When Richard arrived at Gloucester, he saw that Isabella Marshal de Clare already knew she had been widowed. Not only the castle, but the city of Gloucester was in full mourning for its young earl.
Draped in black from head to toe, Isabella received him stiffly, surrounded by her castellan and her faithful de Clare servants. He had visited her there only once before, and it too had been an emotional trauma for him. She had fled Windsor and he rushed after her demanding a reason. When he learned she was carrying his child, their world had been turned upside down. She begged him never to show his face there again and because he loved her, because he wanted no scandal attached to her, he had departed that same day so that de Clare’s servants could carry no tales to their earl.
This time, however, he would not be banished. No impediment stood between them, and his resolve was taken. He ignored the disapproving glances he received from the mournful household servants. Damn it all, he was the Duke of Cornwall, and royalty had its privileges. Almost he began to mouth condolences, then he changed his mind.
When he raised his voice, eyebrows also were raised, but the time was past for him to play out his role in the shadows. “The Countess of Gloucester and I have matters to discuss in private. Please see that we are not disturbed.” He stared them down. Her ladies were the first to depart, her male servants were slower. Richard saw her stricken look, saw her small figure sway. He was beside her instantly. “I am taking you upstairs.”
Her pleading eyes beseeched him, but he put a firm hand at the small of her back and propelled her forward. Isabella took him into the solar. It was beyond her to flaunt convention and invite him into her chamber. She whispered urgently, “Richard, you should not have come to Gloucester. You know how servants gossip. Their curiosity will know no bounds.”
“Their curiosity will soon be satisfied when they learn you are to be Duchess of Cornwall.”
He picked her up and held her against his heart. She sobbed against his shoulder.
“I love you so much. I can’t bear to see you in these black draperies.”
“I’ll have to be in mourning for a full year,” she said helplessly.
“Like hell you will. Didn’t you hear me say we will be married?”
“Richard, we cannot marry until I’m out of mourning. Even then it may cause a scandal.”
“Scandal be damned.” He took the black wimple from her head and threw it on the floor, then he threaded his fingers through her lovely chestnut curls and held her immobile while he kissed her.
She clung to him desperately, having no strength to deny him. “I’ll wait for no mourning.” Then he smiled down into her gentle eyes. “Every fortune-hunter in England will beat a path to your door once they learn you are a widow.” His fingers went to the fastenings of her gown and she was shocked that he would take such liberties in the solar. “The servants,” she protested.
“I’ve already sent a formal request to the King and council that we be married immediately,” he explained, his hands persisting in their quest.
“There is no lock on the door,” she cried in alarm, pulling her gown back up to cover her naked shoulders.
With an impatient sigh Richard went to the door and jammed a high-backed chair beneath the latch, then he turned and came toward Isabella with such resolute intent, she could deny him no longer.
Simon de Montfort assumed Ranulf of Chester was the most generous man breathing. As he rode through the English countryside with his hundred men at his back, he felt more English than French. This country was a rare jewel with its verdant pastures dotted with fat sheep and cattle. The peasant farmers contrasted greatly from their European counterparts. They were adequately clothed, their wives and children plump and happy, their homes sturdy wooden or stone structures thatched with mud and wattle.
Simon was inspecting his newly acquired estates. Though the king hadn’t formally ceded him the lands and title of Leicester, that was only a formality. The estates were spread over a dozen counties, and he found the same thing at every one he visited. They had all been willfully mismanaged. The stock had been driven off and sold, the timber cut and the game depleted. Each and every demesne was in a state of impoverishment, contrasting starkly with the surrounding estates. The revenues in no way equaled the costs.
He smiled grimly as he realized Chester had unloaded an almost insurmountable liability from his back. Simon wasted no time laying the facts before King Henry.
“My dear Simon, the solution is simple. You must do what every other English baron has done, marry an heiress. Your own grandfather became Earl of Leicester by marrying a great heiress. My brother Richard is about to marry de Clare’s widow, who just happens to be a member of the wealthy Marshal family.”
Simon felt it was the time to marry though no lady held his attentions. An earl needed a countess to run his households and provide him with children. He was a practical man with few romantic notions. Marriages were forged for the advantages they brought to a man. A wife brought land and estates, and her dowry paid for the upkeep of those castles and holdings.
“I have no objections, Sire. I will be happy to accept any lady you propose,” Simon replied.
“Zounds, I would arrange it in a minute if there was an English heiress wealthy enough to restore all your estates, but the truth is rich widows are so coveted, they are often abducted and forced to the marriage bed.”
Simon thought to lighten the conversation by a half jest. “I have no objection to force, all I need is a name.”
“I have a dozen heiresses who are still children,” Henry suggested.
“I need money now, Sire, I cannot wait for a wife to grow up and her father die before she comes into her inheritance,” de Montfort pointed out.
“Oh, you simply borrow from the moneylenders against your future prospects,” Henry explained, totally familiar with negotiating loans. “The only drawback, of course, is that you wouldn’t be able to breed sons until the little girls were at least fourteen.”
The mere suggestion of the six-and-a-half-foot giant mating with a fourteen-year-old child was so ludicrous both men dismissed the idea. “Weil have to look outside England. From the rate you kill men off in battle, France must have a goodly share of wealthy widows. What about Mahaut, Countess of Boulogne? She’s middle aged, but eager I wager.”
Simon swallowed hard. Middle age was a euphemism; she was an old woman.
“I’ll send a dispatch to William Marshal today. He can negotiate it before he returns home.”
Simon thanked the king coolly and wished to God he’d never asked for the audience. Not that he was a sentimental idealist where marriage was concerned. He was a realist and he was ambitious, but the thought of taking Mahaut to wife made him want to run to the nearest brothel and lay the prettiest whore he could find.
When Rickard de Burgh handed Eleanor the letter from William, she was overjoyed. She knew he would be among the last to return home because of his duties as marshal and was determined to exercise patience.
When she read the love letter, however, her heart fluttered and the rosy blush that touched her cheek stayed there for days. She was more excited than any bride. After six long years of yearning and dreaming, her life’s wish was about to be fulfilled. Her spirits rose, her eyes sparkled brighter, her laughter came more frequently, and she broke out in song day and night.
Peter des Roches and his bastard son, Peter des Rivaux, who now spent more time in Westminster’s Exchequer than Westminster’s Chapel, had called in the king to tell him the treasury was empty. This was nothing new to Henry, but a new twist was added. They convinced him that his poverty was due to Hubert de Burgh. He had been the cause of the expensive war in Wales, and his mismanagement of the French campaign had caused it to fail. Moreover, his right-hand man, Stephen Segrave, had now brought them documents that proved Hubert had also mismanaged his position as Justiciar of England and was a master at diverting funds. They told the king that Hubert should be dismissed from of
fice.
“But Hubert is a peer of the realm,” Henry protested, half afraid of the military man who had done so much for him when he was a boy.
Winchester sneered. “There are no peers in England.” Henry had grown quite used to foreign disparagement of everything English. Winchester’s voice was now added to the Provençals’. All told him, “You are the king … be firm … let them know you are the king. Don’t give in an inch to these English traitors!”
“Before I dismiss Hubert from office, I want William Marshal’s advice,” Henry said, holding firm for once.
The Bishop of Winchester was hard-pressed to lay any fault at the marshal’s door, but his natural cunning made him devious and unscrupulous. “We all admire the marshal, but sometimes, Sire, you overburden the poor man. You’ve left him to clean up the mess de Burgh created in France. Now as soon as he returns you want to lay the problem of de Burgh squarely on his shoulders. Being a king carries grave responsibilities. Sometimes you must do your own dirty work, rather than always expecting the marshal to do it.”
“You are right, of course,” Henry said, ever ready to change his tune when opposed. “I will ask Hubert de Burgh to account for all funds that have passed through his hands. Then when the marshal returns he can weigh the facts fairly.”
Peter des Roches wanted to strike him, but he controlled himself and pressed from another direction. “Very wise. You will then see for yourself the mismanagement in every area. No new sheriffs have been appointed, the stewardship of all royal houses has been used to siphon off thousands of crowns. I suggest you appoint Peter des Rivaux as your first minister in custody of wardships and chief justice of the forests. Bribery and outright fraud are draining the royal coffers of every penny. If we put a stop to it now, you will soon have money to burn, which is only right and proper for a king.”
Henry would give him no arguments there.
Hubert went by barge from the Tower of London, where he resided, to Durham House. The Countess of Pembroke received him graciously. “My lord, William is not yet returned. Henry has sent him off on business to Boulogne.”
Hubert collapsed into a chair like a sack of grain. Eleanor could see something of import was troubling him heavily. “Your nephews are here, Hubert. Can they be of help to you?” she suggested, and sent a page off with a message for the de Burgh twins.
Sir Michael came from the stables where Marshal’s returning Welsh archers would be housed that night. As soon as he saw Hubert he was concerned. “What’s amiss?”
“Mick, I’ve just received this official document from the treasurer.” He glanced at Eleanor, uneasy before her for the first time in his life.
She stood up immediately. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your business. I’ll send the steward for ale.” But the de Burghs didn’t even hear her. She encountered Rickard coming up the stairs of the family quarters. “Rickard, your uncle is here. He’s in trouble. If he needs you, you have my permission to pledge him your service.”
“Thank you, my lady. Whatever it is, I will inform you fully before I do anything.” She touched his arm. She knew she could count on this man if she was ever in danger. He had pledged to her and he meant it with all his heart.
Mick was trying to calm Hubert, but when Rickard arrived and saw the royal command in writing, bearing the king’s seal, he knew it was the start of the bad times he had foreseen. “This is only one step away from being charged with treason. It won’t blow over, it will get worse,” he stated.
Mick cast him a look that clearly told him to shut his mouth, so Rick gestured for his brother to move off a few steps so they could speak in private.
“It will be horrendous, Mick. I’ve foreseen it. He must be warned.”
They looked into each other’s eyes for long, stretched-out moments, then, convinced, Mick nodded his agreement. They stepped back to Hubert. “Anything of value, deposit with the Knights Templars. We can do it after dark tonight. Don’t be too trusting of those in your employ. I think probably someone is being paid to betray you. I know there is treachery being planned in high places … I feel it. I think Mick should go to Ireland and warn Father—such is the strength of my premonition. I would go myself but I am pledged to keep the Countess of Pembroke safe for William. I know there is danger coming to her too. I see her weeping rivers of tears.”
The ruddy color always present in Hubert’s craggy face had drained away. “Your mother has true visions of the future. I believe you, Rickard, but surely being married to the Princess of Scotland will protect me.”
Rickard shook his head. “They will use it against you.” He did not add that he would be accused of seducing Princess Margaret in hopes of becoming King of Scotland.
Hubert clutched Michael’s doublet. “Go tonight. Tell Falcon to bring his most trusted knights. I command whole armies of men, but have none I can trust implicitly, it seems.”
Sir Rickard sought out Eleanor. He would not unduly alarm her, even though he had promised to inform her fully. “Hubert needs Mick’s services for a few days.”
She searched his face. “Hubert seemed undone over a letter from the treasurer. I believe the Bishop of Winchester holds that office.”
“That is correct, my lady.” He would not lie. “He has been ordered to account for all funds that have passed through his hands.”
“That’s ridiculous, like saying they don’t trust him. Would you like me to speak to Henry about this?”
“The document bore the king’s seal, my lady. I thank you for your concern but prefer to keep you clear of this matter. William would have my b-my brains,” he amended quickly. He smiled at her to banish her worries. “The marshal is on his way home—I know these things.”
“You have the second sight like your mother, Jasmine.” It was a statement, not a question.
“You know of my mother?” he asked in surprise.
She smiled at him wistfully. “Jasmine is my cousin, though she was a woman grown when I was born. Her supernatural gifts and her beauty are legendary. She is an enchantress who stole the hearts of many men: my father, the Earl of Chester, William Marshal. The queen has spitefully thrown her name at me many times, and somehow I was always afraid to ask William because in my heart I believed it could be true.”
“My mother belongs to Falcon de Burgh body and soul. She and Will Marshal are friends, just as you and I are friends.”
Their hands touched in a silent pledge. “Thank you, Rickard. I sometimes feared she would always stand between William and me like an ethereal specter.”
As soon as dark descended, Eleanor had more unexpected company. Her brother Richard arrived with her husband’s sister Isabella in tow. Isabella was most hesitant, but Richard led her forward with an insistent hand at the small of her back.
Eleanor was tongue-tied for a moment. Should she offer condolences or congratulations? Finally she did both. “Isabella I’m so sorry that Gilbert de Clare died in battle, but I’m happy that you have Richard to share your life now.”
“Eleanor, you won’t mind if Isabella stays with you until our wedding? This way I’ll be close enough to see her in the evenings where she’s well chaperoned. I swear, all she can utter is ‘What will people say?’”
“Oh, Eleanor, he overrules me on every point. I’m supposed to be in mourning, but he has announced our wedding plans to the world! He wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I agreed, thinking it could be a quiet affair, but it’s all getting out of hand,” she wailed.
“We have absolutely nothing to hide. The King and council have approved it and the people of England love royal weddings. Only look at the month-long celebration for Henry and his queen.”
Isabella was trembling. “I’m afraid of what William will say.”
“Damn it, woman, he’ll be pleased as punch to have me for brother-in-law. Besides, Maggot here has him wrapped about her little finger. You’ll smooth our path with William, won’t you, love?” he coaxed his sister.
She blanched, re
membering the last time they’d all been under the same roof. “Of course Isabella is welcome to stay at Durham House. We’ll face William together.”
“Oh, Lord, whatever must the de Clares think?” Isabella worried.
“Darling, their mourning for their son will not blind them to the fact that your marriage will link them directly with the royal family. They know their grandson Richard can only benefit from our union. I’ll get Henry to confirm him as Earl of Gloucester. We can afford to be generous and let the de Clares have him for a year.” Richard embraced her and kissed her upon the mouth to stem any further protest.
Eleanor sighed and gave them the privacy they craved. She was now torn between wishing William would speed his arrival or delay it until after the wedding. Eleanor invited Isabella to share her bedchamber so they could talk.
“Isabella, what is it like to sleep with a man?”
“Oh, Lord, William still hasn’t shared your bed?” Isabella asked with disbelief. “Well, you may find it strange at first after sleeping alone all your life. But I love it. I love the feel of a man in my bed. I love his hairiness; I love to feel the weight of him.”
Eleanor’s eyes were like saucers as she listened to the intimate details.
“I don’t know how we’ve managed all these years. Once you’ve been intimate it’s almost impossible to abstain.”
“You mean the night you spent together at Odiham was not the first time?” Eleanor asked.
Isabella blushed hotly in the dark as she confessed. “It was the night you were wed to William, when you were nine.” She could not bring herself to confess that it was the first time they’d ever laid eyes on each other.