"Done," he said, freeing the lace and gently pulling the ends loose.
She looked at him through her lashes, captured his right hand, his sword hand, and meshed his fingers through hers. "And the other one?"
"It isn't knotted."
"No." She gazed directly into his eyes and moistened her lips. He deftly unplucked the other lace then slipped his hand inside the gown, against her chemise. Isabelle gave a small, luxurious shiver as she felt the warmth of his palm through the fabric. He moved his hand up her body, between the layers, grazing the tip of her breast in passing, making her gasp. Reaching the strings of her chemise, he gently tugged until they came untied. "How many more knots must I unravel to reach you?" he asked with a slow smile.
"I am already unravelled." Isabelle gave a tremulous laugh. His touch was slow and unhurried. Isabelle reached to the drawstring of his braies. "You have some of your own though."
"Then I trust you to do the same for me," he said in a slumberous voice and, setting his hands in her hair, kissed her. Drawing her to the bed, he pulled off the saffron gown of the Countess of Leinster and the whisper-thin linen chemise beneath it.
"More knots." He grinned breathlessly as he unfastened the garters securing her hose, and peeled the latter slowly down her legs. Then he shed his loosened braies and covered her. Isabelle closed her eyes and wrapped herself around him, drugged with desire, savouring the moment, wanting it to last and last, but driven by the ravenous starvation of abstinence. When so much had been taken away from them, she needed to plant her banner and stand her ground. If not here in their own bedchamber at the heart of their own castle, where else were they as strong?
Her climax took her breath away with its force and she clenched her hands upon his hipbones as her inner flesh swallowed and swallowed again. He groaned against her throat and she felt him flex and let go within her. It was a good sign, she thought, the mutual release of seed.
"God grant us another child," she gasped as she recovered. "One to bind the Irish lords to us and be a symbol of Strongbow's blood."
"Are our others not that?" William panted when he could speak, his body still locked tight within hers.
"Yes, but they have all been birthed elsewhere." Even while she stroked his face with tenderness, her voice was fierce. "This one will be born on Irish soil."
Twenty-one
TOWER OF LONDON, JULY 1207
Under the watchful gaze of Thomas Sandford, Will grasped the practice shield by the straps and launched himself at his brother. Richard parried with the speed of a viper and Will had to work hard to prevent the younger boy from breaking through his guard. Richard still carried the puppy flesh of boyhood. That, coupled with his red hair, made people underestimate his supple ability and his imagination with a blade.
Sandford intervened to correct Richard's footwork and positioning, but at the same time offered words of praise. "Your father, or your father's knights have taught you well," he said. "Both of you."
Richard gave him a broad, enthusiastic smile. Will's expression was a lot more wary and his lips barely curved. He had learned to be anonymous at court; to tread softly, listen, and say nothing, to avoid being in the wrong place at the wrong time and not to excel too brightly at anything. To fit in and fade into the background. Richard hadn't caught on yet. He thought that if he was pleasant to people, they would be pleasant to him in return, but that wasn't necessarily so. With their father out of favour at court, Will and Richard were natural targets for the spiteful, especially Richard who did not know how to make himself small. He was jeered at for his red hair, for his size, for having native Irish blood. He had been raised to see the latter as a source of pride, that his great-grandfather had been a high king of Ireland, but at court it counted for nothing except to earn him the taunt of "bog-trotter." Sandford put a stop to it when he was around, but he couldn't protect Richard all of the time, and the King's bachelors went out of their way to mock and ridicule. Richard's nature was optimistic and resilient, but Will knew from the way he felt himself that Richard must be hurting somewhere inside that he didn't show to the world.
"Again," said Sandford, and Will raised his shield and turned his wrist to parry and throw off Richard's fierce, fast assault.
As they continued to spar, William Longespée, Earl of Salisbury, came striding over the sward towards them, fine scarlet cloak flowing from his shoulders like a banner. The youths lowered their blades and bowed. Longespée was twice over their kin by marriage. Although he also happened to be King John's half-brother, he was affable, and treated Will and Richard as relatives rather than dirt under his shoes. Just now he appeared to be thoroughly agitated.
"Is there something wrong, my lord?" Sandford asked, looking up from his own deferential bow.
Longespée glanced briefly at Will and Richard and lowered his voice. "A messenger's just arrived from Ireland. He's with the King at the moment."
"And the King desires to see the boys?"
Longespée shook his head and looked alarmed. "He hasn't asked for them yet, thank God, but he may well do so—and it would be better if they weren't here. Take them out riding, Thomas, or upriver on a barge. Go to Smithfield or Holy Well. Just get them out of here."
Will pretended to be busy examining the leather binding on the hilt of his practice sword, but his ears were agog. He sent a swift look under his brows to Richard and slightly shook his head in a warning not to look at the adults.
"Ah." Sandford scratched his head. "Bad news then?"
Longespée cleared his throat. "Meilyr FitzHenry has written to say he's been commanded to return the Marshal lands in his custody or face reprisals."
Sandford looked incredulous. "William Marshal wrote that?"
"No. Hugh and Walter de Lacy wrote it, together with half a dozen other Irish barons opposed to FitzHenry's rule, but you could see the Marshal's hand behind it. He's dividing and conquering and there is going to be one almighty upheaval. In God's name, Tom, remove them now. There's no telling what John will do. I'll try and settle him, but it won't be easy, the mood he's in." Heeling about, Longespée strode back towards the King's apartments.
Longespée's sigh contained a curse as he turned to face his charges. "I know you were listening," he said tersely. "You're not consummate courtiers yet, even if Will thinks he is." He marched them to the stables and ordered the grooms to cease forking hay and saddle up their mounts.
"What did my cousin of Salisbury mean?" Will demanded. "What has my father done?"
"Made a fool of the King," Sandford growled. "You know when you poke a stick in a nest of red ants? Well, your father's gone and done the same in Ireland and he's liable to get bitten."
Richard bristled with indignation. "Meilyr FitzHenry's my father's vassal. He's wrongly seized some of our land; I know because I heard my parents talking about it before I came to court. It's part of my mother's dower and he has no right to it."
Sandford leaned against a stall post and shook his head. "The King is lord of Ireland even if your father and the de Lacys have the privileges of princes over what they hold by the sword. He will not brook your sire stirring up other barons against his justiciar. Neither would I, if I were in his position."
Will strove to control his breathing. "Are we in danger?"
Sandford laid a reassuring hand on Will's shoulder. "Not of your lives, but if the King is in an ugly temper and your father the cause of it, he won't want to see your faces on duty tonight."
Not in the least fooled, Will went to help the grooms tack up their mounts, a prickling sensation between his shoulder blades.
***
Awake and restless despite the lateness of the hour, John paced his chamber, his night-robe dragging on the floor rushes. He had calmed from his initial rage on reading the letter from Ireland, but he was still bitterly angry. He would have to deal with William Marshal and deal with him hard. Wherever he looked there was treachery and defiance. The Church was in rebellion against him over the election of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he was rapidly losing patience with both Canterbury and Rome. And now this on top of everything else.
"William Marshal is my vassal and he forgets it at his peril," he growled to Longespée who had been playing dice with him earlier and had stayed to keep him company and drink wine. "I'll not have him and the deLacys setting up their own little kingdoms in defiance of my authority. I forbade him to go to Ireland and he ignored me."
Longespée shook the dice and flicked them across the winepuddled table. "You demanded his second son; you didn't tell him not to go."
John's eyes flashed with irritation. "He knew what I meant by it, but he still chose to disregard me. Now he's interfering in my affairs." He flung his arms wide. "Look at that port he's building. Look at the revenues it's going to generate for his coffers. He's clearing land for more settlements and making himself cosy with the Church. My brother should never have given him the de Clare bitch to wife. He should have made him make do with Heloise of Kendal like our father first intended. I won't let him rule the roost in Ireland!"
"What are you going to do then?" Longespée asked in a casual voice.
John checked himself, remembering that Longespée was kin to the Marshals both through his wife and his Bigod relations. "I'm thinking about it," he said vaguely. "Go on, get to your bed. It's late and that fresh young wife of yours will be finding someone else to warm your space if you're not in it."
"Not my Ela," Longespée said, but all the same he pushed to his feet. "Still, as you say, it's late. Besides, you've won all my money."
"It was mine to begin with," John said scornfully.
Longespée conceded the point with a shrug. At the door he hesitated and looked round as he adjusted the set of his cloak. "Don't take out your anger at William Marshal on his sons, will you?"
John exhaled on an exasperated grunt of comprehension. "I might have known you were responsible for putting them out of harm's way this afternoon. You're too soft, brother."
"But you won't harm them…"
"No, of course not." John's eyes brightened as if he had just been given a pleasing present. "My displeasure is with their father, not them."
When Longespée had gone, John refreshed his goblet and paced the room in thought. A pity that the older Marshal boy was not on duty. He could have sent him out to fetch one of the court whores, but such sport would suffice for another occasion. There was plenty of entertainment to be had in the future. He wouldn't harm a single hair on their heads, but there were other subtle ways of doing damage, and opening up dark chasms in the fabric of the soul. Oh yes, he knew all about those.
As to Marshal himself…John took a drink of wine and rolled it around his mouth. Well, there were several ways of snaring a lion and drawing his teeth, even one as dangerous as Pembroke. The first ploy hadn't worked, but that didn't mean the pursuit was over. The plan just needed some tweaks and adjustments.
Twenty-two
KILKENNY, LEINSTER, AUTUMN 1207
My lord, I should go with you," Jean D'Earley pleaded in agitation. He was close to tears. "You cannot trust the men who are accompanying you."
William leaned back in his chair and looked fondly at his former squire. "Precisely. I would rather have them where I can see them, and know what they are doing. I know if I leave my trusted men to guard my wife and her interests, I need not worry about knives in the back." He glanced in Isabelle's direction and she gave a tight-lipped nod of agreement. He had called a council in the private chamber to discuss the summons he had received from the King that morning. John had commanded William's presence at court, and Meilyr FitzHenry's too, so that the dispute between them could be laid to rest. There was no question of not obeying such a summons but it was imperative to protect Leinster during his absence.
"Jordan, you will take the land from the Ballygauran Pass and defend it as far as Dublin."
Jordan de Saqueville gripped the hilt of his sword in a businesslike manner. "Not a sparrow will fart that I don't know of it, my lord."
William nodded brusquely. "Jean, your responsibility will be the heartlands of Ui Chennselaig and Ossory."
Jean was silent and William noticed that the knight's warm olive complexion had paled. "What is it?"
Jean opened and closed his fists. "My lord, I do not know if I am capable of doing such a thing. I…I am afraid to fail you. If it please you, give the charge to someone else and I will serve him to the best of my ability."
William eyed him for a moment. Jean had been his ward and his squire and William had given him the best training possible. Jean was past thirty now and as ready as he was ever going to be for major responsibility. Being expected to lead and make decisions rather than competently follow those given by others, however, raised the stakes to a higher level. "No," William was adamant. "It does not please me to give the charge elsewhere. You are capable of doing whatever is necessary. Stephen will be your deputy and your right-hand man. You will naturally consult him for advice—as you will the Countess in all things. You'll also have FitzPayn, FitzRobert, Mallard, and others at need. I am not abandoning you to the wolves like a naked babe on a hillside."
Jean bowed acceptance, but continued to look anxious.
"If I had the least doubt about your ability, I wouldn't have given you the position." William gave him a searching look. "There's something else, isn't there? You're looking at me as if you have a mouthful of pips you're longing to spit out, but think I might dismiss you from my presence for bad manners."