The Scarlet Lion by Elizabeth Chadwick

back his lands from the Irish lords who had stolen them from him, and they came and in their greed, they too stole what they could. They are still helping themselves today. If we want to survive, we have to make alliances with the strongest of them. It is said you are married to a great man, by all accounts a champion. Well then, use it to your advantage, daughter, and stand your ground."
       The mead swirled in Isabelle's blood. In the light cast by fire and candle, her grandmother's gown in her hands, she felt the connection so strongly it raised the hairs on her nape and she could almost see her Irish ancestors gathered around the fire in their saffron robes, watching her, weighing her in the balance, asking if she was worthy. "Yes," she heard herself saying, with a strange, deep surge that came from her solar plexus. "I will do everything in my power to hold these lands and make them great."
       Aoife smiled and looked satisfied. "Ah," she said. "Men are children even when they are grown. They never realise how strong we women are."
     
     
     
     

 
     
    Eight
     
     
    KILKENNY CASTLE, LEINSTER, IRELAND, NOVEMBER 1200
     
     
    Isabelle studied Meilyr FitzHenry through her lashes. He had arrived in the early afternoon as the household was sitting down to dine. Before the gathered company, which included Hugh le Rous, Bishop of Ossory, and several of William's senior Irish vassals, he had sworn fealty to herself and William for his lands. Now he sat at the high table with them. He was a strong, barrel-chested man, fighting too much belly and a hairline in rapid retreat. As a grandson of the first King Henry through a bastard branch of the family he was kin to King John, who had granted him the post of justiciar. His smile was nailed to his face and as stiff as boiled leather, but at least he was here. She and William had half expected him to ignore their summons to Kilkenny to pay homage for his lands. By attitude and gesture, although not in so many words, he had made it plain he would not tolerate the Marshal faction usurping the position he had striven to carve for himself over the past thirty years.
       Between mouthfuls of duck in pepper sauce he expressed surprise to see William in Ireland at all. "Surely your seneschal is competent to tend to matters in Leinster," he said. "You must have more important concerns elsewhere?"
       "Each is important in its own turn, my lord," William answered smoothly.
       "Leinster is my birthright and my dower," Isabelle added to Meilyr, her own voice sharp with irritation.
       He pursed his lips as if he had a mouthful of sour wine. "Indeed, my lady, but you have been long away and times have changed."
       Isabelle gave him a hard look. "That is strange, for I was under the impression they had not, nor did you wish them to do so, my lord."
       Aoife cackled with approval, but when Isabelle glanced at William, he gave an infinitesimal shake of his head and lifted a forefinger against the side of his goblet in warning. Isabelle swallowed her annoyance. He was right to remind her that while FitzHenry was beholden to them as a vassal, he was also Ireland's justiciar and a servant of the King.
       "Your impression is mistaken, my lady," Meilyr said, "but you are newly arrived and bound to be unfamiliar with the way matters stand."
       "You will find I learn swiftly," Isabelle retorted. "I know very well which way the wind blows." She flicked a glance along the high table towards their vassal Philip of Prendergast, whose indifferent expression did nothing to conceal the fact he was monitoring the conversation intently. His wife was Isabelle's half-sister, born to her father's Welsh paramour thirteen years before Isabelle's birth. Her hair was de Clare red and she owned a feminine version of Richard Strongbow's thin, fine features. Her manner was pleasant but contained and she had made no attempt thus far to set her relationship with Isabelle on a familiar