She didn’t say anything else.
And then the devil inside James came to life. He put his hand on her shoulder, let his fingers tease her ear. She stiffened.
“My wife just can’t keep these things straight in that pretty head of hers. I am the Earl of Bolton.”
For a moment, he thought the soldiers would attack him for touching their mistress. He kept his hand on his sword, daring them to. Sir Hugo finally gave a formal bow, his lip twitching beneath his overgrown mustache. The man narrowed his eyes and gave James a deliberately assessing stare.
“We were worried when Lady Isabel did not return home after her father died. Even the steward did not know her whereabouts. We had begun searching for her, thinking she was thrown from her horse. And then we heard that the king had given her toyouin marriage.”
His stance made it very clear that there was little besides death he considered worse than marriage to a Bolton.
“Your loyalty is to be commended,” James said. “Carry on with your duties. I’ll have my wife show me the castle.”
Sir Hugo gave a brief nod and turned to his troop. Isabel began to follow the captain.
“Isabel, you are with me,” James said.
Her back stiffened and she turned slowly to face him.
“I would like to spend time with my men,” she said.
“They are also my men now, and you can converse with them in the great hall. Your duty should be to prepare for their meal and see to their comfort.”
He thought for a moment she would rebel, and he would have to chase her across the ward, but instead she gave him a cold black stare and went inside the castle. James tossed his reins to a page and followed her. The stench of rotting rushes and moldy food was almost overwhelming. The walls were bare stone, no tapestries to keep out the drafts. He turned to watch Isabel closely, and thought even she looked surprised.
Servants appeared to greet her, and they were warm enough to her, but cast wary glances at James. One old man stood before the rest with an air of command, and a frown of distrust. Probably the steward, the man James most needed to see.
He decided to wait on Isabel’s words. There was silence for a moment, broken by the wail of a child somewhere down a corridor. She looked at him, and he raised an eyebrow.
She took a deep breath, then turned to address the small crowd. “This is James Markham, the Earl of Bolton. As you know, I have been given to him in marriage by King Henry.” She stopped speaking, and gave him a cold look. “He is your lord now.”
20
James inwardly winced at Isabel’s poor choice of words. He was their lord, true, but it was not the best way to handle the situation.
Ignoring her, he faced his newest servants. “I am pleased to have all of you with me. Be patient. I may not be your former lord, but I am a fair man, and will treat you as you treat me.”
He heard a few grumbles, but thought his short speech sufficient for the moment. But he could not ignore the condition of the trestle tables, which seemed not to have been cleaned since dinner.
“I must ask that you prepare the hall for supper. I have specific instructions on the standard of cleanliness I expect from now on.”
Soon the tables were being scrubbed with hot, soapy water, and a girl was sweeping out the old rushes. Plenty of rats scurried out of the way and James grimaced. Knights and soldiers and laborers arrived in small groups, and bowed with grudging respect to James, yet eyed all the changes uncertainly.
Just before supper, James came downstairs dressed in a gold and black doublet. Appearances were how he had always won any awkward situation. He had ruled his people by showing them exactly what they wanted to see, a powerful man in control. After all, sometimes only his title, his face, and his reputation seemed to matter.
Supper was a strained meal, with Sir Hugo and Galway sharing the head table with James and Isabel. The two captains sat beside each other in disapproving silence. Conversation was absent, the food was abysmal. Even Isabel stared down at her trencher and sighed before eating. Watching Sir Hugo, James realized that someone actually had worse table manners than his wife. He wanted to throw a napkin in the man’s face and demand he wipe the food off his mustache. But he restrained himself.
The Mansfield knights leered at and pinched the serving maids whenever they passed by. The Bolton knights were offended, and by their dark looks, James wondered if all would come to blows. There were no minstrels to enliven the evening, but a few half-hearted games of Tables and chess were started and quickly ended. Isabel took up her stance before the fire, speaking with no one. At last, James called an end to the evening.
“Isabel, show me to your bedchamber,” he said, thinking now was not the time to demand the lord’s chambers.
It was the wrong thing to say. Her face flushed red, and a few of her knights got to their feet, hands on their hilts. James stood his ground. Let them all just try to keep their new lord from his wife. Isabel seemed to square her shoulders before taking him to a corner staircase that wound its way tightly up to the second floor. The corridors were dimly lit with sputtering, ill-made torches.
When she opened the door to her bedchamber, James braced himself, but still he was stunned. She had nothing but a pallet on the floor and a trunk. The walls were damp and narrow, with only a single shuttered window that didn’t keep out a draft.
“We can’t sleep here, Isabel.”
“I am sorry it is not elegant enough for you,” she said with a faint sneer.
