He bit his lip to avoid laughing, and at the same time felt a little sad. He swung her up in his arms. "Well, I'm home now, sweetheart."
"Yes, but you'll go away again." She touched the rich braid edging the neckline of his tunic.
"Not for a long while yet…plenty of time to make kings and queens and princes."
"And another baby?" she asked, eyes wide.
He spluttered. "You'd have to ask your mother about that," he said with a grin at his wife.
*** Tucking a towel around his waist, William stepped from the bathtub. Isabelle dried his torso and conducted a careful scrutiny. Apart from the scars of wounds taken in his youth, of which there were very few given his career in the tourneys and on the battlefield, she was disturbed to notice one or two recent additions, mainly of bruises fading to yellow. Since he was a senior commander and overseer of campaigns these days, there should not have been any bruises at all.
"What?" he asked warily as she moved from his back around to his chest.
"We heard a preposterous tale about the siege of Milli." She handed the damp towel to a maid and folded her arms. "Apparently you ran across the ditch, led an assault up a scaling ladder, and fought single-handed on the wall walk."
He shrugged. "You should know by now not to listen to
tales, my love."
"It depends who's telling them. When it's one of my own messengers who was in camp and witnessed the event, I tend to yield him credence."
He caught her round the waist and pulled her against his damp body. "I'm not in my dotage yet, and I'll have neither my king nor my wife putting me out to grass."
Isabelle set one palm against his chest and with the fingers of her other hand traced the outline of his freshly shaven jaw where the ghost of his beard lingered in the outline of lighter, untanned skin. "I harboured no such thoughts, but I am bound to think of your safety. Besides," she added mischievously, "when old warhorses are put out to grass, it's usually to stud."
His eyes narrowed at the remark. "And those in their prime can usually manage both the battlefield and the breeding stall." He gestured towards the bed. "Draw the hangings and I'll prove it to you."
Isabelle laughed and blushed, aware of the proximity of the children and grinning, wide-eared servants. "I already have the proof…" she said with a nod towards Gilbert's cradle, and a glance at their other offspring who were chasing each other round the room, wild with excitement at having their father and his entourage home. "…of both." Her fingers were rueful as she ran them over his bruises. The towel did little to conceal the detail that he was perfectly capable of proving his point, but decency was swiftly restored by the garments which had been warming at the fire: loose linen braies, chausses, and a tunic of soft dark-blue wool. Nonetheless, the look William exchanged with her promised the matter would be attended to at a more appropriate and leisurely moment and caused Isabelle to shiver with luxurious anticipation.
"We took Milli and captured the Bishop of Beauvais, so Richard was mightily pleased." William sat down to drink wine and eat a platter of honey pastries. "And we turned back the French—for now at least. Richard's short of money again but that's nothing new. He's talking about raising the taxes in England to gain more revenue. I daresay his chancellor will do his best to accommodate him and squeeze where necessary."
Isabelle made a mental note to have a word with their stewards and clerics. She and William would pay their dues and even a little more than their dues because it was useful to keep royal favour. There were often occasions when they would lend Richard money from their own revenues, but they were able to do that because they were astute and kept an eye on their own interests and purse strings. It helped that much of their English revenue was based on the wool from their Welsh Marcher estates, of which Flemish looms could not get enough.
William sat Mahelt on his knee and shared a pastry with her. "The Count of Mortain acquitted himself well," he remarked.
Isabelle couldn't prevent herself from making a contemptuous sound.
"Mama doesn't like the Count of Mortain," announced sevenyear-old Will, who had been listening and watching the parental exchange and unconsciously absorbing the nuances. "She says that an ermine is still a stoat under the season's changes."
William helped himself to another pastry. "Your mother is right to be cautious," he said. His tone was casual, if not the warning look he cast at Isabelle. When he spoke again, his words were as much for her as for their son. "But for the moment I have no quarrel with him and he is the King's brother."