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

"Are you coming to bed?"
       He shook his head. "I'm not tired."
       "You don't have to sleep." When he started to grin, she made a face at him. "I meant you could just rest awhile."
       Still grinning, he followed her to their bed. As Isabelle drew back the covers she felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her, pulling her into his arms, dextrously untying the ribbon on her chemise. "Rest be damned," he said.
       Sensitive warmth flooded Isabelle's loins. "I am still feeding Walter," she warned breathlessly. "And it's Lent."
       "Then I'll confess my weakness in the morning," he muttered against her ear. "Be sweet, Isabelle, I need you." He pushed the chemise off her shoulders, his mouth seeking hers. Suddenly weak with desire herself, she let their bed catch the bend of her knees, and falling upon the coverlet of embroidered wool, drew him down with her.
       Later, she lay quietly beside him as the few remaining hours of darkness counted towards dawn. Despite his declaration that he was not tired, he was heavily asleep, one hand grasping her hair as Walter had done. She was the wakeful one. The possibility of attaining what until now had been a dream, the full restoration of her father's de Clare inheritance, filled her with anticipation, but also made her queasy with fear. The higher the climb, the longer the fall, and she had no illusions about the danger of embarking on such a path.
     
     
     
     

 
     
    Four
     
     
    NORTHAMPTON CASTLE, MAY 1199
     
     
    Ranulf de Blondeville, Earl of Chester, threw the dice, cursed at the score, and moved a pawn on the chessboard. "I learned never to play this game with John," he told William, who was sitting across the trestle from him. They were occupying the window embrasure of a private chamber above the great hall, their game illuminated by cresset lamps and candles. "He cheats."
       William scooped the dice into a small ivory cup and gave them a shake. "Mayhap, but all men do their best to help fate along in some way."
       Chester conceded the point. "True, Marshal. I wouldn't put using loaded dice beyond my stepson either. He's a brat."
       William arched his brows. The brat to whom Chester was referring was Prince Arthur, Chester being married to the youth's mother, Constance, Countess of Brittany. It was not an amicable match and the couple lived apart; indeed, an annulment was in the offing, mooted by the lady, so rumour ran, although no one was going to ask the proud and touchy Earl of Chester for the intimate details. Still only twenty-nine, he was one of the most powerful magnates in the realm with his own strong sphere of influence.
       Chester's thin upper lip curled in fastidious aversion. "Even if there are issues between myself and John that have to be resolved, I would rather a hundred times serve him as King than see that obnoxious child put his backside on the throne and be guided by his poisonous bitch of a dam. At least John's mother is an asset to him."
       William threw the dice and moved his own chess piece. "Constance is as ambitious for her son as Queen Eleanor is for John," he said. "Without her striving, Arthur would not be the threat that he is now."
       "Mayhap not," Chester said, "but she is still no Eleanor. I'd have every respect for her if she was because there is a woman of truly noble heart and spirit."
       "Amen to that," William agreed vigorously as he thought of the ageing Queen Mother, who even now was embarking on a progress of her lands, calming the turbulence left by Richard's death, the son who in her own words had been the "staff in my hand and the light in my eyes."
       Ranulf eyed William astutely. "You, the justiciar, and the Archbishop between you seem to have the disaffected lords eating out of your hands."
       William laughed. "Not quite, my lord. The only thing we can be pleased about is that they haven't bitten our hands off yet."
       Ranulf rattled the dice cup. "It helps that