Epilogue
William looked down at his sleeping daughter in her cradle.
She was making small snuffling sounds and her little fists were like furled spring leaves.
She had been born whilst Richard was besieging the now capitulated Nottingham Castle; arriving at Striguil to find mother and baby safe and well had been a gift beyond price to William.
She had been christened Mahelt and at almost six weeks old the furrowed, rumpled look of the newborn had been replaced by the pink and white rosiness of a healthy, well-nourished infant.
Her hair was brown like his, and she had his eyes, too.
Every time William looked at her, he was captivated.
His sons were less enamoured. Will and Richard were more interested in their toy swords and hobby horses than their baby sister.
Will in particular, being the eldest and most aware, was also wildly excited at the notion of a sea crossing.
William glanced from the cradle towards the open door of the long timber hall in which they were lodged as his sons ran past, giggling and playing chase, their nurse in hot pursuit.
There had been some terrible storms at the end of April, and Richard’s attempts to embark for Normandy had been thwarted by slanting rain and high winds that whipped the sea into a frenzy.
Once he had put to sea and been beaten back into harbour.
Today, however, the wind was warm, earth-scented and blowing towards Normandy, a perfect day for a crossing.
“My lord.” His daughter’s nurse curtseyed to him and then stooped over the cradle to lift the baby out and wrap her in a snug travelling blanket.
Mahelt made a soft protest and her brow puckered a whim, but she did not waken.
A serjeant-at-arms picked up the cradle and carried it away towards the wharf and the nurse followed him, crooning softly to the baby.
Isabelle, who had been outside supervising the carrying of the last pieces of furniture and baggage down to the ship, now poked her head round the door.
“Are you ready?” she asked. She was wearing an Irish mantle of thick plaid edged with squirrel fur and a sensible wimple of heavy tabby-woven silk.
There was amusement in her gaze and exasperation…
and sympathy. She knew how much he hated sea crossings.
William secured his cloak pin and squared his shoulders. Warm or not, the breeze was still boisterous and would freshen at sea. He smiled at her. “Yes, I’m ready,” he said and stepped out into the sunshine.
Isabelle looked up at him, her eyes layered with the blue tones of a summer sea. Placing her hand over his wrist in formal fashion, she secretly circled her thumb to his pulse beat and gently pressed, conveying deep affection and support.
Together they walked down to the ship, and despite being accompanied by an entourage of knights and squires, grooms and maids, children and nurses, they might as well have been alone—lovers, familiar but newly met in the bright spring morning.
A lone galley remained at the jetty, its wash strake lined with green and gold shields, and red dragon banners flying from the top of the mast and the deck shelter.
The sea glittered in the bright morning and most ships had already embarked, including those belonging to Richard and Eleanor.
A crowd had gathered on the jetty and William’s own horse transport had just cast off from its moorings.
By narrowing his eyes, he could see Rhys on the deck and his nephew, Jack, who had opted to sail with the horses and his new black destrier.
He inhaled deeply of the salt-tanged air and crossed himself.
It was not so much the notion of the sea journey that made him do so, as the awareness that he wanted to enjoy his wife, his family, and their lands to the full, with all the vigour of the life that was surging in his veins as strongly as it had done when he was a youth at Drincourt.
The shrouds he had brought from Jerusalem were packed at the bottom of his travelling coffer, but he hoped he would not need them until his children were grown, and his cup drained to the lees.