Pride glowing in her eyes, Isabelle watched Mahelt dance a bridal carole with her new husband. At four and twenty, Hugh Bigod towered over his still-growing bride of rising fourteen. He showed no discomfort in the disparity of age or size, but then he had younger sisters of his own and was accustomed to their ways. He was treating Mahelt like a queen and she was blossoming under his attention. Isabelle felt tearily happy for the pair, but her heart was also filled with trepidation. His voice held a trace of huskiness, the legacy of a congestion that had kept him absent from court and sequestered at home for several months of the previous year. Although he was now once more robust, raising his voice to socialize for long periods still made him hoarse.
Beside her William watched the dance with a closed expression on his face, although when Mahelt looked his way and smiled, he did too and raised his hand in a gesture of reassurance. In honour of the marriage he had donned the full regalia of an earl, something he seldom did, and his hair was banded with a gem-set coronet. Isabelle knew he was finding it hard to see his daughter go in marriage and so soon—perhaps harder than giving his son as a hostage. Mahelt was his firstborn daughter and had always held a special corner of his heart. No longer would she run to him in greeting when he returned from campaign, nor show him things, nor have him teach her songs in the chamber of an evening. All of that was now reserved to her husband and his family.
"The marriage had to be now," he said regretfully. "I wish we could have brought her to Ireland with us, but there is no knowing how long we will be gone. It's probably safer for her to be here at Framlingham as a Bigod wife anyway."
Isabelle forbore to say that now he must know the wrench she felt when giving their son to John. It would be a blow beneath the belt and the circumstances were not the same. William had felt the loss of his son too, and she was going to miss Mahelt dreadfully herself. At least their daughter would be growing to maturity in a welcoming household with a strong moral code. Suffolk was far enough removed from the court that Mahelt wasn't obliged to attend unless she wished, but the castle at Framlingham was new, strong, and comfortable. Ida was an excellent mother-in-law too. Her nature was maternal, but not smotheringly so, and she was happy to share her bower and her duties with her eldest son's wife.
Isabelle placed her hand upon William's sleeve. He was wearing cloth of silver and it shimmered as she touched it. "She has the leisure now to acquaint herself with her new family before she takes on all the responsibilities of being a wife," she said practically.
His eyelids tensed at the words "all the responsibilities."
Isabelle firmly squeezed his arm. "She has your courage and determination to do all things well, and Hugh has a kind nature."
"I was there when John married his Queen," William muttered. "She was about the same age as Mahelt and at a similar stage of growth." A look of revulsion crossed his face. "I know what John did to her and if I thought—"
"Then it is a good thing you do not think," Isabelle interrupted. Again she was tempted to mention their son, but unless William was blind he must see the parallels for himself. "This is a decent household like our own and they will look to her welfare. Ida and Roger will protect Mahelt. Hugh is a fine young man, you have said so yourself, and it was one of the reasons this marriage was agreed upon. You insult him by such notions…and you insult your own judgement."
William grimaced. "You are right and the rational part of me knows you are, but even so…" With a shake of his head, he excused himself to visit the privy.
Isabelle was immediately joined by Ida of Norfolk, resplendent in blue wool embroidered with jewels. "Is the Earl Marshal all right?" she asked, looking concerned.
Isabelle smiled to reassure her hostess. "He worries about leaving Mahelt because she is so young. I suppose I worry too, although I know she could not be better placed."
Ida took Isabelle's hand. "Of course you do. You are her mother, and she is still of tender years for marriage. I'll care for her as I would one of my own daughters. My son is under sworn oath not to lay a finger on her until she is grown enough for the marriage bed and he will hold to it. Mahelt will be given all the time she needs."
"I know that, and we could not wish for a better match, or son-by-marriage," Isabelle said, being tactful, but meaning what she said. She was glad that William was absent at the privy. Men were always accused of being rough and crude, but in some situations their sensibilities were tissue-thin. He probably would not have coped well with this discussion about his daughter.
"Has John actually agreed to let you go to Ireland?" Ida enquired to change the subject as William returned to the room.
Isabelle shook her head. "He's still procrastinating but William will have agreement out of him in the end. He cannot keep refusing and in the meantime we make our preparations." She looked again towards the dancers. Mahelt was laughing at Hugh, her face flushed and her eyes alight. It was going to be easy for her, Isabelle thought. She had tumbled into love with him and, providing he wasn't a fool, which she knew he wasn't, she would tumble as easily into his bed when the time was right.
Spotting her father, Mahelt excused herself from her new husband's arm, and running to William with the fleetness of the child she still half was, tugged him into the circle of dancers. He went reluctantly at first, but then Isabelle saw him laugh and give Mahelt a hug.
Ida patted Isabelle's shoulder. "Shall we join them?" she asked. "I adore dancing and what's more fitting than to do so at my son's wedding to the best bride we could have chosen for him."
Isabelle smiled. "You are right," she said, loving Ida for her kindness and tact. "What could be more fitting?"
*** John studied the piece of parchment in his hand. It was waterstained by its journey from the Welsh Marches; it had been very wet this last week and although the messenger's satchel tucked beneath his cloak had protected it from the worst and saved the ink, it was still dimpled and hinted at damp.
"This is the fourth time William Marshal has written requesting permission to go to Ireland," John said to his friend and familiar, Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester. "Do I give him licence to go?" The words were couched in the flowery language of William's clerk, Michael—John recognised the man's style. The effusive flourishes and greetings were certainly not the Marshal's. He gnawed at a painful strip of skin at the side of his thumbnail.
Des Roches absently stroked the embroidery on his bejewelled dalmatic, the way other men might stroke a pet animal. The garment had belonged to Hubert Walter and was almost priceless. "He's certainly making enough preparations, sire. I have heard he is assembling men and victuals at Striguil and Pembroke. He married his eldest daughter to Bigod's son in January, now she's of age. It looks to me as if he's tying up loose threads and preparing to be gone for a while—otherwise why marry off the girl now?"
John looked thoughtful. Marshal and Norfolk. The combination made him uneasy. "I won't miss him if he does go to ground in a bog, self-righteous old fool," he growled, "but I'm not certain I want him out of my sight being self-righteous in Ireland too. His wife's grandsire called himself King of Leinster, and I'll not have William Marshal setting himself up in that capacity."
Des Roches smiled as if at an absurdity. "I could imagine no man less likely to do that than William Marshal."
"And so I thought until he knelt in liege homage to the King of France and refused to sail to Poitou. I have trusted men only to have them go behind my back. Ranulf of Chester, Saher de Quincy, William de Braose…and de Braose is a Marshal ally."
A telling silence fell between the men. Des Roches was far too ambitious and sensible of his own hide to comment on the matter of why de Braose was out of favour, and John would not speak of it because he was striving to prevent the past from bobbing to the surface like a rotten corpse and destroying him.
The tension was broken by the arrival of the young Queen. Ysabel entered her husband's chamber accompanied by two of her ladies, her walk stately and graceful, stomach slightly thrust out. The palm of her right hand was deliberately pressed against her belly. It was only five weeks since she had missed her flux, but she was making sure everyone knew of her probable condition, especially John.
He looked at her. He had been beginning to wonder if God was having a jest with him—allowing him to make bastards with other women while keeping his wife barren. Finally, however, the seed appeared to have taken root. As yet she hadn't started puking and she looked as radiant as a jewelled Madonna. He toasted her with his cup. "Let the Queen decide," he said with a humouring smile. "Do I give the Earl of Pembroke leave to go to Ireland, or do I leash him here at court where I can see him?"
Ysabel shrugged indifferently. "Does it matter whether he goes or stays?"
"That's what I'm trying to decide."
She walked slowly to the chest where the flagon stood and beckoned to a servant to pour for her. She was learning the uses of power and how much the seed growing within her womb had enhanced her standing at all levels of royal life. "I like the Countess," she said. "She's nice to me when she comes to court and clever at choosing clothes and furnishings."
John snorted. "I'm not sure I'd agree with you. I consider Lady Marshal a prize bitch with more than a touch of the wild Irish about her."
"Then Ireland is probably the best place for her." Ysabel gave a languid wave of her hand, the gesture intimating that she did not know what the fuss was about. "Let her and her husband go. You have their son, don't you? If they are out of your way, they won't be able to annoy you so much."
"Don't be so sure," he muttered sourly, but his expression relaxed. "So be it. I can recall him at need, and as you point out, I have his son." Going to her, he set his arm around her waist and cupped her belly. "As you have mine."
Des Roches prudently dismissed himself.
***
Ten days later, Will was playing dice-chess outside the royal chamber at Marlborough with one of John's knights, Thomas Sandford, and Robert Flemyng, a young messenger. The King having retired early, Will, despite being on duty, had a moment's leisure.
"My father grew up here," he said, rattling the dice in their horn cup. "The Marshals used to be its constables."
Sandford grunted. "They don't own it now though," he said with a half-smile, to show that no offence was intended. He was a stolid, tow-haired knight. His younger brother was a retainer in the Marshal household.
Will shrugged and cast the dice. "My uncle John lost it because he rebelled against King Richard and it was never restored to our family."
"I don't suppose you mind," Flemyng said, leaning his elbows on the board. "Your family's been well enough compensated over the years, haven't they? Are you sure those dice aren't loaded? That's the third set of sixes you've thrown."
Will flushed. "I'm not cheating. You've been using the same ones." He moved his piece on the chessboard. "I think my father would still like Marlborough back. He says he and his brothers used to sleep in these chambers when they were children."
Flemyng gave a salacious chuckle. "You mean the Queen's lying in your father's bed? Now there's a cause for scandal!"
"Pay him no heed, Will," said Sandford easily. "He's drunk and he never knows when to shut his mouth."
"I can keep silent if I have to," Robert retorted. "And I could drink both of you under the table."
Will ignored the challenge in the young messenger's voice and handed him the dice.
"There you have it, drunk and boastful," Sandford said with good humour.
Flemyng made a sarcastic face. He shook the cup and rolled the dice. One bounced off the table and disappeared amid the floor rushes. "Bastard!" Dropping to his hands and knees, he began groping around in the candle-pooled darkness.
"You'll never find it," Will said, then looked up as the stairway curtain parted to admit two of the household knights and another messenger to the antechamber. The former were carrying a heavy chest between them and the latter was mudspattered, wind-blown, and decidedly sober. Will eyed the bulging satchel sticking out from beneath the man's riding cloak and the weighty sword at his hip. The fact that he had shown up so late at night came as no surprise. Messengers often kept odd hours; it was the nature of their trade and he was accustomed to the same in his father's house. However, many of the comings and goings from John's chamber were covert and clandestine. Orders were frequently given verbally or in coded fashion with secret signals and handshakes.
"What's this?" Thomas Sandford rose to his feet.
"News from Ireland," the messenger said. Will's ears pricked up. He knew his father was about to go there, and wondered what messages the Irish lords were sending to John. The King's justiciar there, Meilyr FitzHenry, was not a Marshal ally. The chest looked interesting too. He doubted it was yet more books.
Thomas went to the door and banged three times, craving admittance and stating his purpose. As Flemyng swayed to his feet, minus the elusive die, Thomas addressed him over his shoulder. "Best sober up," he said. "You may be riding tonight if there are messages to take."
The King called a reply and Thomas opened the door to usher the knights and messenger inside. Will seized the night flagon and cups from the trestle and slipped through in their wake. Thomas flicked him an amused look that said he knew what Will was about, but he didn't make him leave.
John was sitting before the fire, wearing a loose robe and reading a copy of Wace's
Roman de Rou.
The messenger knelt and handed over his packet of letters. John took them, examined the dangling seals, and broke open the first one. Will stood by the door, breathing shallowly, making himself inconspicuous lest he was noticed and dismissed.