The meal was a formal celebration of their arrival in Leinster. All the important lords had been invited and the vassals summoned, notably Hugh and Walter de Lacy from Meath, and Philip of Prendergast, who was married to Isabelle's halfsister, Matilda. The latter had been effusive in her greetings and full of feminine compliments about Isabelle's gown, but Isabelle was not taken in. While the envy in Matilda's eyes was natural and understandable with reference to the gown, Isabelle had also noted the way she and her husband had studied the great hall, as if making a minute inventory of what they hoped to own.
Hugh de Lacy and William had seen eye to eye immediately: a boon since de Lacy was one of the most important lords in Ireland—almost a prince in his own domain. Should he have proved hostile, he could have made life difficult for his Marshal neighbours. Isabelle was delighted to see him and William laughing together, and genuinely so, their entire faces involved rather than a tactful parting of the lips. Further along the board, William's nephew Jack was not laughing so much. He had been seneschal of Leinster on his own for three years and Isabelle suspected that his nose had been put out of joint by their arrival and the way William had immediately taken over the reins of government. Isabelle made a mental note to devote some time to smoothing ruffled feathers. Jack was a hard worker, tireless and solid, but he was ambitious too and enjoyed having authority and prestige. Had he not been born out of wedlock, he would have been heir to the Marshal lands in England. He never said it rankled with him that the lands had gone to William, but she had a suspicion that at times it did.
Meilyr FitzHenry had not put in an appearance, but it came as no surprise. Had he done so, he would have had to discuss his seizure of lands to the north-west of Kilkenny that belonged in William's authority. Demands to have the estates restored had been pointedly ignored. FitzHenry had been harassing William's tenants, disrupting merchant trade, and whipping up as many Norman barons and native lords as he could to support him against what he contemptuously called the invasion of the "English softswords." His campaign was one of the reasons that Isabelle was sitting in state at the centre of the feast table, robed as befitted the granddaughter of Dermot MacMurrough, High King of Leinster, and the daughter of Richard Strongbow, legendary conqueror of the same. Her sons and daughters were seated at the dais table too, boosted on cushions where necessary. They were proof of the virility of the bloodline—that William literally had the balls to deal with Leinster, and that not only was she a great lady, but her womb was fruitful. Walter was fidgeting as always, but doing well by his lights and hadn't said anything too loudly or out of turn—yet. Her daughters were under the watchful eye of their nurses, but thus far even little Eve was behaving beautifully.
The Bishop of Ossory was particularly taken by Gilbert's fluent grasp of Latin and his ability to recite the creed and the paternoster, and not just by rote, but with a deeper understanding. He was also amused by the number of saints' tales that Gilbert knew, from the pious suffering of Saint Edmund, to the more dubious recounting of the legend of Saint Nannan's fleas, which had been banished from the saint's bedding but now so badly afflicted a particular field in Connacht that no one could walk through it for fear of their bites. "A truly Christian household," remarked the Bishop to Isabelle with a smile, "but one that knows how to laugh too."
"I hope so, my lord," Isabelle murmured, "although in truth there has not been much laughter of late and I sometimes think that our troubles rival Saint Nannan's fleas in number."
The Bishop wiped his lips on a napkin. "I am sure you and your lord, with God's help, have the strength to deal with them. It certainly seems the case from what I have witnessed thus far." He lowered his voice so that it would not carry further along the board and he flicked a brief but telling glance at Philip of Prendergast and the knight at his side, David de la Roche, who was slouched in his seat drinking wine and looking bored. "You must impose your will on these Norman lords who call Leinster their own. They see themselves as a tougher breed than newcomers. Why should they support an interloper such as your husband? What is there to gain in following him and not Meilyr FitzHenry?"
Isabelle drew an indignant breath to answer, but the Bishop raised a swift forefinger. "Peace, my lady, I am reporting what I have been told. For myself I believe allegiance will come with time, and you have made a good start. Men are here today to look at you and assess your chances. They owe a debt of loyalty to Richard Strongbow and his line. You are the glue. Without you, I believe it would all come apart very fast indeed."
"I am sorry, you are right to be forthright and I value your honesty," Isabelle said, with a gesture of apology. "My husband may be good-humoured and approachable, but men should not mistake such traits for weakness. He has a will of steel and as much if not more experience of battlefield and council chamber than those who malign him. His men would spend their last drop of blood for him. I do not think Meilyr FitzHenry will ever command that kind of loyalty."
The Bishop reached to his goblet. "You may be correct, my lady, but you should still be cautious. Meilyr FitzHenry's advantage is that he was a young adventurer in your father's entourage and with him when he laid the foundations for what exists now. FitzHenry's a hard man in battle—he's carved his reputation with a sword and he's respected for it. Of course," he added thoughtfully, "not all are pleased by his arrogance and high-handed attitude. He'll only take orders from the King and he uses that authority to feather his own nest." He bent her an earnest look. "Your husband will need to be as good at winning men round as his reputation suggests if he is to gain control here, and you must play the part of Strongbow's daughter to the hilt."
Isabelle dipped her head to show she was taking heed of his advice. "It is not a part," she said quietly, sending a glance around the great hall. "It is who I am."
*** William's mood was ebullient when they retired to their chamber. He dismissed the squires and Isabelle's women, and sat on the bed to remove his shoes. They were of softest kidskin, stamped with the Marshal lion, covered with gilding, and the toggle fastenings were of ivory, secured with lacings of braided thread of gold. He looked at them, grinned, shook his head, and put them down beside his old, tough, unembellished calf-hide boots that were worn to the shape of his feet and ten times more comfortable.
He turned to look over his shoulder at Isabelle. "Hugh de Lacy is willing to write to King John to complain about Meilyr's government of Ireland, and to stand with me on the matter of the lands that have been seized."
"That is excellent news," Isabelle said. "Having Hugh de Lacy for an ally will make matters much easier."
William nodded. "De Lacy resents King John and Meilyr far more than he does my intrusion. We're natural allies. And then of course there is you…Strongbow's daughter."
Isabelle removed the jewelled band from her head and the gold tippets from the ends of her braids and put them away in their enamelled caskets. "Will your name be on this letter to the King?" she asked dubiously.
"That would be an open challenge and I don't want to do that. Diplomacy is all. John will take the meaning well enough. He'll see we have the backing of the most important Irish barons without us having to throw it in his face personally. It's more subtle…"
Isabelle sat down and, taking up her antler comb, began working it through her loosened hair. "Let us hope for our sons' sake that John sees it as diplomatic and subtle," she said a trifle waspishly. Relations between herself and William were still unsettled following his decision at Striguil to send Richard to court. Their differences of attitude and opinion continued to be a source of friction. Neither had sought forgiveness and none had been given. He didn't answer her now, but she sensed his irritation and felt a moment of barren triumph.
He stripped the gold rings from his fingers, unpinned the ornate brooch at his throat, and removed the silver tunic. He was untying his shirt when there came a pounding on their chamber door.
"My lord, my lady, there's a messenger from England," Osbert's voice announced through the wood.
Going to the door, William opened it on his chamberlain and Hywel ap Rhys, a son of William's chief groom and one of his most trusted messengers. It had started to rain and Hywel's woollen cloak glistened with fine droplets in the torchlight. William ushered them into the room. Hywel made his obeisance to William, then delved into his battered leather satchel and withdrew a vellum packet. Dangling beneath it from a plaited silk cord was the sickeningly familiar royal seal.
"Do you know what this contains?" William asked.
Hywel shook his head. "No, my lord. The royal messenger brought it to Caversham, and I set out from there a week ago."
"No point keeping you then. Go and find yourself some food and a bed."
Hywel bowed and departed. Isabelle stared at the letter as if it were poisonous. She felt ill with dread lest something had happened to their sons. William sat down on their bed, cut the tags and opened up the letter. "If it were about Richard or Will, then Hywel would have known," he said, as if he had seen into her mind.
She was not reassured. "You cannot be certain of that."
William handed the letter across to Osbert. "Read it," he said.
Osbert's eyesight was not good in candlelight. He squinted, bringing the letter closer to his face, holding it away, before finally beginning to read in a voice that was still slightly slurred from the wine he had imbibed at the night's feast. Isabelle and William listened in growing dismay as one by one John's letter stripped them of all the awards and privileges they had taken for granted down the prosperous years of royal favour. The custodianship of Gloucester Castle; William's position as sheriff of Gloucester; Cardigan Castle; the keeping of the Forest of Dean and the castle at Saint Briavel's. Sundry wardships and toll rights…
The chamberlain's voice died into numb silence. He looked apologetically at William. "I am sorry, my lord." He stifled a wine-sour belch. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes," William answered with phlegmatic composure. "Go to bed. I'll need you in the morning and with a clear head. Go on, get you gone," he added as Osbert hesitated.
After the chamberlain had bowed from the room, William tossed the letter on the coffer. Sitting down on the bed, he put his head in his hands. "Christ's holy blood," he muttered.
Isabelle had stood rooted to the spot throughout the dreadful recitation. She had felt an initial swoop of relief when the document had made no mention of Will and Richard, but the contents had left her shocked and enraged. If he could do this to their holdings, what might he do to their sons?
"He's punishing us for coming to Ireland." She felt as if winter had rushed into her blood and frozen it to ice.
"It's more than that," he said bleakly. "He's punishing me for daring to do homage to Philip for our Norman lands and for refusing to accompany him to Poitou. He is venting his spleen and making an example at the same time."
"We cannot let him get away with this." She folded her arms across her breasts. "It's…it's like rape."
"Look at what happened to Ranulf of Chester—at what's happening to William de Braose. It could be much worse." He removed his shirt. "John doesn't want me in Ireland. He will do everything in his power to prise me away from it. He's angry too, so if he can lay some stripes on my back while he's at it, so much the better as far as he's concerned." He flexed his torso in an unconscious gesture, showing a musculature that was still honed and taut. "It's strong enough. I'm gambling that he needs me and has enough sense not to take it too far."
"That is a terrible gamble to take, especially with Will and Richard in his grasp," Isabelle said, shivering.
"What would you have me do? Whichever way we turn the channel is sharp with rocks." He continued to undress, his actions methodically grim.
"Holy God, I do not know how you can be so calm about it all!" she cried. "As if it's no more of a problem than…than weevils in the cheese!"
He raised his head to her. "Because how else do you steer a ship through a storm—especially a ship that's already battered and leaking, with no certainty of safe harbour? If I abandon the helm and wring my hands in panic with the rest of the crew, then we go down…and fast."
Isabelle inhaled sharply. The expression in his eyes brought an ache to her throat that made it impossible to swallow. He had called her his "safe harbour" from the moment of their marriage. Returning to her from war and the political battles of the court, she had always been his haven—his fixed peace in a turbulent world—until too great a storm had left her sea defences in broken disorder.
Half turning towards the candlelight, she fumbled with the lacing at the side of her gown, but the silk cord was knotted tight and she couldn't see to pick it apart for the tears in her eyes. She gave a small gasp of effort and frustration, the sound almost a sob.
Without a word, William turned her to face him, gently pushed her hands away from the knot and bent over it himself. His eyesight was still keen while Isabelle knew hers was not as good as it had been for close work these days. Unpicking the knot, he was as dextrous and delicate as an embroideress and it fascinated her to watch the movement of sinew and tendon as he worked, the tracework of veins on the back of his hands, the fine hair that on his wrists and arms was still the brown-gold of his youth. Her breathing shortened and an unexpected spark of lust jolted through her. It had been a long time since they had lain together. Even before the chasm had opened between them, their lovemaking had become a thing of routine and comfort—safe, taken for granted. Now, suddenly, her loins felt heavy and exquisitely sensitive.