‘No, Your Grace, I did not. I went thither on the King’s orders and found the place full of rumour and dissent. The late King summoned me then to Chinon, whither he had gone from Le Mans but before I had arrived Count John went over to Count Richard and the King of France which brought about your husband’s apoplexy.’
‘From which he died?’
‘Aye, Madam, and most unkindly too.’
‘Tell me.’
‘’Twas not pretty, my Lady.’
‘Tell me, FitzMarshal. All of it.’
‘All, my Lady?’
‘All. So that I might know of it.’
William related the condition in which he had found Henry and the circumstances leading up to the King’s death that he had discovered by his investigation. He told her also of the manner in which he had brought the King’s body to Fontevrault. Eleanor listened, her face expressionless and when he had finished, she crossed herself and said, ‘I am sorry that you had to do for the father what you did for the son, there were others whose duty should have attended to these matters.’ She sighed, then added after a moment’s reflection, ‘it seems from the papers the man FitzPeter carried from my son, the Lord Richard, that you are destined to serve our family.’ She gave him a wan smile. ‘You may go now. Your lodgings are prepared and I shall send for you when FitzPeter returns.’
‘Your Grace, there is one matter…’
‘Go on.’
‘The Lord Richard’s Coronation…’
‘FitzPeter has the commission for it. I shall see it sent to the Archbishop of Canterbury tomorrow. You may go.’
‘And you shall attend?’ William asked, making his obeisance.
‘Is that what my son sent you hither to determine?’
‘Aye, my Lady.’
The Queen smiled enigmatically but returned no response, only repeating her dismissal.
In the few days that followed, William kicked his heels in a quiet fury, aware that something touching himself was up and not daring to ask for fear of seeming presumptuous. On his way north from Fontevrault he had diverted his route sufficiently to visit several of the estates belonging to Isabelle de Clare, to inspect them and make his face known to their various stewards and chief villeins, but they were not his by right of demesne until he had married the Lady of Striguil and he was conscious that, should his actions be seen as importunate, the lands he so coveted might yet be snatched from him. On the journey, FitzPeter had let slip sufficient hints that he should just be patient, which was all very well when travelling, but when idle in Winchester, it ate into his soul. The only action William took during that brief period was to send John de Earley to his own elder brother John Marshal, to make known to him that, after many years, his younger sibling had returned to England.
FitzPeter returned to the Queen’s presence in Winchester after four days and William was summoned before Eleanor. ‘You shall go at once to London, FitzPeter will accompany you. Arrangements have been made for you to lodge with Richard FitzReiner and you will find the Lady of Striguil in the care of Ranulf de Glanville, lodged in The White Tower.’
William took his leave of the Queen and, with FitzPeter and his mesnie, rode east to London, towards the Conqueror’s fortress where the Justiciar Ranulf de Glanville at first refused to allow the ward of the Old King to be released into William’s care, having had second thoughts after receiving the commands of both Queen Eleanor and Duke Richard, borne by FitzPeter.
‘Why not?’ William asked bluntly, as a protesting FitzPeter fulminated at his elbow.
‘My Lord I have examined my conscience and until Count Richard is here, in England, anointed…’
‘What of the Lady Eleanor’s writ and instruction?’ FitzPeter put in, ‘you gave me every assurance…’
‘The Lady Eleanor has been mewed up these sixteen years. What authority may be placed upon such a writ in such a time, my Lord?’ De Glanville asked, an air of desperation in his voice.
‘I am appointed a Justiciar,’ William said shortly, towering over De Glanville, who remained seated at his table, ‘we are equals, you and I, but I would have my way in the matter. Bring the lady to me.’
With an obvious show of reluctance De Glanville rose and passed word that the young woman should be brought into William’s presence, then he and FitzPeter withdrew. Helping himself to a goblet of De Glanville’s wine William stared from the narrow window in De Glanville’s chamber, staring down onto the grey waters of the Thames and the marshy surroundings of the low eminence upon which the Conqueror had had his castle built, commanding the lowest crossing point of the wide tidal stream.
Warm summer sunlight danced in a thousand points of light upon the great river and for a moment he forgot for what he waited, so lost was he in watching the various vessels working the stream. Recalling his own voyages, he thought of Robert De Salignac and their last days at sea on their return from the Holy Land and again envied his friend his forthcoming great adventure with the Lionheart. He longed himself to go back, all the more so now that the Holy Places were in the hands of the unbelievers. What was it they were calling the Turks now? The Saracens? As for the tempestuous Channel, he had crossed it but four times and found it a very different experience from that of the Mediterranean which, whilst able to boil itself into a gale, whipped by sudden winds of extreme ferocity, lacked the inherent malice of the strongly tidal Channel with its short and vicious waves, its mists and rain, and lack of marks. And this River of Thames also possessed the strange magic of tidal waters that FitzPeter had told him belonged in some way to the phases of the moon. So lost was he in contemplation of the incomprehensibility of it all that he did not hear the door open and was only roused from his reverie by the discreet cough of a young woman kept waiting for too long. He spun round, recalled to the present with an apology upon his lips.
‘Forgive me, Madam,’ he said as his eyes adjusted from the bright light of the river to the gloom of the chamber, into which he advanced.
‘My Lord.’ The slim figure dipped slightly in courteous curtsey and he was aware of an older woman, her hand-maid, no doubt, who waited in the deeper shadows by the door.
‘Isabelle?’ he said tentatively, holding out his hand and looking at her properly for the first time. Her close-fitting gown was of a pale grey, edged across her breast in gold and silver thread. An elaborate knotted belt was passed about her slender waist and, tied in front, fell below her knees. Her head was loosely coifed in white and a heavy tress of braided hair fell below her waist. It was of a red-gold colour that reminded him of the Young King Henry.
She was staring at him anxiously. She could not have been past seventeen years of age, he thought, with a shock, and he was past forty! Her hand was cool in his and trembled a little. Well it might he thought, unable to find words to break the silence growing between them, until he bethought himself of his manners and offered her Ranulf de Glanville’s chair and poured her a goblet of De Glanville’s wine.
‘Here, my Lady, pray warm yourself against any chill you may feel in my presence. I assure you it is not intended towards you.’
She murmured her thanks and took the wine. He could see her shaking now and caught the faint chink of her teeth against the silver. She was of more than a mere pleasing appearance, he thought, having that creamy complexion that often goes with auburn hair. Her mouth was red-lipped, encarmined, no doubt, but made for kissing, and her eyes? He could not properly see the colour of them, but they were large, and bright under long lashes which she had darkened with soot or charcoal or some other concoction.
She lowered the goblet and William observed the fall of her breasts. He must hold his peace no longer.
‘We are to be married, Madam,’ he said in a low and – he hoped – kindly voice. ‘It is…was the desire of our late King Henry and has been confirmed by the Lord Richard of England, Normandy and Anjou…’ He faltered as she stared at him. This was all unbelievably pompous and her eyes were grey… no green…or were they a strange shade of hazel-br
own? He coughed awkwardly. To be past forty and feeling like a callow youth in front of this girl was a humiliation he had neither expected nor desired. His carnal tumblings with the whores of Guillaume de Tancarville’s household had not required such delicate pre-amblings, while his dealings with the ladies of the Royal Courts of both the Old and Young Henry’s had been more like exercises with weapons in the tiltyards, feints and blows amusing to both parties but leading to no serious conclusions. Only when he thought of his encounters with Queen Marguerite, consort to Henry the Young King, did his heart catch and the fog upon his mind lift.
He smiled, and picked up his thread, repeating himself. ‘We are to be married, you and I, and I hope that I do not displease you, my Lady, for you do not displease me…’ he trailed off, his rhetoric exhausted as she stared up at him until a cough from her hand-maid or waiting woman prompted her to respond.
‘No, my Lord, you do not displease me.’
It broke the ice, for he found himself laughing. ‘Come Isabelle, pray tell me the truth. I am an ill looking oaf.’
She caught his mood, pleased at his grinning, and he found himself under proper scrutiny. ‘You have all your teeth, my Lord,’ she said in a relieved tone.
‘Do I then pass muster, my Lady? Like a horse, to be judged by my teeth?’
She was laughing now. ‘I confess it to have been a worry, my Lord,’ she confessed.
‘But what about my other features, Isabelle?’
‘You have your hair, my Lord,’ she remarked, gaining confidence and revealing her anxieties at being told whom she was to marry.
‘Then I satisfy you even more. Come, tell me, can you read and write?’
‘Of course, my Lord,’ she faltered, intuitively sensing the question was loaded. ‘Why, can you not yourself read and..?’
He shook his head. ‘Nay, to my shame. My education was cut short and I was sent a hostage in war to the encampment of King Stephen.’
‘King Stephen?’ he could see she was now shocked. ‘During the Anarchy?’
He nodded. ‘I was a child,’ he added hurriedly, going on to tell her something of his boyhood, of his years as a camp-follower, an intended guarantor of his father’s good behaviour towards Stephen in a country riven by civil strife and of how his father had so callously and conspicuously abandoned him. ‘But God has been good to me Isabelle,’’ he concluded, crossing himself, ‘and perhaps never so much as now when I meet you. Do you think that you could be my wife?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ she asked sharply, revealing a quick intelligence that belied her youth and brought a disapproving intake of breath from the older woman who otherwise remained a mute witness to this pretty scene of blundering courtship. William contemplated Isabelle for a long moment. With her came land and power; to take the hand of a Royal ward was a mark of great favour and the young woman had no choice at all, but he could not leave the question open, for she had asked it directly. Their eyes met.
‘If you so wish it, Isabelle, you have a choice.’
‘But if I reject you, I should like be married to another and my rejection would be seen as yours, would it not?’
William nodded. ‘Aye, it would.’
‘And it would harm you, my Lord, in the eyes of the King and the Court.’ She said it as a statement; here was no naïf, William thought, but a shrewd young woman, well versed in courtly matters. ‘Aye, my Lady, and I should have to take the cross and travel to Outremere rather than live with the humiliation.’
‘You know that my father was Richard FitzGilbert de Clare, known to many as Richard Strongbow, Earl of Striguil, that my mother was Aoife, daughter of Dermot MacMurrough, the last Irish King of Leinster in Ireland, lands which were conquered by my father whilst you, by your own admission…’
‘Am almost a no-body, my Lady, a knight banneret, a body knight to the two Henrys, Young and Old, and now to Lord Richard…’ William was almost humbled under the young woman’s level appraisal. Had he walked like a fool into a trap? Was he about to insult Richard and let slip his one chance of achieving his ambition? Suddenly crusade to the Holy Land seemed less and less attractive, even though the thought was almost a blasphemy in itself.
She seemed amused at the expression on his face. Could she read his mind? God’s bones, she had red hair! Was she descended from the Old People, like Angharad ap Gwyn? He felt a sudden urge to cross himself again but if her next remark disarmed him still further it obviated this sudden need for piety.
‘But you possess a great reputation for prowess, my Lord, and you broke a lance and unhorsed Count Richard, whom I must thank for the opportunity to escape this grim place after four years of being mewed-up within its fastness.’
‘My Lady, you do me too much honour.’
‘Thought you that I should not apprehend him for whom I am intended?’
‘Not now I know you better,’ William said with a laugh, and she caught the sparkling in his eyes.
She returned the smile. ‘If I bring you land, William,’ she said intimately, ‘then you bring me freedom and the only condition I beg of you as my husband is that you allow me that.’
William considered her proposition and then nodded. ‘Upon my honour, asking only that therewith comes a fidelity to your oaths of loyalty which you will take at our marriage.’
‘Surely, my Lord,’ she said with a return to stiff formality, displaying a spirit that William suddenly found not merely admirable but utterly desirable, ‘surely that compact must be mutual, being made before God and sundry witnesses.’
He smiled and took her hand again. It was warm and he bent and kissed it before picking up De Glanville’s goblet and raising it to her. ‘My Lady, I pledge to thee my troth, in all honour.’
‘And I to thee, William Marshal,’ and so they drank, and William thought he had never heard his name spoken so beautifully.
***
In the presence of Robert de Salignac and others they were married in early August and thanks to the hospitality of Richard FitzReiner and afterwards, Enguerrand D’Aubernon, who lent William and Isabelle his house at Stoke Daubernon, they enjoyed a few weeks of near privacy, awaiting the arrival of Richard. In that time FitzPeter had prepared the writs and patents making William Lord of Striguil, the valley of the Wye - castellan of Chepstow castle on the Wye and of adjacent lands between the Wye and the Usk in Nether Gwent, the southernmost province of the Welsh marches. With Isabelle’s hand came a number of properties in Normandy, besides those he had already visited at Longueville and the manor of St Vaast-d-Equiqueville near Dieppe, the castles of Orbec and Meullers. Other lands once held by Richard Strongbow and taken into Henry’s hands upon his daughter’s ward-ship, remained in either the new King’s hands or those of Count John, who retained his titles in Ireland despite his brother’s accession to the English throne.
Although William might consider the possibility of recovering some of Strongbow’s Irish conquests, he could do little more regarding Leinster. Nor could he gain access to the lands that attached to the Lordship of Striguil in Hertfordshire and Essex, for they were in the hands of Isabelle’s mother, the Lady Aoif, widow of Strongbow, as long as she might live. For the nonce he could do little but express his satisfaction at the extent of his lands both south and north of the Channel. As for those to the north, in addition to Cartmel, he now possessed the keys to two great castles, Chepstow and Usk, both of which came with the patronage of abbeys; he had too some lesser fortresses in the borderlands, and a swathe of rich and level land lying to the north of the Severn Estuary which rose to the forest of Wentwood and ran up the valley of the Wye. Along with his estates in Normandy came also the English manor of Caversham on the Thames.
‘His Grace the King,’ explained FitzPeter, ‘is minded to allow you the purchase of the Shrievalty of Gloucester, its castle, and the Forest of Dean.’
William nodded gravely. ‘It shall be done in due time,’ he said, thinking of the state of his coffers which were far from bottomless and muc
h depleted of late.
‘As to your title, my Lord, your wife has in her own right that of Countess but until the King places a belt about you, you cannot in any sense regard yourself as her equal as Earl, only her master as in her lands, no matter what men may call you for flattery.’
William grinned ruefully. ‘I must express myself content, Geoffrey,’ he said to FitzPeter. And thinking of Isabelle, added: ‘and shall call myself William Marshal until the King’s Grace be further known.’
‘I beg you not to over-reach yourself, my Lord William,’ FitzPeter said solemnly. ‘There will be those for whom your present elevation will seem intolerable, the more so since the King goes into Outremer and leaves you among those few entrusted with his Kingdom.’
William nodded. And to compound the issue, his lack of formal rank would not endear him either, so that as either parvenu Earl or upstart commoner he would attract enemies. ‘But there is something else that I would have you prepare your writs for, Geoffrey. My father favoured the Augustinian Priory of Bradenstoke where he now lies buried, and I would have some canons translated from thence to a new house, to be supported by my lands at Cartmel. You shall ensure within the foundation charter that they are charged with masses for the souls of Henry Curtmantle and my Lord Henry his son, the Young King, from whom I first derived patronage.’
‘That is a pious act, my Lord,’ said FitzPeter approvingly, jotting down his master’s desires that he might draw up the requisite documents. ‘And masses for your father’s soul, my Lord?’
William considered the question for a long time so that FitzPeter thought him so abstracted as to add: ‘My Lord? Your father?’
‘Think you it a sin to condescend, Geoffrey,’ William asked quietly. ‘My father had no liking for me, nor I for him.’
‘Did Curtmantle?’
‘He was not my father?’
‘Our Lord and Saviour preached forgiveness.’
Finally, William, recalling that dreadfully burned and scarred face, nodded. ‘Aye, very well, my father too.’
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 36
