by Speer, Flora
He left her stunned by his vision, and terrified, too. She did not know if it was possible to conquer Wales. From the little she had heard of that wild country, she doubted it. William’s father had tried and failed, and William was not the military commander his father had been. She feared Lionel, his ambition ignited by his renewed friendship with the king, was overreaching himself.
She felt certain Ralph Flambard would work against this plan of Lionel’s, if only out of spite. And Lionel could easily be killed in a campaign such as he had described. If he were, that would leave her a virtual prisoner of the king she loathed. And she had now a new, greater fear. She had lately been queasy almost every morning. She was almost certain that dark, tumultuous night in late September when Lionel had been so drunk, had led to the conception of a child. She resolved out of fear that she would say nothing about her pregnancy until it was so obvious that she could not deny it.
Chapter 8
“His name is Walter fitz Alan,” Aloise confided with a languishing sigh. “Haven’t you seen him? Well, he only arrived at court yesterday. My lord says he is superb in combat, extremely clever, and a notable charmer of ladies.”
“He certainly seems to have charmed you.” Isabel wondered idly if this Sir Walter would be Aloise’s next lover. Sir Stephen was remarkably tolerant of his young wife’s affairs, but then, he was old and growing daily more infirm. Aloise said he was often confused, so it was possible he was unaware of his wife’s activities. “I shall have to see this paragon of knightly virtue,” Isabel said, teasing.
She did not have long to wait. The newcomer was with Guy when Isabel came out of the chapel later that same morning and paused to greet her brother-in-law.
“Are you not riding in the hunt today?” Guy asked, looking at her costume.
“It is too cold for me.” Isabel had just about used up all possible excuses for avoiding horses. She did not want to ride, fearing that if she did she might be thrown and miscarry the only child she was ever likely to have. She had gone into the chapel to ask for guidance in the best way to tell her husband she was with child, but heaven had sent her no help. She felt too depressed in spirit, deserted even by the saints, to notice at first that Guy had an older companion, until he presented the man to her.
“Your father and mine were comrades-in-arms when they were both young,” Sir Walter said, bowing over her hand. “I heard that Sir Fulk’s daughter was beautiful. I had no idea how beautiful.”
“I thank you, sir.” Isabel had heard enough compliments on her looks not to be embarrassed by open admiration. Recalling Aloise’s sighs of rapture over this man, she looked at him more closely.
Sir Walter was very tall and surprisingly lean for a fighting man. He was clean-shaven, with smooth black hair and dark eyes, an arrogant, high-bridged nose, and a wide, passionate mouth. Under his warm cloak he wore dark hose and tunic and sturdy boots. Isabel guessed he and Guy were headed toward the stables to join the hunt when they had seen her.
“Your brother-in-law is to become my squire,” Sir Walter told her.
“I did not know that,” Isabel replied, trying to tear her eyes away from the dark, fathomless depths of his gaze. “Guy, you should have told me.”
“Both Guy and a newcomer to court named Brian of Collen, who is from Wales, will be made my squires the day after tomorrow,” Walter said, his eyes never leaving Isabel’s face.
“I do not know this Brian of whom you speak, but Guy is a fine young man and will make you an excellent squire.” Isabel was scarcely aware of what she was saying. She felt as if she was drowning in Walter’s eyes.
“I’m very happy about it,” Guy offered with boyish enthusiasm. “Sir Walter is said to be a marvelously strong warrior. I want to learn all he can teach me.”
“I’m sure you will,” Isabel murmured, finally managing to disengage her eyes from Walter’s.
“Guy,” Walter said, “Begin your duties as squire early, I beg you. You may go and saddle my horse, if you will. I’ll join you shortly.”
Guy, trained to obedience as a page, trotted off to do his new master’s bidding, while Sir Walter remained with Isabel.
“You are fond of him,” Walter said.
“Yes, I am.” She was still watching Guy’s back, afraid to look directly at Walter again.
“I’ll see he comes to no harm. For your sake.” When she did not answer at once, he added, “Look at me, let me see your glorious blue eyes once more.”
“I must go.” But she did glance at him, and stopped in mid-step, held by his intense look.
“I never thought it would happen to me,” Walter said in a voice full of wonder.
“I do not understand your meaning, sir.” Isabel tried desperately to recover her composure. She had that drowning feeling again, and knew a flash of anger at the man who was the cause of it. She had spoken sharply to him, but his response was as gentle as a lover’s caress, and his voice sounded an oddly tender note for one who did not know her.
“I regret we did not meet long ago, Lady Isabel. I would have carried you off and made you my own before you were wed to Sir Lionel.”
“Such an action would have destroyed the friendship you claim existed between our fathers,” she said. Striving for a lightness she did not truly feel, she fluttered long lashes at him. “Surely you would not have wanted to do that, Sir Walter.”
“You think I am only flattering you and talking the same nonsense these courtiers talk.” Walter made a disdainful gesture with one hand, as though the empty space before the chapel was filled with glittering noblemen. “I tell you, my lady, I speak seriously. I have never been so touched by a woman’s beauty. And your eyes. I see such sadness there.”
Isabel hastily lowered the offending eyes and attempted to put Sir Walter fitz Alan in his proper place.
“I warn you, sir, no one in King William’s court speaks seriously about anything at all. If you are wise, neither will you.” She gave him a cool, polite smile, no more, and left him to his riding and hunting. It took her nearly half the day to put his intense black eyes out of her mind.
Isabel flirted frequently. It was a desperately needed affirmation of her desirability in the face of Lionel’s rejection of her. She never let it go too far, lest tongues begin to wag. In a treacherous court that was a hotbed of vice and intrigue, Isabel’s name was unsullied by any hint of scandal, a fact that made her feel superior to the other women.
She sensed that Sir Walter would not be content to pay her light compliments and then leave her alone. She would have to be careful of him. She sighed at this additional complication to an already difficult existence.
They met again the next day. King William himself, unaware of their previous meeting, presented Walter to her. On this occasion Walter wore a black and silver brocaded tunic, made of fine silk fabric from far-away Byzantium, fitted in the latest style to show off his slim yet muscular body. Above the bands of silver embroidery at the tunic’s neck, the angular planes of his dark, sharply chiseled face were clearly illuminated by the torches and candlelight filling the great hall. Next to the red-faced king with his gaudily colored garments opened to reveal a sweaty, hairy chest, Walter looked like a sleek black stallion.
“My lady.” Walter bent to kiss her hand, and over his head Isabel caught a glimpse of King William watching the action with an amused expression. She forced her features into coldness and pulled her fingers out of Walter’s grasp. Her every sense warned of peril from the obvious admiration in Walter’s dark face and the intense interest in the look the king fixed on both of them. What did William think he saw in Walter’s attitude toward her? Isabel felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. She was furious with herself. She had thought, after more than a year at this court, that she was well beyond blushing.
“You will entertain Sir Walter, will you not?” King William smiled upon them, apparently every inch the benevolent monarch, and then took himself off. Isabel saw him a moment later, one arm around Lionel’s should
ers, their heads close together as William spoke to his favorite. Walter followed Isabel’s glance.
“Sir Lionel stands high in the king’s regard,” Walter said, the soft insinuation in his voice making his meaning unmistakable.
“Be careful, sir. I too am honored by royal favor,” Isabel said coldly.
“If that is true, it is dishonor, from such as he,” Walter replied.
“How dare you?” she snarled, frightened by the need to repress a nearly uncontrollable urge to slap him. No man, certainly not this stranger, should have the ability to evoke such a response from her. She saw the king watching them, so she turned her back on Walter. He moved with her, still facing her, and she saw his eyes flick over her shoulder toward the king and then back to herself.
“I see I have offended you,” Walter said calmly.
“How dare you?” she hissed again, trying to keep her voice low lest someone should hear her. “I would not … I have never…with the king? Oh, you are despicable!”
“So I have been told more than once.” He regarded her a moment, his face softening as he looked at her. “I apologize for what I said. I see I was wrong about you. I knew of King William’s preferences before I came to England, and I had heard of both Sir Lionel and Ralph Flambard. I listen to gossip, you see. Before I met you I thought you must be like other court ladies I have known, who flaunt themselves and offer their bodies freely for their own or their husbands’ advantage, but now I know you are not like that at all. Now I have met you, and I think you are all any man could want or dream of or hope for. I wonder if Sir Lionel really appreciates you. I doubt it.”
“You are most unmannerly, sir. My husband is kind to me. Indeed, he spoils me with clothes and jewels and all sorts of entertainments.”
“Except that one entertainment that you so desperately need.” Walter’s smile was knowing, and Isabel recalled what Aloise had said about his conquests among the ladies of France and Brittany. “You are still an unawakened girl, Isabel, but I see fire in your eyes and I would rejoice to be the man to waken you.”
“You will never have the opportunity, Sir Walter,” she gasped, nearly overcome by this effrontery from a stranger, “For / will never speak to you again!”
She fled from him, brushing against Ralph Flambard as she went. She had not known he was standing so near. She hoped he had not heard Sir Walter’s ill-advised declaration.
“My Lady Isabel.” The handsome Flambard produced his usual unctuous smile. “Is something wrong, my lady? Allow me to aid you.” He put out one hand and Isabel cringed. She saw a gleam of amusement in his eye.
She hated and feared this suave devil of a man. She knew he worked constantly and actively for Lionel’s downfall. Ralph Flambard would tolerate no other favorites for the king’s attention, and he would stop at nothing to destroy his nearest rival. If he thought Isabel was interested in Sir Walter, or Sir Walter in her, he would use that information to do her, and Lionel, harm.
Flambard’s hand came down on her arm. Isabel stared at it. It was a plump, white hand, uncallused by manual work or the use of weapons, and graced by two beautiful gold rings. Flambard was vain about his hands. It was rumored he had special salves made to rub onto them to keep them soft, and that he polished his nails with a silk cloth to make them shine. The fingers now resting on Isabel’s green silk sleeve did not look at all like a man’s. Isabel thought of slugs in a garden and felt ill.
“You are unwell,” Flambard said, with every appearance of genuine concern. “Shall I escort you to your chamber, my lady?”
“There’s no need.” Isabel freed herself from him as quickly as she could without offering insult. He was too powerful for her to reveal what she really thought of him. “You are kind, but it’s only the heat in here. I need a few moments of cool air, that’s all.”
“Take care, dear lady,” said Ralph Flambard. “We want no harm to come to you.”
Isabel left the king’s banqueting hall, racing toward her own chamber, where she could be alone and calm the furious blood now pounding in her ears.
Walter fitz Alan was a fool, a stupid, dangerous fool. Did he not know the damage he could do, to her and to Lionel, by pursuing her? It might be that he did know. He might have said what he did, aware that Ralph Flambard was nearby and would overhear him. Sir Walter could be in the pay of one of Lionel’s many enemies, possibly even of Ralph Flambard himself, could be part of a plot to ruin Lionel by destroying her honor. Either that or Walter had been merely trying to charm her, to add her to the collection of adoring ladies he had reputedly left sighing over him in France. Either way, he meant danger to her and to Lionel, to their precarious position, if he tried to draw her into some scandalous involvement. She had survived the quicksands of the court of William Rufus so far only because she had trusted and cared for no one but herself, and because she had not involved herself with any man. If she wanted to avoid social disaster she had to continue that way.
She got control of herself at last, assuming again her usual cool demeanor and vowing that Walter fitz Alan would never upset her again. No man would. Not ever.
By late January Isabel could no longer keep her secret. She knew it would make no difference to her marriage. Lionel was incapable of changing what he was, so that part of her life would remain a barren desert. But a child, especially if it were a son, would give her new dignity among the other noblewomen at court. She had to tell Lionel before some astute lady made a clever guess and started a rumor. He had been complaining lately that she was putting on weight, which spoiled the effect of her sleekly fitted gowns.
“There is good reason for that, my lord,” she told him the next time he commented on her newly rounded bosom. “I am going to have a child in June, an heir for Adderbury.”
“Good God.” Lionel had been standing before her, untwisting a heavy neck chain he wanted her to wear that day. Now he sank down on the side of her bed, the tangled golden links dangling from his hands forgotten in his astonishment. “I find it hard to believe.”
“It’s your fault, my lord. You are the one who got drunk and forced me.”
“I know.” Lionel made a motion with one hand then looked down at the necklace, a gift to him from William. He tossed it onto the bed as though it burned his fingers. “A child. A son.”
“Are you angry with me?”
“No. How could I be? It is my child, I’ve no doubt of that. Someone would have told me if you had been unfaithful. Only, I wonder what William will do when he hears?”
“The king,” Isabel said sharply, “will probably impose a new tax, one on all first-born children, and after you have paid it, he’ll pay no attention at all to the child.”
“I wish I could believe that would be all. I’d gladly give him half my lands to keep my child safe. But he’s changing, Isabel, he’s becoming more vicious and grasping all the time, and I am less and less able to bend him to my will. It’s Ralph Flambard’s influence. And in private…” he paused, seeing her white face. “I won’t tell you about that.”
Isabel realized for the first time that Lionel was trapped, a victim of his own ambition and the king’s selfish, distorted love. She made a sudden decision.
“I know I always insisted I wanted to remain at court,” she said. She put her hands out impulsively, catching both of his. “Lionel, could we not quit this unhealthy place and go to live at Adderbury? Here I am frightened all the time, and I think that’s not good for the baby. I wouldn’t complain about it being dull, I promise I wouldn’t, if we could go to Adderbury and live quietly and feel safe. Please say yes.”
“William would never give me permission to leave. He needs me as he needs the wine he drinks too much of every night. You know what would happen if we left court without permission. He’d find some excuse to confiscate everything I hold and put us both in chains, if not worse.
“And even if we did obtain permission to retire to Adderbury,” Lionel went on, “What would happen then? If we loved each other,
we could make a heaven of Adderbury, but, while we are yoked together unto death by our parents’ arrangements for us, what is between us is not love and never could be. You don’t really want to leave court. It’s your whole life. You would soon be bored in that gloomy pile of stone and wood, and I, I’d accept sweet beardless youths for squires. I couldn’t help myself, you see. Sooner or later there would be a hellish scandal. Folk in the countryside are not so tolerant as those at court. In any case, I am too ambitious for a quiet life. No, my dear, we must play the game to the end. We stay at court.”
“Will you tell the king about this or shall I?” Isabel laid one hand across her rounded abdomen in a protective gesture. She was surprised when Lionel’s big hand covered hers.
“I will do it today, before he hears it from someone else. I’ll make a joke about it to keep him from being angry with me. A filthy joke.”
Isabel, looking up at him, saw endless anguish in her husband’s eyes. She would have put her arms around him and offered what comfort she could, but he walked around the bed, putting it between them and picking up the chain he had tossed down on it. He began working at the chain again until it was straightened. He laid it neatly on the bed.
“There,” he said. “It’s a comfort to know there is something that can be untangled.”
“My lady.” King William Rufus stood before Isabel, fists on hips, staring openly at the soft curve below her belt. “By God, it is so. I never would have believed it. Tell me, lady, is it truly your husband’s child?”
Around them, courtiers snickered at the king’s wit, and craned their necks for a better look at Isabel’s reaction. Ralph Flambard hovered in the background, smiling with silky craft. Isabel saw Walter fitz Alan, dark and dangerous-looking, his jaw clenched tightly. Behind Walter, his new squire, Guy, looked as if he would like to hit someone. Isabel would not permit herself to show anger or dismay. She made a slight curtsey and then stood looking back at the king with just the right degree of humility, but there was more than a touch of ice in her voice.
