Jean arrived shortly after the horn had sounded. He was wearing his gambeson, the wool heavily streaked with oil and iron from his hauberk. His sword was girded casually at his left hip and a dagger at his right. These days he wore the mantle of command with assurance. Organising the defence of Kilkenny and the heartlands, not to mention his success in pinning down the raiders sent by Meilyr FitzHenry, had kindled his confidence from uncertain spark to full flame. He had been supervising the training of the serjeants this morning, and talking to some merchants and settlers from Newtown concerning defence of the burgh where the rebuilding was going forward apace and the charred spaces rapidly being covered with new warehouses and dwellings. Her other overseers followed him in. Jordan and Stephen were in the keep today, although Jordan was planning to ride out on the morrow to patrol their border with Dublin with a full contingent of knights. Flexing muscle in public was part of the preventative battle.
Once the food had been blessed, everyone set to with a will. The men were ravenous; their new responsibilities and energies having gone straight to their stomachs. Besides, the gusting winds and raw cold of January required plenty of stoking to keep the weather at bay. Not that the fare was scintillating at this time of year. The main dish was a somewhat chewy beef stew supplemented with dried beans and plenty of cumin and pepper. Side dishes of roast leeks and parsnips added some interest, but the sin of gluttony was hardly a threat.
Isabelle was washing her hands in the finger bowl before the second course of marrow tarts and sundry fried pastries and wafers when her usher approached the dais and, bending, murmured in her ear.
She paused in mid-swill. Then she took the linen towel from the youth attending on her and briskly dried her hands. "Let them enter," she said in a calm voice devoid of inflection. The usher bowed and departed and she turned to Jean. She had given the command with aplomb but her heart was galloping and she felt sick. "Meilyr FitzHenry is here with a messenger from the King," she said.
Jean recoiled with surprise and his gaze widened.
A wave of panic swept over her and she had to fight it down, trying to breathe deeply instead of yielding to shallow gasps of fear. "He would not walk into the lion's den—even knowing the lion is absent—unless he believed he had the upper hand. Why is he here and not William?"
"Perhaps he has come to ransom his men." Jean laid a reassuring hand over hers. "We'll know better in a moment. I am sure my lord is safe."
"Yes," Isabelle said. Outwardly she had won her battle for composure, but her heart was still thundering frantically against her ribs. "I would know if he were not; I would feel it in here."
Jean squeezed her hand and she took strength from him with a grateful if preoccupied half-smile.
By the time Meilyr and his companion were escorted into the hall, she had shored up her defences and was able to watch his approach with an air of cold authority. Meilyr was wearing a richly embroidered tunic decorated with garnets and he moved with a bounce in his step that served to compound Isabelle's trepidation. Thomas Bloet walked two steps behind him, his expression taut and his own gait stiff with unease. On reaching the dais, Meilyr bowed with sarcastic gallantry. Bloet made his own salute with decorum.
"If you are here concerning your men, Lord Meilyr, then I must tell you that their freedom awaits the safe return of the Earl, and they are"—Isabelle raised a delicate eyebrow— "perforce dining elsewhere."
A look of sly malice settled on Meilyr's face. "I believe you will give up my men long before you see your husband again, my lady," he said. "I have travelled from King John's court with Messire Bloet, who has summons for the Earl's knights which they will ignore at their peril."
Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Thomas Bloet produced the sealed documents and delivered them to Jean D'Earley, who took them as if he had been given a nest of snakes. He cleaned his eating knife on a napkin, slit the tags, and opened the vellum sheet. A glance at the letters for Jordan and Stephen confirmed that, apart from the salutation, the wording on each one was the same. He looked at Isabelle with dismay in his eyes. "My lady, we are summoned to the King's side to answer to him. He says that barring ill weather, he expects us to join him within two weeks of receiving these letters." He fixed Meilyr with a baleful glare. "You arranged this, didn't you, you whoreson?"
Meilyr's response was a smug curl of the lips. "The King arrived at his own decision. He is no fool and is displeased that the Earl has played him for one. The King chooses to keep him at court under surveillance and requires the men summoned to join him there and answer for their conduct. If they do not, their lands will be declared forfeit."
The words hit Isabelle like a sharp slap. This was pure vindictiveness. John was trying to strip her and William of everything; she knew he was. Their sons, their lands, their dignity.
"Then they are forfeit," Jean said to Meilyr, as if matterof-factly passing the time of day. "I would count it a disgrace to abandon lands which my lord has committed me to guard. Shame lasts longer than destitution."
"That is your choice, my lord," Meilyr replied with a shrug. "But if you and your fellow barons refuse to take ship, you will face the consequences. I am here to enforce the King's rule in Ireland, and anyone who opposes me will be ruined."
Isabelle laid one hand upon her gravid belly, and easing to her feet, faced Meilyr like a queen. "Your message is delivered," she said icily. "Perhaps you had better not out stay your welcome."
"Would you threaten me, madam?" Meilyr responded, his tone equally glacial.
"No more than you have ever threatened me, my lord."
If Meilyr had bowed on arriving, he did not do so as he took his leave. "I will see your men on the battlefield," he said.
Thomas Bloet made to follow him, but Isabelle bade him stay a moment. "Of your mercy, Thomas," she said. "I have known you since you were a boy at Striguil. At least tell me that in all this morass my husband and sons are well."
He met her gaze without flinching. "Yes, my lady, very well indeed, although the Earl is frustrated that he cannot be here." He flushed and looked over his shoulder, then turned back to her and lowered his voice. "You should know the King has been pleased to give land and privileges to many of those who accompanied the Earl."
"Bribes, you mean?" Her nostrils flared. "You do not need to name names; I can guess."
"And you would be right, my lady…but even then perhaps your guessing would not go far enough."
"Would it not? Prendergast, I suppose? I saw him and his wife taking stock of my keep."
"Yes my lady…and your husband's nephew."
"Jack?" She stared at him in dismay. Holy Virgin, that was cutting close to home indeed.
"The King offered to make him marshal of Ireland and to give him land worth five knight's fees."
"He did what?"
Bloet shook his head. "Jack came to the Earl for advice, and the Earl told him to take the land…He is a great man, my lady. A truly great man." His voice was so vehement with admiration that it almost shook. "Unlike some I could name." Bowing, he strode rapidly after Meilyr FitzHenry.
Isabelle watched him leave, speechless, unsure what to think or feel but knowing she had to take control before she was sucked down by the quagmire of emotions threatening to engulf her from within. Retiring to her chamber, she summoned Jean, Jordan, and Stephen to join her there. Within her womb, the baby swarmed and kicked as if already practising to be a knight. "Hush," Isabelle said, softly stroking her distended belly. "Hush, little one, not now. Wait a while, just a while longer."
Once the men were assembled, Isabelle faced them and drew a deep, painful breath. "What are we going to do? If you stay here, you will forfeit your lands. I will understand if you choose to obey the summons." It took all her courage to say those words, to give them the option of leaving her. In truth, she was not sure that she would understand, but she had to offer them a choice.
Jean shook his head. "I suspect we would forfeit our lands whether we went or not," he said. "John would just find a different excuse. I will not abandon the Earl's trust, or yours. My wife is his niece, my children share his blood. I could not look any of you in the eyes again if I obeyed this summons."
"It is about honour," said Stephen D'Evereux gruffly. "And loyalty. I speak for all when I say we would rather perish than fail the Earl." His words received vigorous agreement from his companions.
Isabelle's shoulders sagged with relief and gratitude. "Then thank you from the deepest fathom of my heart. When all this is over, you will not go unrewarded, even though I know reward is not in your minds."
"We should appeal to the Earl of Ulster for aid," said Jordan de Saqueville. "De Lacy has no love for the lord Meilyr, but he and my lord see eye to eye on many subjects. If you add the plea of your condition, he may be persuaded to aid us. Draft a letter to him, my lady; I will willingly bear it."
Isabelle nodded. "I will do so immediately. Certainly, we will lose nothing by asking. We have a few days' grace, I think, because Meilyr will wait to see if you obey the King's summons." She leaned back to ease her aching spine. "He won't strike at Kilkenny first either. The walls are strong and stuffed for siege. He might want the return of his kinsmen, but he will aim for easier targets to start with. We need to do some reconnaissance."
Jean's lips parted in a savage smile. "I'll set it in motion straight away. The lord Meilyr may have fought against the Irish with your father and grandfather, my lady, but he has never fought against men trained by the Earl of Pembroke. He's going to receive the shock of his life."
Twenty-six
GUILDFORD, SURREY, JANUARY 1208
The court was at Guildford and the weather was wild with gales blustering from the north and persistent freezing rain that chapped the hands and face within minutes of venturing out. It was a fortnight since the ship bearing Meilyr FitzHenry and Thomas Bloet had sailed ahead of the atrocious conditions. Since then the seas had been too rough for even the coastlinehugging fishing vessels to put to sea and no ships had ventured the crossing to Ireland. Two weeks of silence, of purgatory on the edge of hell. Each day that passed, William steeled himself to endure. He prayed with might and main that Jean and the other deputies did not obey the malicious royal summons, yet knew that, in so doing, he was condemning them to lose their lands.
Currently he was trying to take his mind off the situation by playing a protracted game of merels with the marcher baron Fulke FitzWarin, who held lands of him in two counties as well as in Ireland, and who, in the past, had had his own serious brushes with the King, resulting in his being declared outlaw for several years. Possessing such a background, FitzWarin was extremely sympathetic to William's dilemma.
He had brought his dog to court with him: a sword-grey Irish gazehound the size of a pony with a bare-fanged grin that caused the less courageous courtiers to back against the wall as it passed with its master. The beast had taken a fancy to William and kept trying to sleep on his feet, thereby threatening to crush all feeling from them. Now and again its front end snored and its rear end produced quieter contributions that were nevertheless impossible to ignore.
"It's the food at court," FitzWarin apologised after the most recent eye-watering incident. "It doesn't agree with her. You don't keep dogs yourself?" He made his move, his fingers poetic, slender, and well tended. Their sensitivity was deceptive. FitzWarin was a skilled swordsman and expert jouster.
"My wife has a hound—a courser," William said, "her women have lap dogs, and my children adopt creatures here and there, but on current form I prefer to remain unattached."
FitzWarin chuckled. "Irish dogs are like their chieftains," he said. "They stink, they have no manners, they'll do anything for a reward, but if you can win their love, they'll follow you through the gates of hell and face down the very Devil in your defence. Useful to have someone prepared to rip out your enemy's throat at a single command." He raised a sardonic eyebrow.
William's lips twitched. "I had not thought of it that way."
"You should." FitzWarin glanced behind William and made a covert gesture of warning. A moment later the King arrived and paused to observe the men at their game. His current mistress Suzanna was hanging on to his arm, her gown of silk brocade shimmering over her breasts and clinging so tightly at waist and hip that the dimple of her navel could be seen through the fabric at the front; she wore a foxtail under the gown at the back to cover her buttocks. The pair were accompanied by several young bachelors of the mesnie. William willed the dog to fart again, but there was an olfactory silence from the weight across his toes.
"Marshal, I do not suppose you have heard any news from Ireland?" John enquired with a smile that was almost a smirk.
"No, sire, I have not," William said. He spoke warily since John had been snubbing him for a fortnight. This sudden approach and its manner was an alarming change.
"Well then, it will please you to know that I have."
William was so astonished he was unable to prevent the startled widening of his eyes. The weather had been so vile that to his knowledge no ships had been able to make the crossing. Nor had he seen any hard-travelled, salt-stained messengers making their way to John's chamber, just the usual suspects. "Sire?"
"I have been informed of a pitched battle outside your castle at Kilkenny. Your men took up arms against my justiciar. Stephen D'Evereux and Jean D'Earley are both dead, D'Evereux on the field and D'Earley from a spear in the gut. He died in agony, so I am told. Your Countess is now besieged with no one to protect her but common serjeants."