The Scarlet Lion(8)

"I was born there." Her voice took on a wistful note. "Half my blood is of that land. I have a longing to see it again…and my mother. I was little more than a child when we parted and now I have children of my own. Even if we were never close, I desire to speak to her one woman to another, and she has a right to see her grandchildren."



"I always keep my promises," he said with the assertive reiteration she had heard him use to difficult vassals and pouting children alike.



She sighed. "I know you do." For a while there was silence as Isabelle tried to put her concerns aside and focus on the pleasure of having William's warmth in the bed beside her. "You will give it serious thought though…?"



William's voice was filled with wry humour. "I haven't been asked to think about so many things in a long time, and I've not been home a day yet."



"I suppose there are many things you haven't done in a long time," Isabelle said, leaning over to kiss him. "What were you saying about stamina?"





Two





LONGUEVILLE, NORMANDY, SPRING 1199





Isabelle sat at her embroidery with her ladies. Pulling away from winter, the season's light had a pale clarity that meant more intricate sewing could be undertaken. Bending an attentive ear to the chatter, she was glad to hear a lively note in the women's voices, for that too, like the return of the sun and the sight of birds building their nests, was a sure sign spring had arrived.



Jean D'Earley's young wife Sybilla was stitching an exquisite design of silver scallop shells on to a tunic band. Embroidery was her particular skill and her husband was the best-dressed knight of William's mesnie. Sybilla was William's niece, daughter of his deceased elder brother. The girl possessed a quiet disposition, but Isabelle believed the creativity and dedication exhibited in her sewing were indicative of a rich internal life that didn't need gossip and socialising to sustain it.



"How are you feeling now?" Isabelle asked her. The young woman had been unwell for three days running with a queasy stomach, and Isabelle had her suspicions, compounded by the way Sybilla kept looking at the cradle holding the newest addition to the Marshal family, three-month-old Walter.



"A little better, my lady. The infusion of ginger has helped." Sybilla looked pensive. "I…I think I may be with child, although I am not yet certain."



Isabelle patted her arm in reassurance. "I suspect so too. It is good news for you and Jean if it be the case."



Sybilla looked dubious. "He has been much absent with the Earl and we haven't bedded together often of late; it may be a false alarm."



Isabelle sent a rueful glance towards the cradle herself. "William only has to look at me and I quicken."



"Aye, well, you and the Earl have had plenty of practice," teased Elizabeth Avenel, wife to one of William's knights. She was always eager to talk of matters bawdy or sexual when the bower ladies were gathered over their sewing, although in mixed company she was less bold. "Everyone knows that unless a wife experiences the same satisfaction as her husband, her seed will not descend to mix with his and she will not conceive." She chuckled at Sybilla. "If you're feeling full enough for the sickness, my girl, then your lord must have discovered the art of pleasuring you in bed."



"Elizabeth!" Isabelle spluttered with a look at Sybilla who had flushed bright pink.



"Well it's true!" Lady Avenel defended herself. "Even some priests say so. The ones who don't are juiceless old prunes who've never had a good fu—"



She bit off her words as the chamber door opened and William flung into the room. He glanced swiftly at the circle of women, said, "Isabelle, a word," and strode over to an embrasure further down the room. Sweeping aside a motley assortment of children's toys, he sat down on the cushioned chest under the window splay, two vertical frown lines etching the space between his brows.



Isabelle's mirth faded. Abandoning her sewing, she left her women and hastened to William's side. "What's wrong?"



He breathed out hard and rubbed his neck. "Ach, nothing out of the usual. I don't even know why I am surprised. Is there any wine left, or has the sewing party drunk it all?"



Something had riled him; he didn't usually make acerbic comments about her women. "No, there is plenty left to drown your woes," she said sweetly and fetched the cup and flagon herself, exchanging eloquent glances with her ladies as she did so.



Having taken a long drink, William rested the cup on his thigh and sighed out hard. "I've just been talking to a messenger from Baldwin de Béthune."