Chapter 26 #2
“But surely the lady is your guest, not your prisoner.” William perused Isabelle de Clare more closely.
The wan, slender waif of his brief glimpse three years ago was developing into a beauty.
No wonder de Glanville had turned puce at her exposure to William.
She returned his regard calmly from eyes flecked with different tones of blue like a summer sea, and then she lowered her gaze towards her neatly clasped hands.
Her complexion was pale but pink warmth had seeped into her cheeks.
“Lady Isabelle is the King’s ward, and it is my duty to protect her and do as I see fit for her wellbeing,” de Glanville replied testily and waved his hand at the attendant. “I would hope that your manners are as fine as your speech.”
“My manners are better than most,” William said pointedly and inclined his head to Isabelle de Clare. “Another time perhaps, my lady.”
“My lord,” she murmured and turned with the servant, but not before she had cast a look filled with resentment and anger at Ranulf de Glanville.
Not meek then, William thought with amusement, but too mannerly to cause a scene, and perhaps still not experienced enough to exert her authority.
Dragging himself back to the matter in hand, he addressed Heloise of Kendal, who was almost as red in the face as the justiciar.
“You have been told I am to be your warden?” He gestured her to sit on the bench and bade a squire give her wine.
“Yes, my lord,” she replied, plumping her ample haunches on the cushions. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“You haven’t,” William said “even if my lord Glanville would dispute the fact.” He gave the justiciar a ribbing glance. “It is a good thing he is not the Queen’s keeper for he would know the meaning of trouble then.”
De Glanville loudly cleared his throat but otherwise did not rise to the bait, his expression one of controlled irritation.
“So,” William said to Heloise, “how long do you need to be ready to ride home? Will the morrow be too soon?”
He watched her eyes brighten. “Oh no, my lord,” she said. “I would go now if it were possible.” And then cast a swift glance at de Glanville and put her hand to her mouth.
William grinned. “I still have matters of my own baggage to attend to, or I’d oblige. As it is, we’ll set out at first light. I take it you can ride?”
Heloise wrinkled her nose. “Like a sack of flour, my lord, but it suffices.” Her tone suggested that even if she couldn’t ride she’d teach herself in a day just to be out of the Tower.
Chuckling, William decided that he was going to enjoy being her warden.
Isabelle watched Heloise lumber like an overgrown puppy round the chamber they shared.
The lid of her travelling coffer was thrown back and she was tossing items of baggage to a maid for packing.
Half these items had to be rescued off the floor for Heloise was terminally untidy.
A wrinkled leg of hose came to light from its hiding place under the bed, stiff at the toes and in need of darning.
“I wondered where that had gone,” Heloise said, giving it an experimental sniff and then making a face.
Isabelle shook her head, torn between laughter and disgust. Her own portion of the chamber exuded an orderly tranquillity. “Well,” she said, “tell me what happened. Does he have planks for wits? Are you going to push him into a bog?”
Heloise rolled the hose into a cylinder and stuffed it down the side of the chest. “I don’t think so.
Even if he doesn’t know Latin or ciphering, he’s just as sharp as Sir Ranulf.
It’ll be hard running rings round him.” Heloise gave a mischievous giggle.
“I might try though. He’s not like Sir Ranulf to purse his lips as if he’s an old woman. He likes to laugh.”
“You learned a lot about him in a short time,” Isabelle said peevishly.
Heloise rolled her eyes. “I did, but not from him. He jests and makes easy conversation, but it’s all on the surface.
I spoke to Lord Ranulf’s steward and he said that William Marshal used to be the Young King’s tutor and that he’s recently returned from a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre.
He also said that he’s never been defeated in a tourney and that Queen Eleanor dotes on him. ”
Isabelle sat down on her bed and stroked her hound’s silky silver ears. She felt green with jealousy and hated herself for it.
Heloise paused in gathering up her belongings. “I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly contrite. “You don’t want to hear me say things like that, do you? I wouldn’t in your place.”
Isabelle swallowed her envy and forced a smile. “Don’t be so foolish. If I’m out of sorts it’s because I wish I was going with you. Take your good fortune and squeeze every drop from it; that’s a command.”
Predictably Heloise rushed over to engulf Isabelle in a tearful bear hug. “I’ll have a scribe write to you with news,” she said. “And I’ll visit you if I can…but who knows, you might have left here by then.”
“Who knows,” Isabelle repeated bravely, thinking that even if she did, it wouldn’t be with an unbeaten tourney champion with a courtier’s burnish and an easy, smiling manner.
In the morning, Heloise left soon after dawn to begin her journey home to Kendal.
Standing on the sward, Damask in her arms, Isabelle watched William Marshal boost Heloise into the saddle of a placid brown mare.
Heloise said something to him that made him laugh as she gathered the reins and adjusted her seat.
He fed the mare a piece of purple carrot off the palm of his hand and rubbed her nose.
Gilded in pale sunshine, his garments immaculate, he might have stepped straight from a stained-glass window or the pages of a psalter.
He slapped the mare’s neck and turning to his own black palfrey swung into the saddle as lightly as a youth.
Heloise waved to Isabelle and with much kicking of her heels and flapping of her reins, managed, at last, to turn her mare.
William Marshal looked across the sward to Isabelle, saluted her, and heeled the palfrey about.
Biting her lip, Isabelle watched the party ride away.
Then she turned and putting Damask down, walked her beneath the great, imprisoning walls.
The lions were silent today and Isabelle’s eyes were so dry that they burned.