on edge, I admit, but he’s no threat. He’s pledged to accompany the King on his crusade and his time of influence is over. But Longchamp…” His lip curled. “He is a fine fiscal administrator and loyal to the King, and if that were all, I would embrace him, but he craves power and has so high a sense of his own worth that he views everyone else as if they are maggots crawling at his feet.”

Isabelle could feel William’s irritation in the rigidity of his forearm. Unlike her husband, she had had no exposure to Richard’s chancellor until she had met the royal entourage when it convened at Winchester after Richard’s landing from Normandy. Like William, Longchamp came from a family with higher ambitions than rank, and such a background automatically bred envy when royal favouritism was shown. She had been prepared to take Longchamp as she found him…and she found him just as William said. It made no matter that she was a great heiress: Longchamp’s look had cut her down, telling her without words that he had little time but plenty of scorn for young women whatever their status. “And yet you must come to terms with him,” she said. “What else can you do?”

William snorted with bleak amusement. “Do you really want to know?”

She gave a small laugh and pinched him.

As they stepped from the tent into the public domain, he said, “Supping with the devil is one alternative, but I don’t know if my spoon is long enough, and the devil may well not want to sup with me.”

Isabelle looked at him askance. “I do not suppose you’re going to explain that remark, otherwise you wouldn’t have spoken in riddles and put that closed look on your face.”

“My face isn’t closed.”

“Yes it is,” she said with amused resignation. “The more innocent and open you look, the deeper your thoughts go.”

“I will tell you later.”

“And I will hold you to it,” she said, giving him fair warning, and then smiled and dipped a curtsey as they were joined by the Earl of Essex and his Countess, who had also emerged from their pavilion to go to mass and witness the wedding of the King’s brother.

***

Isabelle sipped the wine. The taste was agreeable, but she wanted to keep a clear head. William said that the wine at old King Henry’s court had been like drinking mud, and that in consequence it was rare to see a drunkard there unless he had access to his own supply. Richard was plainly more discerning, as was Prince John, and in consequence many folk were already in their cups. William was too experienced a hand to be one of them, for which Isabelle was glad. Wine made men swift to laugh and far too swift to take offence and draw steel. She had noticed that Prince John was not drinking much either, but then he was a bridegroom, and he had his duty to perform. His new wife, Havise of Gloucester, sat quietly beside him, her eyes downcast and her expression so determinedly blank that Isabelle could tell she was dreading the ordeal. One didn’t need to school happiness from one’s face but fear and antipathy were different matters. At least Prince John was said to be an experienced lover. Rumours of mistresses among the court women were probably true, and he had caused a scandal by bedding his own cousin, the daughter of Earl Hamelin de Warenne, and getting her with child.

Currently he was glancing laconically around Marlborough’s great hall, fixing on this man and that in assessment. He caught her watching him and for a moment, trapped in his tawny stare, she felt like one of the live lambs with which the keepers at the tower had occasionally fed the lions. But then he dazzled her a smile, inclined his head, and his gaze moved on. Isabelle took a swift drink of wine to steady herself and choked. William bent round solicitously to ask if she was all right and she managed a weak reply. Suddenly she was very glad that she was not Havise of Gloucester.

***

The main courses of the feast were cleared away, leaving fruit, nuts, and subtleties on the trestles, and the musicians struck up a lively carole dance. Bride and groom rose to tread the first measure. John was light on his feet and kept easy time to the beat of the tabor. Havise was less sure of herself and several times tripped on her gown and missed steps. The dowager Queen joined the floor with Richard and others who were sober enough to dance, had an aptitude, or wished to honour the couple. As newlyweds themselves, William and Isabelle left the trestle to take part. Since the carole was progressive, Isabelle found herself having to be very nimble on her feet to avoid crushed toes, and had to turn her head from gusts of wine-laden breath. More than one lord thought she should be pleased to be congratulated on her recent marriage by a whiskery kiss and she had to tread a path between diplomacy and self-preservation. She partnered King Richard, who was flushed with drink but still in command of his faculties and a graceful dancer. Although he smiled at her, she knew he was looking through her and that any woman could have stood before him and he would not have known the difference. John, however, was well aware of her presence as he took Richard’s place. His hand touched her waist, his hazel eyes flirted, and such was the charisma of his body that her spine tingled. “William Marshal is a fortunate man,” he said, glinting her a smile. “He’s been landing on his feet all the years that I’ve known him, and he’s done it again.”

“My lord?” Isabelle said and prepared to move on.

“I could have had you, and he could have had Havise.” There was malice in the curl of the handsome mouth.

“Then I am a most fortunate woman, for I might have had you,” Isabelle replied, smiling too.

John’s laughter followed her to her next partner. What a foolish thing to say, she chastised herself. She was going to have to be more circumspect.

“Sister…” The next man bowed to her as she pressed her palm to his and with a start she realised that she was partnering her husband’s eldest brother. Another John, another man to be handled carefully. He had come to Winchester to bow to Richard, but his allegiance was to the Prince. He and William had embraced with smiles, but there had been an underlying friction and Isabelle was still trying to unravel the bond between them. She suspected that John Marshal was envious of William but trying not to be; that he was an ambitious man who hoped to profit from his position in Prince John’s retinue. He had recently been promised the shrievalty of York and had been at pains to insist that the appointment was by his own merits and not at William’s behest. Whether men believed him or not was another matter and, she suspected, a sore point.

“Brother,” she responded as they pressed palms together and turned. He was only two years older than William, but the difference seemed more like ten for William looked young for his age, with only a few silver hairs amid the brown and skin still tight to his bones. There were deep vertical furrows between John Marshal’s brows and where William’s mouth curved up at the corners, John’s curved down. A small paunch filled out his good wool tunic, whereas, despite his capacious appetite, William still had the lean flanks of a hound. “You must be pleased to be named seneschal of Marlborough,” she said.

He gave her a wintry smile. “Indeed I am, since it was an office my father held many years ago and he was unfairly deprived of it.”

Isabelle noted the tone. William’s brother clearly felt that Marlborough was no more than his due.

Later she danced with John Marshal’s wife in a carole involving the sexes dancing in two rings, men to the left, women to the right. Aline de Port was a little over thirteen years old, a pale, slender creature, her breasts scarcely budding against the tight lacing of her silk gown and her hips as narrow as a child’s. William had told Isabelle that his brother had not bedded her. Although the girl had had her first flux, she was still physically immature and were she to quicken now, she would likely die and the child with her. Isabelle suppressed a shiver at the thought. She was a fully developed woman, robust and healthy, but she felt trepidation when she thought of giving birth—an ordeal that seemed ever more probable with each day that her flux continued overdue.

The dance ended on a flourish, with the participants almost running the steps and Isabelle took a moment away to recover her breath. Aline joined her, declaring that she was thirsty and gulping down a brimming cup of wine. Thin tendrils of mouse-fair hair had escaped net and wimple to curl around her flushed face. Sipping from her own goblet, Isabelle asked her sister-in-law how she was finding the married state.

Aline shrugged. “I like the court,” she said in a high, almost transparent voice. “And I like my fine gowns.” It was her third cup of wine and she was swaying on her feet. “I didn’t want to marry him but my mother said that because he’s so much older than me, he’ll die after a few years and then I can pay a fine and wed whom I choose.”

Isabelle almost choked. When she had been told she was to marry William, it had been the first thought that had run through her head. But she was older than Aline and William was younger than John, and in the six weeks since her marriage, she had thanked God every day for her own situation.

“I have my own chamber,” Aline babbled on, “and he has his. I know he has women there sometimes, but it doesn’t bother me. While he’s making the beast with two backs with them, he isn’t making it with me.”

“No,” said Isabelle faintly, unsure how else to respond.

“He’s got a proper mistress. I know all about her. She won’t make the beast with two backs with him either. She says that it’s a sin outside of marriage and that’s the reason why their baby died. But he still visits her and pays for her keep. It’s good of him to make provision…he’s a good man…” Her voice faltered and wisped away like a fine trail of smoke. From being flushed she had begun to turn a delicate shade of green. Isabelle hastily escorted her from the keep and held her while she vomited up the wine that she had drunk to the detriment of both stomach and tongue.

With soothing voice and gentle guidance Isabelle returned Aline to her tent on the sward. The girl’s maids came hastening to attend to her, but Isabelle sat with her awhile, feeling sorry for her and also a little irritated. And because she was irritated, she felt guilty too. There but for the grace of God went all brides…and many bridegrooms too.