Chapter 31
Thirty-one
“Madam, forgive me if I do not kneel,” William said to the Queen. “It is not through lack of respect, but because I am incapable of doing so.”
“What have you done?” A snap of Eleanor’s fingers brought an attendant hastening forward with a chair. Her tawny eyes, which had been aglow with welcome a moment since, were filled with concern.
He made a face. “The ship’s deck collapsed when we were boarding at Dieppe.
I’m one of the fortunate ones; there were shattered limbs aplenty and one poor soul impaled through the ribs on a stake.
” Grimacing with pain, William eased himself down in the chair.
“I managed to grab a strut and save myself, but my left leg is almost beyond bearing weight.”
“Have you had a physician look at it?”
William’s smile was wry. “He said I should rest it.” He presented her with the letters that Richard had given him.
Eleanor signalled the same attendant to bring wine. “Well, you can do that while you give me your news, can you not? Gersendis, a cushion for Messire Marshal’s back.”
William looked chagrined. “I am about to go and claim a young bride and yet here I am easing myself into a chair like an old man,” he groaned.
Her lips twitched. “I doubt the parts that matter have lost their sap, William,” she remarked.
When he looked at her askance, she gave a mischievous laugh.
“Your spirit, William, the strength of your will.” She sat down opposite him in a swirl of silk skirts and rested the letters in her lap.
“A young bride.” She nodded sagely. “Not Heloise of Kendal, I suspect?”
Eleanor more than suspected, William thought.
Even though Henry had kept her under house arrest, she had her spies and her ways and means of getting to know everything that she wanted.
He had no doubt that part of Richard’s willingness to give him Isabelle de Clare was down to the Queen’s intercession on his behalf.
“No, madam, not Heloise of Kendal. She is to be wed to Gilbert FitzReinfred.” He grinned.
“She will lead him over the hills and back again, but I do not think they will be displeased with each other. He is kindly disposed towards women and knows that I will still be watching out for her from a distance. I am fond of her…” he admitted.
“But with the prestige she brings you, you will be fonder of Isabelle de Clare,” Eleanor said shrewdly.
“I hope to make a good match, madam.” He gave a pensive shrug. “I may not look a bargain at the moment, but rest and polish will rectify some of the damage. I met her at the Tower of London last time I was in England. My lord Glanville was not best pleased.”
Eleanor frowned. “My lord Glanville is sworn to go on crusade with Richard,” she said. “He will not have custody of the heiresses in the Tower for much longer.”
William noted that the new rule was beginning to flex its muscles and he could see that some personal circumstances were not going to change for the better.
He found it hard to imagine the dignified, urban Ranulf Glanville taking the road to Jerusalem via what was likely to be some hard and bloody fighting.
“I have to thank you for my good fortune, madam,” he said, his words partly born of his thoughts.
“I could also see why the justiciar might want to hide the lady Isabelle from prying eyes.”
Eleanor’s expression softened. “I do believe that you are smitten,” she teased.
William chuckled. “That would not be difficult, madam. The girl is eighteen years old and beautiful. What she will think of a grizzled old warhorse like me is another matter.”
Eleanor laughed. “Either you are shamelessly angling for praise or you do not see yourself as women do.” She reached a beringed hand to touch the side of his face.
“You wear more years than when I first took you into my service, but you were still a boy then, and time has wrought experience, not lines. Isabelle de Clare will have no cause to complain of this match.”
“I pray not.” He had his doubts and dreaded the thought that Isabelle might look upon him as a surrogate father, or that despite her lands and her beauty she might prove to be feather-brained and giggly.
If he were to rule the vast estates of Striguil, he needed a solid bedrock of domestic and marital harmony.
Knowing that he was striving after the rarely attainable made him feel determined and on edge.
“I trust you still have your singing voice?” Eleanor enquired.
He gave her a puzzled look. “I do not know, madam. It has been so long since there has been anything to sing about, and I have been too busy.”
“If you are to take a bride, I suggest you find it again.” Eleanor’s smile wavered.
“Neither of my husbands could sing. Who knows what might have been different if either of them had bothered to learn?” She let out a shaky breath and looked down at her hands.
“You may think it strange,” she said, “but even after what has happened, I mourn for Henry. There was a time when it was very sweet between us. Even all the bitterness that came afterwards cannot alter those memories. And he gave me children.” Her lips curved with bleak humour.
“He said that they were all mine except for John, but he was wrong. Even John belongs to me.” Eleanor glanced around the chamber which was bright with hangings and banners and painted coffers.
A pile of books stood on a chest, the top one open revealing an illumination of a man and woman playing chess in a garden.
“When he took away my freedom I swore that I would outlive him. On my knees I prayed to God to give me the strength to live through each day that I was caged. He didn’t trust me.
Every minute of every day I was watched, if not by his guards then by his spies.
” She sighed and made a weary gesture. “God rest his soul and God rest mine. William, if you are going to love your wife, and have her love you, then take some advice from one who has lived with it and without it and knows its price and its value.”
“Madam?”
“Isabelle de Clare is an heiress. Remember that the lands you rule are hers and that she might desire to have a say in what you do with them. Take her with you when you can. Use her as your captain and your deputy when you cannot, and never give her cause to resent you, because she will have the raising of your sons and daughters.”
William’s colour deepened at the mention of sons and daughters. “I will do my best,” he said.
“You may think me an interfering old woman, but I have had your interests at heart ever since I took you into my service.” She instructed a maid to bring over an enamelled jewel casket and, taking it from the girl, presented it to William. “This is my wedding gift to your bride.”
William thanked her. It was weighty, but it seemed impolite to ask what it contained. Eleanor smiled at him. “Open it,” she said. “It holds the gauds that women enjoy and men do not always think to give them.”
William raised the latch and looked upon a magnificent cloak brooch fashioned of gold set at intervals with dark blue sapphires.
There was a smaller one, suited to fastening the neck of a gown, and a wimple band of silk brocade stitched with peridots and pearls.
“It is a queenly gift,” he said with the spark of a smile.
Eleanor acknowledged his jest with a smile of her own. “Trust me, your bride will think it so, and if you can add to it, then so much the better. A little generosity will be more than repaid, providing you don’t substitute gems for affection.”
William strove not to grin. Most noble households possessed at least one elderly female relative who would spend her time gossiping by the fire, keeping an eye on the young women of the bower and meting out advice to all and sundry.
Eleanor suddenly reminded him of such women, but he knew that it was more than his life was worth to say so.
“I will make sure that my wife has plenty of both,” he said blandly, receiving in consequence a sharp look from Eleanor.
“See that you do,” she said in a peremptory tone. “You have already been given your wedding gift from me. You are an earl in all but name. All I ask in return is that you prove yourself worthy of my faith.”
“I will not fail you, madam,” he replied and would have risen to kneel, save that whilst he was sitting his leg had stiffened and bending it was nigh on impossible.
She arrested his struggle with a raised hand.
“No,” she said. “You will have plenty of opportunity in the days to come to kneel at the feet of women.” Humour lit in her eyes.
“Go to your bride and your lands,” she said, “and remember my advice. And give this to her from me.” Again she touched his face and her lips brushed the corner of his mouth in a tender salute compounded of mischief, affection, and abiding friendship.
“I trust you to give it the correct interpretation,” she said.
When William had gone, Eleanor sat down to open and read her letters, a smile curling her mouth corners.
William had just bitten off a very large mouthful, but she did not believe that it was more than he could chew.
Indeed, in the months to come she fully intended to heap his trestle with further courses and hope that he lived up to his squirehood title of “Gasteviande” or “Guzzleguts.” But first let him have a moment’s respite to enjoy his new status as lord of vast lands and husband to a young wife.
“Let her lead him a merry dance,” she said softly, and half wished that she could change places with Isabelle de Clare.