The Greatest Knight (38 page)

“I have a boat waiting. If you are ready, we can go now.”

“Now? This instant?” Isabelle shot him a questioning look. “What about my household and my baggage?”

“How great a household do you have?”

Isabelle pursed her lips and then said decisively, “Two ladies, a chaplain, and a scribe—although in truth they are all in my lord Glanville’s employ not mine.”

He nodded. “Do you wish to keep them?”

She shook her head. “Not if I can have the choosing of others.”

“It is for you to say and order your own household as you desire.”

Isabelle felt a stirring in her solar plexus as if some part of her that had gone to sleep in chains was now awakening and discovering that its fetters had vanished. “Then I will have new maids,” she said. “There’s a chaplain, Walter, who has been kind to me. I would reward him with an offer of service. My baggage will fit in one coffer.”

“Then let it be forwarded and I will ask Theobald Walter to arrange for your clerk to come to our new lodgings if he desires employment.”

She frowned. “Is such haste necessary? Am I truly in danger?”

“Not you, my lady, no,” William said, “but I would be happier to be away from this place and among friends. If you have no objection to leaving immediately, then I would like us to be on our way.”

It was a command couched as a polite and deferential request. Isabelle noted it and wondered what would happen if she baulked and said that she wanted to supervise her own packing and that she was going nowhere with him. Not that she had any intention of cutting off her nose to spite her face. She would give anything to go beyond these imprisoning walls. She was the key to his wealth and status, but he was her key to freedom. “No,” she said, lifting her chin. “I have no objection.”

***

William handed Isabelle down into the boat. The weedy smell of the river was strong in her nostrils and the water lapped against the sides of the vessel in small green tongues that occasionally burst in a white saliva of spray. He had lent her his cloak, for although it was a bright summer’s day, the wind off the river was stiff. She seated herself on one of the benches along the boat’s sides and watched him gingerly do the same. Behind them, the Tower was a great, limewashed bulwark and it was the sight of the massive walls rather than the breeze off the water that made her shiver and hug the double woollen folds of the cloak around her body.

“Cold?” he asked solicitously.

Isabelle stroked Damask who had curled at her feet, and shook her head. “Some walls protect, and some imprison,” she said. “I was little more than a child when I came here, but it has never been my home the way that Striguil and Leinster are.”

William nodded. “There are always places of the heart,” he said absently, his own gaze upon the great walls of the Tower as the boatman and his crewman pulled away upstream. Isabelle looked over her shoulder once and then fixed her gaze on the gulls and cormorants wheeling above the water. She wondered where his places of the heart were, but it was too soon to ask him such a question. She could sense his tension, and see it in the way he kept his hand on his sword hilt. It was only as they continued upstream with nothing more untoward happening than a bare-legged pair of urchins on the riverbank casting stones at the boat that he breathed out and relaxed. She risked a glance at him from beneath her lashes. Now they were in the full light of day, she could see the shadows under his eyes and the gaunt hollows beneath his cheekbones. She had seen that look before—on her mother’s face in the days following the death of her brother and her own forced departure from Striguil. It came from the strain of bearing up, of shouldering burdens of grief and care and still managing to go on. Ranulf de Glanville had looked like that too in recent days.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To the lodging of Richard FitzReinier.”

“Ah,” she said. The name meant nothing to her. De Glanville had not seen fit to keep her abreast of goings on outside the Tower and she had had to rely on her quick ears and Walter the clerk for what small snippets of news came her way.

William leaned back against the side of the boat. “He’s a merchant and city dignitary,” he said. “When I was in the retinue of the Young King, he used to provide us with goods. We would tell Richard what we needed and he would obtain it—anything from a box of pepper to a warhorse. I’ve known him for a long time. He has a house on Cheapside close to the cathedral and he has offered us his hospitality while we are in London.” He looked wry. “I am afraid that I have been in too much haste to make good provision for a wife and her household, but Richard has come to my rescue and assures me that he has everything in hand.” He leaned forward. “I am sorry there has been no time for a proper courtship. To be blunt, if I am to be secure then the marriage needs to take place immediately.”

Isabelle realised this, but to hear him say so still made her stomach lurch. “How soon is immediately?” she asked, trying to sound practical.

“Today, if you can bear it. I will give you what time I can to compose yourself.”

Which was no time at all, Isabelle thought. A piece of waterlogged wood bobbed away from them on the opaque green water. Isabelle eyed it and thought that she could drift aimlessly like that—let fate take her where it would—or she could be a passenger in a boat with this man and steer a true course. “I can bear it.” She raised her eyes to his. The look he returned was unsettling. She had received stares like that from other men, but she had never been alone with them at the time and had never liked any of them enough to dare to make a tryst.

As they travelled upriver, she gazed at the landscape that had been so close but never seen: the jetties and wharfsides; the bustling dock at Billingsgate where a fishing vessel was unloading a bulging net of salmon. The churches and dwellings with their gardens running down to the waterside. She tried to hold herself on the surface of the moment and not panic. William Marshal pointed out landmarks and spoke with easy humour. He left her space to respond but did not let the silences drag out and put no pressure on her to reply. She supposed that such skill was part of being an accomplished courtier. Their boat passed under the arches of London Bridge and for an instant the world was dark and strongly scented with weed. The water churned beneath the keel of the boat and she felt moist spray on her face.

“It is best on a full tide,” he said with a smile. “But you need to be prepared to be soaked, and you need to enjoy danger.”

Isabelle considered. “I am Richard Strongbow’s daughter,” she said. “I think I would like to do this at high tide.”

He laughed and looked at her again and she knew that flying through the arches of London Bridge at high tide could not match the fear and exhilaration that were running through her just now.

***

Richard FitzReinier’s fine timber house stood on the west corner of Cheapside, the hub of London’s commercial wheel. The outer walls were plastered and painted blue, which immediately set it apart from its neighbours, and it was roofed with wooden shingles. In the height of luxury and refinement, the windows were glazed, revealing that its owner was wealthy beyond the norm. There were stables and barns and other outbuildings so that the site almost had the aspect of a castle bailey.

FitzReinier himself emerged to greet them: a tall man of slender bones and a small, taut paunch that spoke of the good living bought by success. He was clad in a striped tunic of blue and gold silk and rings gleamed on every finger. An ostentatious cross set with red stones hung at his throat. On first glance, a stranger would have thought him the knight and William the merchant.

“Countess,” FitzReinier said and flourished her an elaborate bow. “Welcome to my house. It is a privilege indeed.”

Isabelle inclined her head and from somewhere found an appropriate response.

“You will be wanting to prepare yourself for your wedding, my lady,” he added and indicated the fair woman who had belatedly followed him from the house. She was plump and breathless from hurrying. “I will leave you in the capable hands of Madam FitzReinier.”

The woman curtseyed deeply to Isabelle, then rose and indicated the stairs down which she had just hastened. “If you wish, my lady, we have prepared a bath and fresh raiment.” Her cheeks were red. A collar of pearls at her throat sat just a little too snugly against her ample flesh.

Isabelle looked at William, who formally kissed her hand. “Go with Madam FitzReinier,” he said. “I’ve to prepare myself too, but I’ll join you shortly.”

Isabelle suppressed the urge to cling to William, knowing that it was born of suddenly being thrust into so much change. Holding herself erect, she followed the merchant’s wife up the timber stairs to the large chamber on the first floor of the main building. Here, she almost gasped at the opulence of the room, which was grander than anything she had ever seen. Every inch of wall was bright with embroidered hangings, the benches bore matching silk cushions, and the coffers were all painted with hunting and biblical scenes. Several maids chattered as they busied themselves around a large bathtub wafting tendrils of scented steam. Towels were warming on a stand before a brazier and the hangings of the day bed were drawn back to show the coverlet strewn with a colourful array of garments. A bemused Isabelle was pressed down on to one of the benches and a cup of spice-infused wine put in her hand.

Madam FitzReinier declared it a great honour to be entertaining the Countess of Striguil and that she and her husband were delighted to be of service. Isabelle could see that the woman’s pleasure was genuine, but had no doubt that she also had an eye to the profit. To be of service now was to ensure a long-term favourable relationship with the wealth of Striguil. Isabelle sipped the wine. It was like red silk on her tongue with just the right pungency imparted by the spices. It was delicious and she said so to her hostess.

Madam FitzReinier smiled. “Lord William has asked my husband for several barrels. I can give you the recipe for the spices. Mostly nutmeg and ginger. Here, you should eat something with it. It’s very potent.” The last word, although spoken innocently enough, had certain connotations. One of the maids giggled and Isabelle blushed. With a throaty laugh, Madam FitzReinier presented Isabelle with a platter of toasted bread, cut into small strips and spread with a tasty venison terrine. Although nervous, Isabelle still found the appetite to eat several. The other women joined in with relish and Damask devoured several as if she were a wolf and not a small, sleek greyhound.

Fortified by food and wine, Isabelle allowed the women to disrobe her and stepped into the bathtub. A heady floral scent perfumed the steam and she exclaimed in pleasure.

“Attar of roses,” said Madam FitzReinier, showing her a tiny glass vial. “My husband imports it from the Venetians, who obtain it from Arabia.”

She didn’t need to say how expensive it was: Isabelle could guess; but she made note of it all the same. As the women pummelled and scrubbed her, Isabelle asked her hostess about her future husband. Forewarned, after all, was forearmed. “I have heard many things about his reputation,” she said. “Most is high praise, but there are some rumours too…”

Madam FitzReinier gave a shrug. “Men are men and even the best of them far from saints, but if you are referring to his supposed affair with the Young Queen, then you can take my word that it was all falsehood, invented by his enemies to destroy his reputation. It was friendship they shared, not lust of the body.”

Isabelle bit her lip and wished she hadn’t spoken her doubts aloud. Ranulf de Glanville had been scathing of the rumours too—but in the opposite direction, for he had chosen to believe them and he had little to say about William Marshal that was positive. “I know so little,” she said, but more to herself than her hostess, and there was an edge of frustration to her tone.

Madam FitzReinier fetched a warmed towel from beside the brazier and brought it to the tub. “But you can learn. Besides, you’re young and pretty and such keys will open most doors. If you’re clever up here”—she tapped her head—“you can make sure they stay open.”

Isabelle looked at Madam FitzReinier in surprise. No one had ever told her before that she was pretty and she had never seen her image in a gazing glass. In her childhood, if people talked of beauty, it was always with reference to her formidable mother, Aoife, Countess of Hibernia. She knew that golden hair was prized, and she had an abundance of that, but fair tresses alone did not a beauty make. There had often been remarks that she resembled her father, but since all she remembered of him was a beard and thick red freckles, that didn’t help her much.

The women assisted her from the tub and vigorously dried her until her skin tingled and glowed. The precious rose oil was dabbed sparingly at her wrists and throat, and the clothes that had been laid on the bed were brought forth for her inspection.

“I am not certain how well they will fit,” said Madam FitzReinier apologetically. “Lord William left us very little time to organise the purchase and he had to tell us your size from memory.”

Isabelle blinked. “He only saw me fleetingly three years ago.”

The older woman chuckled. “Well, you must have left a lasting impression on him, for he knew what he wanted. No,” she amended, “he knew what he thought you would like.”

Isabelle shook her head in bemusement. In her experience thus far, the only men who thought they knew a woman’s wishes were either effeminate or smooth-tongued troubadours. She could not envisage any of the dour knights of her father’s entourage or de Glanville’s being concerned with the kind of garments a woman might like—unless of course their preference was for a delightful package that was titillating to unwrap. The latter thought made her blush, and then laugh. When Madam FitzReinier looked at her askance, Isabelle shook her head and raised her arms so that the women could dress her in the undershift of finest linen chansil with a silk ribbon tie. There were hose of pale silk with garters of delicate braid. Isabelle shivered to feel such luxury whispering against her skin. Although she was an heiress, precious few funds for clothing had come her way while she was in de Glanville’s care. She had grown accustomed to make do and mend. Now, she began to wonder if her husband to be was a spendthrift. De Glanville had spoken grimly of the profligate household of the Young King and how William Marshal had been one of the main instigators of the squandering of wealth. But the fabric felt glorious to wear and it was a pleasure to be indulged after so much privation.