The Scarlet Lion by Elizabeth Chadwick Page A

footing. For her part, Isabelle was prepared to be welcoming, but she was wary too. Matilda had wed Philip of Prendergast when Isabelle was still a swaddled infant and they had no bond in common beyond their father's seed.
       "The wind blows from many directions in Ireland, and changes on a whim, my lady," Meilyr said and, having dismissed her with a perfunctory toast of his cup, turned away to William. "How long do you intend remaining in Ireland, my lord?"
       Isabelle tightened her lips and marked the insult on a mental tally.
       William leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Eager as you are to be rid of us, my lord, I am afraid we are going to be in each other's company for the winter at least. I won't risk a sea crossing before the spring and in the meantime I intend making the acquaintance of my vassals and neighbours."
       FitzHenry gave a sour shrug. "You will find the weather much wetter than that to which you are accustomed. Sometimes it rains for months on end and the sea mist covers the land in such a dense blanket that you cannot tell friend from foe. You will need warmer tunics than those you have brought with you."
       Isabelle ground her teeth at his insolence but William merely raised an eyebrow and replied with composure, "Fortunate then that my coffers contain clothes to cope with most weathers."
       "Most, my lord?" FitzHenry said with a hint of scorn. "I have all."
       "No man has all." William waved his hand in a gesture that swatted aside veiled threat and ambiguities. "I esteem your reputation, Lord Meilyr, and I hope you have a similar regard for mine and my wife's, since we are your overlords. I am as content as you for the relationship to be one of formality rather than friendship, but I tell you this…we will have your respect."
       Isabelle coloured with pride and vindication at his words.
       Meilyr tried to outstare William but the latter was accustomed to such contests at court and returned Meilyr's gaze implacably until Meilyr took refuge in his wine cup. "My homage you are entitled to," he muttered after he had drunk. "Respect is different. It has to be earned."
       William nodded. "Just so," he agreed. "And it cuts both ways. A reputation is one thing. Living up to it is another."
    ***
    Once she had dismissed their attendants, Isabelle sat down on their bed. William was already in it and occupied with threading his prayer beads on to a new length of silk cord, the old one having broken. Although his eyes were slightly narrowed, he could still see well enough in the dim light of a single candle to perform the task without too much of a struggle.
       "I don't trust Meilyr FitzHenry," Isabelle said.
       He didn't answer at first, and she was on the verge of repeating her statement when he looked up from his task. "Yes, he will bear watching," he said quietly. "He is brim full of his own importance and appears to believe that being justiciar gives him the power to do as he pleases. I think we gave him pause for thought tonight—and Prendergast too. He strikes me as one who will play both sides of the castle wall."
       "I thought so, especially since his wife is my kin." Isabelle gnawed her lip, considering. "FitzHenry bears the bigger grudge though. Whatever you say to him, he still believes himself the true power in Leinster. I don't remember much about him from my childhood, but I know my mother had little time for him in our hall."
       William focused on his threading. "Your mother has little time for most things Norman. Certainly she makes it plain she has none for me."
       "That is not true," Isabelle was stung to reply. "She can be difficult, but no worse than Queen Eleanor in one of her moods." Even as she spoke, she mentally scolded herself. She hadn't meant to say that—didn't want Aoife to become a source of friction between them.
       "No, but Queen Eleanor has known me since I was a young knight and our appreciation of each