The Scarlet Lion by Elizabeth Chadwick Read Free Book Online Page A

had packed his baggage chests and made sure he had sufficient travelling provisions. She had spoken to their stewards and chamberlains and prepared herself to govern their estates in his absence.
     
    "Crid hé
Daire cnó
Ócán é
Pocán do."
     
    William entered the room, prowling on the balls of his feet like a cat, his edginess almost as tangible as the tension in her hair when she combed it vigorously enough to hear sparks. He was always like this when there was a campaign in the offing, whether of diplomacy or battle. She hoped he had the energy to sustain him through this particular one. He still possessed a young man's vigour and zest, but Isabelle had not forgotten how the squabbles over England during Richard's absence on crusade and subsequent imprisonment had drained that vitality perilously low.
       Walter had fallen asleep at her breast. Gently she prised him from the nipple and went to lay him in the fleece-lined cradle. Then, lacing up her shift, she turned her attention to William. He had sat down on the cushioned bench before the banked hearth and removed his shoes and tunic. Isabelle went to pour wine for them both, cutting her own with spring water.
       "The royal esnecca sails on the noon tide tomorrow." He rotated the cup in his hands. "I have to be gone by dawn."
       "Then you are not going to get much sleep," she said. "It's already the darkest part of the night."
       He shrugged. "I am not tired. I'll sleep when I have the leisure. If the sea crossing is calm, then I can snatch a few hours in the deck shelter."
       Setting her drink aside, she came to stand behind him and began slowly kneading his shoulders. His muscles were so tight with tension that it was like pressing her thumbs into stone, and she was certain he must have a savage headache.
       "Am I doing the right thing?" he asked.
       She heard the need for reassurance in his voice and pitched her own to the same lazy rhythm as her movements. "Do you believe you are not?"
       He laughed sourly. "When the Archbishop of Canterbury shakes his head and my own knights and members of my family look at me as if I've turned into a dribbling lackwit for supporting John, then I wonder."
       "If you supported Arthur, you would probably have received the same looks," she murmured. "It is not an enviable choice."
       "No," he said, the one word serving to express the surfeit of burdens caused by the dilemma. Closing his eyes, he gave a soft groan. "Ah that's good."
       "You and William de Braose will make John a king," she said thoughtfully. "It was de Braose's word at Richard's deathbed that named John the heir, and it is your influence on the English barons that will bring them to accept him. He will owe you."
       He made a non-committal sound.
       Isabelle kneaded his shoulders in silence. The fire ticked softly in the hearth and the baby snuffled in his sleep. "At the least he should confirm you in the rest of my father's lands," she murmured. "Ask him for Pembroke. My grandsire was the Earl, but my father was never granted the title or given the lands. I would have it restored to where it rightfully belongs."
       She felt his muscles tighten again, and waited, fingers gently massaging. Finally he released the tension on a deep sigh. "I cannot deny that I have sometimes thought on the matter." He reached up to take one of her hands and draw it down to his lips.
       "Pembroke should be ours," she said. "And Cilgerran. The soil is rich and fertile; there's a fine port and good sea crossing to Ireland…If you ask him for nothing else, beloved, ask him for this."
       William slid his hand up her arm and pulled her round and down onto his knee. "You are ambitious, my love," he said, smiling.
       "And you are not? I only want what is ours by right—for you and for our sons." Her tone sharpened. "If we are going to have John for King, then we should have some recompense." She pushed herself out of his lap.