Chapter 32 #3
“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.