The Greatest Knight (10 page)

"A spear in the thigh; it is almost healed, madam," William replied, not wanting to dwell on his injury. "I am for ever in your debt for ransoming me."

Eleanor shook her head. "There will be no talk of debt unless it is on my part. You and your uncle sacrificed yourselves for my freedom and I can never repay that. Patrick of Salisbury was my husband's man, and did his bidding first, but he was honourable and courteous and I grieve his death. His murderers will be brought to justice, I promise you that." Behind Eleanor, de Tancarville made a sound of concurrence.

"Yes, madam," William agreed, his mouth twisting. He had sworn an oath on his sword on the matter. Until the Lusignan brothers had taught him the meaning of hatred, he had harboured strong grudges against no man. Now he had that burden and it was as if something light had been taken from him and replaced with a hot lead weight.

"You have no lord now, William." Eleanor drew him further into the room and bade him sit on a cushioned bench. He did so gratefully for his leg was paining him and he had yet to regain his stamina.

"No, madam." William glanced at Guillaume de Tancarville, who was watching him with an enigmatic smile on his lips. William had half expected the Chamberlain to invite him to rejoin his household, but the older man remained silent. "It is the tourney season, and I still have Blancart. I can make my way in the world."

De Tancarville's smile deepened. "Are you sure about that? You seem to have an unfortunate skill for losing destriers and putting yourself in jeopardy."

"I would have done the same for you, my lord, were you in my uncle's place," William replied with quiet dignity, thereby wiping the humour from de Tancarville's face.

"I'm sorry, lad. I should not have jested. Perhaps it's because I know more about your future than you do. You won't need to ride the tourney roads or accept a place in my mesnie."

"My lord?" William gave him a baffled look; Eleanor shot him an irritated one, as if de Tancarville had given too much away.

"What my lord Tancarville is saying in his clumsy fashion is that I am offering you a place among my own household guard," Eleanor said. "I will furnish you with whatever you need in the way of clothing and equipment...and horses should the need arise," she added with a twitch of her lips. "It is more than charity. I would be a fool of the greatest order not to take you into my service. My children adore you, we have missed your company, and you have proven your loyalty and valour to the edge of death."

Her compliments washed over William's head in a hot wave and he felt his face burning with pleasure and embarrassment.

"Lost for words?" she teased, her voice throaty with laughter.

William swallowed. "I have often dreamed of such a post but I never thought..." He shook his head. "It is an ill wind," he said and suddenly a sweeping feeling of loss and sadness overtook his euphoria. He put his right hand over his face, striving to hold himself together. He had managed it for four months under the most difficult of circumstances. He wouldn't break now, not in front of the Queen.

"William, I understand," Eleanor said in a gentler voice than was her wont. "Take what time you need and report to me as soon as you are ready. Speak to my steward. He will see that you are provided with anything you lack. Go to." She gave him a gentle push.

"Madam." William bowed from her presence. On the threshold, just as he was almost free, Princess Marguerite came skipping into the chamber with her nurse. Her face lit up when she saw William. Producing the puppy that had been tucked under her arm, she thrust it at him. "This is Diamond," she announced. "She's my new dog. I'm glad you're back."

"So am I." William dutifully tussled the pup's silky ears. It opened its little jaws and nipped his finger with its milk teeth. The word "rat" came to mind but he kept it to himself.

"Are you crying?" Marguerite asked, some of the pleasure leaving her face as she prepared to pucker her chin in sympathy.

William's nostrils filled with the smell of the pup—a mingling of mild urine and baby fur. "No, Princess," he lied, forcing the shield of his control to remain even though it was damaged beyond repair. "I have a cold, that is all." Suddenly he was very glad that it was only Marguerite on the stairs and not Eleanor's demanding, boisterous sons.

Holding on to the storm had its price. Like summer lightning, it flickered on the horizon, clouding his head, building painful pressure behind his eyes, refusing to break because he had stopped the natural order of things. He avoided as many folk as he could, replying in monosyllables to those who attempted to speak to him.

He came to the church of Saint Hilaire shortly after vespers with the sun mellowing at his left shoulder and casting long shadows over a landscape wearing the dusty, faded green of midsummer. He had thought of nothing as he walked, because that had been the easiest thing to do—exist in his own company with a blank mind. It took him a moment to respond to the porter on duty and the words fumbled out of him as if he had been drinking, causing the monk to look at him with disapproval.

William drew himself together and in a firmer voice repeated who he was and why he had come. The porter summoned another monk to lead William to Patrick of Salisbury's tomb. Their footsteps echoed in the vault of the nave and the evening light spun through the arches and gilded the walls and floor in soothing, quiet gold.

In silence the monk indicated the tomb, currently devoid of embellishment save for a pall of red silk fringed with gold, candles burning in sockets at each corner of the cover. The formal effigy was still in the process of being carved. William nodded his thanks and knelt beside the tomb. The monk's footsteps whispered away, leaving William to his vigil. As the sun set, blue dusk followed by deep night covered the church in successive layers. Shrine lamps glimmered in the darkness and candles made pools of light. William heard the monks at their compline service and then again at matins. A deep hush fell, as profound as the darkness between the islands of light. Alone, William leaned his forehead against the shroud and willed himself to weep for the proud man struck down from behind, but the tears would not come. Somewhere between Eleanor's chamber and the church, they had dried up and the storm had rumbled off to some fasthold at the back of his mind.

Seven

Southwark London, June 1170

William had often heard about the stews that populated the suburb lining the south bank of the Thames, but until today, he had never set foot in the notorious district of brothels, bathhouses, and cookshops that served the city across the river. That he was here at all was the fault of Eleanor’s kitchen clerk, Wigain, who said that no man had lived until he had tasted Emma’s roast goose with sage and onion frumenty. Predictably it had been the description of the food that had lured William to the Southwark side, together with a need to escape the tangles of court intrigue and ceremony for a short while. William might be a workhorse, but tonight he had cast off the yoke and was a young man of three and twenty, set on enjoying himself with his friends and family. The company consisted of Wigain, Walter Map, who was also a royal clerk, Baldwin de Béthune, who, like William, was a knight in the royal household, and William’s brothers John and Ancel.

William’s first shock was discovering that “Emma” was a man��over two yards tall and hairy as a bear. Dangling around his neck was a startling array of gaudy glass necklaces, beads and pewter tokens, one of which portrayed an enormous winged phallus in a glorious state of erection. Wigain laughed at William’s stunned expression. “Don’t worry, he likes other men, but not unless he’s invited.”

“Well that’s a relief,” John Marshal said acidly. “I don’t suppose he gets many offers.”

“You’d be surprised.” Walter Map smiled broadly behind his ink-stained fingers. He was forever writing down his observances concerning life at court and the people in positions of authority. “I know of at least one baron who comes here for more than the goose and he’s not interested in wenches.”

As he spoke, the men turned to observe two young women emerge from the bathhouse that was situated beyond the eating room. They were bearing piles of damp towels and giggling to each other, their faces flushed, hair escaping their veils, and their gowns clinging to their bodies. Before they closed the door the sound of a client’s voice bantering with another, unseen bath maid could clearly be heard. Wisps of herb-scented vapour wafted across the dining space.

“I can see why you might think life at Hamstead too staid for your appetite these days,” John muttered to William.

William laughed at his brother’s prim expression. “Despite what you think, we don’t lead a life of debauchery, do we, Baldwin?”

De Béthune’s dark eyes sparkled. “Not yet, but I’m hoping our luck’s going to change.”

They leaned back to allow “Emma” to place the roasted goose on the trestle. A succulent aroma oozed from its crisp golden pores. Amber droplets trembled down its flanks and pooled on the salver. The scent of sage and onion frumenty rose in heavenly waves. There was a jug of verjuice and raisin sauce to offset the richness of the meat and good white bread in quantity to soak up the juices.

“You won’t taste anything better, even on the morrow,” announced Wigain as he cut into the bird with alacrity. “The kitchen sheds are piled to the rafters with swans and peacocks and God knows what else. If you and Baldwin want feathers for your caps, I can get you plenty.” He speared a piece of breast on the tip of his knife and directed the meat to his mouth. A look of pure bliss crossed his face and he gave a lecherous moan.

John leaned towards William and said with an edge to his jesting, “After the morrow your head will be too big for any kind of hat to stay on it.”

“I trust you to shrink it to size,” William retorted amiably. “I’m well aware of how fortunate I am.”

“Aye, you’ve always had the luck, even when you were a snot-nosed brat,” John growled. “We all thought we’d never see you again when you were given as a hostage to King Stephen. Gilbert and Walter taunted me that you had been hanged and our father beat them for it.”

“I didn’t know that…”

John shrugged. “No reason why you should. I bawled my eyes out for you, God knows why.”

“Perhaps because you didn’t know how lucky I was going to be,” William suggested, to which John replied with a grunt that might have been amusement but was probably something darker.

As William dined on the succulent roast goose, he pondered the nature of that luck. Being in favour at court was a two-edged sword, and the court itself was a constant battlefield of wits, where the wrong word or an unwise alliance could destroy a man and one’s enemies were never met face to face, for, as often as not, the killing blow was to the defenceless back.

During the past two years in the Queen’s household, William had been developing the diplomatic survival skills learned under Guillaume de Tancarville. At the outset, he had been just another hearth knight, beholden to Eleanor for his daily bread, but even so he had been noticed and marked for attention. He had heard it muttered that he was a favourite because his face fitted, but if so, he had worked hard to ensure that it did. His reward had been a change of households and additional responsibility.

Tomorrow Prince Henry was to be crowned and given the title of king in his own father’s lifetime. There would be two King Henrys—the “Old” one who was but seven and thirty, and the “Young” one who had turned fifteen in February. The crowning of the heir while the father still lived was traditional in the French royal family but had never been undertaken in the English one. However, the elder Henry, scarred by the inheritance wars of his own childhood, had decided to ape French custom and crown his eldest son and pronounce him heir to England, Normandy, and Anjou. Richard had been made Count of Poitou the previous year and betrothed to Alys Capet, Marguerite’s sister. Geoffrey had been given Brittany. All business of inheritance was being tidied and made certain.

Since Prince Henry was to be a king and was surging rapidly through adolescence towards manhood, his parents had deemed that he should have his own household. William and Baldwin had been amongst the young knights chosen to enter his service and William had particular responsibility for Henry’s military training. It was a task he had been casually undertaking for the last two years, but this set it on a formal basis and raised his position to greater prominence. The one fly in the ointment was the appointing of Adam Yqueboeuf, his rival from his Tancarville days, to the Prince’s household too. William could have lived very happily without that particular friction.

The women returned bearing fresh towels. Before re-entering the bathhouse, one of them slanted an inviting glance over her shoulder at the dining men.

“You think they’d entertain six of us?” Wigain asked, rubbing his hands.

William rolled his eyes. The little clerk reminded him of the fearsomely lecherous terrier belonging to the royal nursemaid, Hodierna. William had lost count of the times he had booted it across the room for trying to futter his leg. “I prefer my pleasure to be less of a mêlée outside tournaments,” he replied, “and I’ve certainly no desire to watch you take yours.”

“They have private arrangements if you’d rather.”

William opened his mouth to say that any arrangements would be of his own making, not theirs, but the words went unspoken as the client emerged from the bathhouse. His sleeked-back hair was a deep chestnut that would be fox-red when it dried and his angular features were dappled with freckles. He rapidly assessed the occupants of the main room out of pale grey eyes, his hand hovering close to his sword hilt. Two squires who had been drinking quietly in a corner rose to attend him.

“It’s Richard de Clare,” muttered Walter Map out of the side of his mouth, adding when Baldwin looked blank, “Lord of Striguil. He’s not long returned from escorting the Princess Matilda to her marriage in Saxony and he’s seeking the King’s permission to go to Ireland and fight for King Dermot of Leinster.” He leaned forward like a conspirator. “The rumour is that King Dermot’s offered him his daughter, the Princess Aoife.”

“If I wanted to know my future, I’d not ask heaven, Master Map, I’d enquire of a court clerk, because their breed appears to know more than God,” said de Clare, bending over the table to speak in Walter’s ear. He slapped him on the shoulder, thereby sending the clerk’s cheek into the greasy goose carcass. “I have sharp hearing and you have a loud whisper.” He looked around the table. “I have no need for clerks where I’m going, gossips and spies the lot of them, but it is true that I am bound for King Dermot’s court on the next ship to Ireland, and I have need of good knights.” His gaze ranged over the swords worn by William, John, and Baldwin. “If any of you has a mind, I’m recruiting followers. I can’t promise riches, but likely you’ll acquire them.”

“It is generous of you to offer, my lord,” William replied, wiping his hands and lips on a napkin. “If we did not already have places with King Henry and his sons, we would be glad to consider your proposal.” He indicated the table. “Will you join us?”

De Clare eyed the glisten-cheeked Walter and smiled sourly. “Thank you, but I have already eaten,” he said, “and I’m not sure that sharing company would aid my digestion or yours.” Saluting them, he departed with his squires. The odour of herbs and costly scented oil lingered in his wake.

“I don’t think he approved of you, Master Map,” chuckled Baldwin.

“Well, King Henry doesn’t approve of him,” Map retorted, on his dignity. “He’ll be glad to be rid of him to Ireland and hope that some Hibernian with an axe puts an end to his ambition. He’s a brawler and a troublemaker.”

William said nothing. The brief exchange had given him an impression of a strong, charismatic personality. A man of plain speaking who did not suffer fools gladly and was short of patience, but who had the ability to mock himself and laugh at the world. A man to follow, except that William already had his feet on another path and his allegiance was to a young lord of a very different kind.

Emma came to clear the table of the remnants of the goose and receive ardent compliments concerning his culinary expertise. A smile appeared within the thicket of black beard and he simpered. Wigain and Walter chose to partake of the pleasures offered by the adjoining bathhouse, while William, his brothers, and Baldwin paid for their meal and headed out into the warm spring evening in search of a boat to row them back to the respectable side of the city.

William’s and Baldwin’s eventual destination was the White Tower where their duties would begin long before dawn, but first they accompanied John and Ancel back to their lodging near Billingsgate and the rest of the Marshal family.

Their arrival caused a flurry of delight. William’s sisters were wild with excitement to be in London for a coronation, especially when their brother was one of Prince Henry’s chosen knights. Not having seen William for more than two years, they flung themselves upon him. Sybilla Marshal was laughing as she called them to heel like two half-trained puppies. Glowing with pride herself, she embraced William tenderly then stepped back to look at him.

“The Young King’s tutor in arms and his marshal,” she declared proudly. “You have travelled far in a short time. If your father could see you…”

“He would praise me with one hand and fist me down to size with the other,” William answered merrily. “Mother, this is Baldwin of Béthune, who is to serve with me in the new King’s guard.”

Sybilla greeted him with warm words of welcome and insisted that both young knights take a cup of wine before they left for the Tower. Baldwin’s eyes lingered on the maiden who served them, as did William’s. In the two years since he had seen Alais, the last softness of childhood had melted away, defining the lines of cheekbone and jaw. She appraised him and Baldwin with clear hazel-green eyes and her full lips parted in an uninhibited smile that turned her from pretty into strikingly beautiful.

“It is good to see you again,” she said warmly to William.

“And you.” He returned her smile. “That colour suits you.” He was adept at the trivial talk and flattery that smoothed the way underfoot at court. Not that he needed to flatter in Alais’s case. The soft moss-green of her gown lit similar lights in her eyes and contrasted well with her fair skin.

Alais blushed and giggled nervously. John cleared his throat and gave William a ferocious glower. William had often received such looks at court, generally from anxious fathers, brothers, or husbands who disliked the ease with which he formed rapports with their womenfolk. Their alarm amused William for it had no substance. He enjoyed the company of women, and it was a delight to flirt with them, but he was no poacher and there was plenty of legitimate game should he choose to pursue it. John’s glare was definitely neither paternal nor filial as he moved to stand protectively in front of Alais. Every bone in his body said “mine.”

***

“Pretty girl, your mother’s chamber lady,” Baldwin said with speculation in his eyes as he and William took a barge downriver to the Tower to snatch what sleep they could before dawn.

“Don’t go harbouring ideas,” William replied, a note of warning underlying the good humour in his voice. “She’s not for tumbling.”

Baldwin grinned. “Your brother was certainly being as protective over her as a dog with a marrowbone. The look in his eyes, I don’t think I’d want to fight him for her.”

“It wouldn’t be my brother you’d be facing if you damaged Alais, but my mother, and you’d die.”

Baldwin laughed and then sobered. “So what are her circumstances? I take it your brother is not for marrying her or he’d have had six children out of her by now and another in her belly.”

William shook his head and studied the oar bench between his spread knees. “He’s the heir and Alais has neither dowry nor high family connections. A man of his standing has to select his wife for her estates and the importance of her kin.”