The Scarlet Lion(5)

A son bundled under either arm, William was entering from the courtyard as she emerged flushed and breathless from her chamber stairs. Composing herself, aware that all eyes were upon them, but only having eyes for William, she went forward to greet him. His cloak and boots were pale with dust from the road but he himself was tanned from his summer of campaigning. He looked lean, fit, and dangerous.



He saw her and released the boys. "Go to," he said, tousling their hair. "Let me greet your mother fittingly."



Nudging each other, grinning, Will and Richard stood aside. William went to Isabelle, lifted her right hand in his, and formally kissed it. He had grown a beard whilst away in the field and his whiskers tickled. The expression in his eyes filled her heart and liquefied her loins. "My lord, welcome home," she said with equal formality, although the look she returned him was incandescent. "If you had sent word ahead, we would have been better prepared to greet you."



"And that would have been a pity. I wanted it to be a surprise." He turned to take the welcome-cup of wine presented by the hall steward. Having taken a formal sip, he passed it on to Jean D'Earley who also drank and in his turn gave it to another knight of the mesnie.



"Your supper will be a surprise too, depending on what supplies we have to hand," Isabelle answered, but she was laughing. She felt giddy, a little drunk on his presence. It was always the same after so long a parting. Appetites that had been suppressed of a necessity were suddenly brought into sharp focus, both the physical and the intellectual.



"After the rats' tails and boiled worms we've been eating, anything will taste like manna," he said with a wink to his sons, and headed for the tower stairs. All around the hall wives, sweethearts, and children were greeting their menfolk and the sound of voices raised in pleasure and merriment filled and warmed a room that had been too long empty.



"That bad?" Isabelle said.



"Some of the time," William answered evasively. Entering the chamber, he acknowledged the curtseys of Isabelle's women with a nod and went over to the cradle at the bedside to gaze down at the slumbering baby. He had received news in the field of Gilbert's birth and baptism. A third son to vouchsafe the bloodline.



"He chose to come feet first into the world and frighten everyone into thinking he might be stillborn, but he's behaved himself ever since." Isabelle joined him in his scrutiny. "From the tales I have heard of your days as a squire, he takes after you."



He looked amused. "In what way?"



"It was said that you did naught but eat and sleep and earn yourself the nickname 'Guzzleguts.'"



"Unfair," William protested. "I liked food and sleep when I could get them—what youth of those years does not? But I had to work for them."



"Still, the name suits him. He's already got a tooth and he's started eating pap." She looked at him through her lashes. "I employed a wet nurse last week."



William said nothing, but his body reacted instantaneously. Isabelle liked to suckle the children herself for a time at least, viewing it as both a maternal pleasure and an obligation. Her offspring were of de Clare blood and it was only fitting they were nourished from that source, at least until they were ready to begin weaning. However, the Church declared it a sin for a nursing woman to have carnal knowledge of her husband. While he and Isabelle sometimes ignored the strictures, the burden of guilt in disobeying them added furtive worry rather than piquancy to their marriage bed. It was always a relief when the time came to employ the wet nurse, especially following a long, dry summer.



He became aware of another presence at his side and, looking down, met the wide solemn gaze of his three-year-old daughter. Her bottom lip was caught in her teeth as if she wasn't quite sure who he was and what her response ought to be. He squatted on his heels so that his gaze was on a level with hers. Her eyes were winter-deep like his own and her hair was rich brown with coppery lights. Freckles peppered her dainty nose and there was a smear of dust on her chin. He raised his hand and gently thumbed it away.



"And how goes it with you, young mistress?" he asked solemnly.



Mahelt made a face at him and giggled. She presented him with some of her poupées to admire, including two he hadn't seen before: a swaddled baby and a knight with a surcoat and shield of green and gold.



"Who's this?" he asked.



"It's you," she replied, eyeing him as if he was a lackwit.



"I thought you already had one of me," he said.



"Yes, but that's when you're my papa at home. This one's you when you're gone. Mama's going to make me a king next."