Jean rotated his jaw as if William's comment was a fact rather than analogy. "Forgive me, my lord, but you should safeguard yourself against treachery. Take hostages from those most likely to turn on you. Some of them will think twice if their sons are in your custody."
"As John has taken my sons?" William asked scathingly.
Jean reddened but held his ground. "Yes, my lord, just like that. I think it would be wise."
"He's right." Isabelle had been listening in silence, but now she rose to her feet. "You should have some hold over them."
William shook his head in refutation. "I try to bind men to me by other means than making hostages of their children. I don't want to rely on vassals who are only serving me out of fear."
"And perhaps respect," Isabelle said in a hard voice. "I know these men as you do not. They have admiration for harsh measures."
"And if they renege when you have the hostages, what do you do? Kill their sons? Throw them in the dungeon to starve? No," he said with quiet vehemence in which there was distaste, "I will not take hostages when nothing is proven against anyone because that way lies dishonour for both parties. I trust you all to govern Leinster while I am gone. If Meilyr tries anything by proxy, then by all means do as you will to safeguard our interests and protect yourselves. Fight if you must, and fight to win, but don't be the first to draw swords."
*** Isabelle staggered away from the latrine shaft where she had spent the last five minutes heaving. She felt drained and utterly wretched. "It's going to be another boy," she said weakly to William.
Humour glimmered through his concern. "How do you know?"
"I'm always more sick when carrying the boys, and at all times of the day." She took a napkin moistened with rose water from Sybilla D'Earley and patted her face and throat.
"Boys are always more trouble," Sybilla said with a knowing woman-to-woman look.
Isabelle gave a heartfelt nod of agreement. She didn't add that pregnancy was only half the reason for her queasiness, the other half being worry. William was about to depart for the English court, leaving her in nominal command of Leinster. This baby, above all her others, was truly going to earn the heritage of his ancestry.
Maeve, the Irish midwife, made her rinse her mouth with an infusion of ginger and bog myrtle to ease the nausea. Her maids robed her in a silk chemise and the saffron-gold gown William had stripped from her on a rainy spring evening when they had begotten this child. With her first babies, tight young muscles had kept her figure from ripening until the sixth month, but these days, she began to show at three…and to her benefit.
William wore his court robe of silver silk but instead of adorning it with the ornate belt of gold bezants, he had donned his plain leather swordbelt and his scabbarded blade hung at his left hip.
Elizabeth Avenel fetched a small pot of red powder from the cosmetic coffer and Isabelle suffered a tinge to be rubbed into her cheeks. She didn't want to resemble one of the painted women of the court, but from the way she felt knew her complexion needed a boost—just enough to make her look robust and capable of governing Leinster while William was gone. Sybilla draped a wimple of cream-coloured silk over Isabelle's braids and pinned it at her throat with a circlet brooch of amber and gold.
William nodded his approval. "Beautiful," he said, "and regal…" His gaze dropped to her belly and a smile curved his lips. "And with child. Just the right note, I think. Are you ready to face them?"
She drew a deep breath and nodded. Somehow, she would ignore the nausea; somehow she would hold her head up and smile.
At a formal pace, William escorted Isabelle into the hall. She laid her hand over his in courtly fashion and walked with the grace of a queen, her spine straight, her expression imperious. Behind them came their children, Isabelle's women, and the knights of the mesnie, the latter all wearing their swords.
Isabelle and William halted at the centre of the dais and faced the company in the well of the hall at the feasting benches. Their children and Isabelle's women assembled to the left and the knights stood on right with Jean, Jordan, and Stephen taking up places close to their lord and lady.
Their gathered vassals had risen at William and Isabelle's entrance and all eyes had turned to the dais. Isabelle saw wariness, speculation, hostility, and the occasional spark of warmth. She and William would have to depend on the loyalty of these lords in the months to come. Most had not brought their womenfolk, although there were a few in evidence—for the most part older women, sure of themselves, and the occasional young wife whose husband preferred to keep her in his sight rather than leave her to temptation at home.
William waited for the scrape of benches and the murmur of conversation to subside, letting the silence draw out for just long enough to further embed the focus, then he drew breath and made full use of his rich, strong voice.
"My lords, here you see the Countess, whom I have brought by the hand into your presence. She is your lady by right of birth, the daughter of Richard Strongbow who enfeoffed you all with lands once he had conquered them with his own sword." He gazed at Isabelle to accentuate the connection between them before looking again to his audience. "She remains among you, pregnant with his grandchild. Until, God willing, I return, I pray you all to serve and protect her faithfully, as is her right. She is your liege lady as well you know and I have no claim to anything here except through her." Turning to her, he knelt in homage, putting his hands between hers as would a vassal. Isabelle felt a sweeping surge of love and pride. Her eyes welled with emotion. Stooping, she bestowed on him the formal kiss of peace, and then kissed him again, as her husband, her gaze tender.
One by one, the barons came to the dais, knelt, and swore their oaths of fealty to her while William stood a little to one side, now taking no part, emphasising the fact that the right was indeed Isabelle's and that he was only present to support her. Everyone in the room made obeisance and swore; not one man demurred; but both she and William knew it was still play-acting.
Once the oath-taking was complete, Hugh le Rous, Bishop of Ossory, blessed the food and the gathering sat to dine.
"I have done my best," William said as he served Isabelle and himself from a steaming dish of mussels. "I have appealed to their sense of identity and their loyalty to you, but it remains to be seen how many will abide by their word."
Isabelle looked out over the gathering below them, watching their guests setting to with industry—very willing indeed to take their bread and salt and drink their wine. "I know the value of the oaths I've been given and how they equate to the men who knelt in homage." She gave him a warm look. "Yours was made of gold." Her expression hardened. "But some I know offered dross. I have my eye on them."
***
While William was feasting his vassals and allies at Kilkenny, Meilyr FitzHenry was in Dublin making his own final preparations to leave for England. He fastened his cloak with a large silver pin, stabbing it down through the thick red wool of his cloak. Smoothing his hair, donning a cap edged with gold braid, he turned to his nephew and the mercenary captain with whom he had been talking while he dressed. "You are clear what to do?" he asked.
"Yes, my lord," said his nephew, his dark eyes eager and bright. "We are to wait until you have been gone for seven days and then begin our work."
Meilyr nodded, then wagged a peremptory finger. "But not for a seven-day, be certain of that, Robert. Give me time to be away and Marshal too. He mustn't have the opportunity to turn back. And be thorough. I want that pride of his cut down to the size it should truly have, not the grand cockstand he flaunts at the world."
Meilyr's analogy met with appreciative grins from both men and their good humour was further increased by the pouch of silver he gave to each of them. "Go now," he said, "and I want to hear well of your endeavour."
"And good fortune go with yours, my lord," said his nephew as he headed to the door with a young man's swagger.
Meilyr smiled thinly. "I intend it to."
Twenty-three
NEWTOWN, LEINSTER, AUTUMN 1207
The harvest had been good and the barns at Newtown were full of grain and hay that would take people and livestock through the winter months. The town itself had passed from the embryo stage of raw earth and a few crude buildings to become a thriving infant. Houses abounded now, from modest abodes of timber and thatch to fine stone buildings of two storeys, owned by the merchants who had been encouraged to settle. The jetties and moorings along the riverbank had been improved and were being further developed. Cranes were busy on the wharfside unloading building materials for more dwellings and supplies for the hinterland and anchored trading vessels thronged the quay.
Hywel and Dai, the sons of William's senior groom, had travelled into the town to pick up two mares and a stallion that William had sent over from Pembroke. Hywel was usually employed as a messenger to his lord but, being between missions, had a couple of days to socialise with his older brother. Having collected the animals, the young men repaired to the small hostelry near the town wall to share a jug of bog-myrtle ale before setting out for Kilkenny. A pair of off-duty soldiers lounged at another trestle, playing a desultory game of dice and the hosteller's dog was lying amid the rushes, grinding a bone against his back teeth.
Hywel stretched out his legs and contemplated his ale. He was glad to see the soldiers; they gave him a sense of security. For most of the week he had been feeling the same uncomfortable prickling sensation between his shoulder blades that came over him when travelling dangerous stretches of road on business for his lord. Thus far nothing had happened to sanction the feeling but it hadn't gone away either. The Countess had doubled the guard at Kilkenny and Jean D'Earley had sent out extra patrols… but Hywel still slept with his sword at his bedside.
The hosteller's daughter stooped at the hearth to check on some oatcakes as they browned. A twirl of hair had escaped her cap and dangled against her cheek in a glossy hazel curl. She glanced up, met Hywel's gaze, and smiled before looking down.
"You've no time for dalliance." Dai kicked him under the table. "We've to sup up and get the beasts on the road."
Hywel made a face. "There's always time for dalliance." Ignoring Dai's scowl, he went to make small talk with the girl. Shaking his head, Dai drained his mug and went back out to the horses.
Hywel had got as far as asking her name, one eye cocked to the looming bulk of her father, when Dai burst back into the tavern, his eyes wide with alarm. "Raiders!" he yelled. "FitzHenry's men are firing the barns!"
The two soldiers, shoved away from their trestle and charged outside, drawing their swords as they ran. The hosteller grabbed his wife and daughter and bundled them out of the back of the hostel, through the door leading to the outbuildings and pigsty.
Hooves thundered in the street. Outlined against the door, Hywel watched a mounted knight stand in the saddle and hurl a flaming torch at the roof. An instant later another brand flew through the entrance and landed in the rushes near the hearth. Hywel ran to stamp it out, his arm across his eyes, acrid smoke catching his lungs. Above his head, he heard the crackle of blazing thatch. Dai shouted, the sound rising to a shriek and then abruptly cutting off. He fell at Hywel's feet, a spear embedded in his spine. His mouth opened and closed but no sound came. Instead there was blood, pulsing dark, like vomited wine. Hywel stared in horrified shock. "Dai? God's holy face, Dai!"
His brother's eyes were already black with death and they didn't know him. A soldier clad in a short mail hauberk strode through the door, round shield in his left hand. Grasping the spear embedded in Dai's body. Hywel wrenched it loose and, head down, charged the man, taking him by surprise. For a moment they grappled back and forth. Hywel had had some training and was a strong, brawny lad fighting for his life. While the hauberk protected his opponent, it also slowed his movements and put more strain on his muscles. Breath sobbing in his throat, Hywel succeeded in tearing the spear out of the soldier's hands and then, because it was kill or be killed, he reversed the haft and rammed the blunt end hard against the other's throat, crushing his windpipe. The man fell, writhing, dying, making sounds that Hywel never wanted to hear again. Above his head the roof was as red as the vault of hell and the room was wreathed in choking tentacles of smoke. Functioning on the instinct of a hunted animal, Hywel ran out of the back entrance, the spear still gripped in his hand.
The hosteller lay amongst his leeks with his throat cut; his wife was sprawled nearby and she too was dead, a great red stain over her heart. Down at the sty, beside the slain sow and piglets, two men had caught the daughter. One had mounted her and the other had his boot on her neck, pinning her down while his comrade committed rape.
Rage engulfed Hywel in a massive red tide that took away all reason. One moment he was shaking his head, gasping denial, wanting to run, the next he was upon the men. The one standing had time to raise his axe but he was too slow and Hywel speared him in the belly, dragged the weapon free, and turned to plunge it into the second one who was striving to lift himself off the girl. Hywel heaved him off her and seizing the axe from the dying first man, used it to finish the other with a shattering blow to the skull.
The girl rolled to one side and staggered to her feet. Bloodfreckles stood out against the pallor of her face and her pupils were enormous with shock. The red wave in Hywel's brain diminished and he stared at the dead men in surprise and revulsion. The exposed buttocks mooning the air; the great wound in the head of one; the dark hole in the other's belly. He swallowed and swallowed again. From the street came the sound of cries and screams, the clash of weapons, the roar of flame. He looked frantically round the enclosure, saw the withy brake screening the latrine pit from the view of the tavern, and grabbing the girl's arm, pulled her across to it.