The Greatest Knight (15 page)

Henry made a noise within his helm that sounded like reluctant laughter. “I always have,” he said. “Don’t let me down now.”

“Never,” William said. “Remember, posture and attitude is more than half the battle. Those footsoldiers are seeing two knights on fledged warhorses. They are seeing iron-shod hooves that can shatter a limb with a single kick. They are seeing mail which cannot be easily pierced and facing the blankness of our helms while we are watching their fear.”

Henry nodded, absorbing the lesson. “And what are we seeing?”

“Sheep,” William replied with a low chuckle. “Panic one and the entire flock will run.”

As one, they levelled their lances, tucked in their shields, and spurred their mounts. The horses’ shoes struck sparks on the street cobbles; the silk barding of the destriers rippled as they galloped. William fixed his gaze on Simon de Neauphle who was roaring commands at his men to stand firm, but William knew they wouldn’t. The majority were hirelings with no history of loyalty to glue them in place and withstand the power of two charging warhorses. Between one hard stride of his destrier and another, the nerve of the footsoldiers broke and they scattered like chaff on the wind. William nudged his bay with his thigh, turning a fraction so that he was able to seize de Neauphle’s bridle and hold him fast.

“Marshal, you bastard, let go!” De Neauphle was wearing an open-faced helm and his brown eyes were ablaze with chagrin and fury.

“Gladly, if you yield me your pledge of ransom,” William answered and laughed as de Neauphle let fly with several expletives aimed at his captor’s ancestry. Henry following, William led his quarry down a narrow side street with low-hanging gutters, his destination a livery stable which had been designated one of the rallying points of the tourney. Captured knights were brought to make their pledges and combatants could take a rest, mend equipment, or change horses as their needs dictated. In the confines of the street, their horses’ hooves raised an echoing clatter and the light was so poor that William’s vision was reduced to a murky slit. De Neauphle ceased swearing and fell silent but this was compensated for by Henry who was singing loudly and somewhat tunelessly to himself.

At the livery stable, William dismounted and as he unlaced his helm, commanded one of Henry’s waiting squires to take the captive knight into custody. “What knight?” Henry asked before the bewildered squire could speak. He had removed his own helm and set it before him on the pommel. His eyes were sparkling and his shoulders were shaking. “Certainly you have custody of the horse and its harness, but you seem to have lost your captive.”

William slewed round and, now that he had full vision, stared at the empty saddle in astonishment. He handed his helm to the squire and untied his arming cap. “Where’s de Neauphle?” he demanded.

Turning in the saddle, Henry pointed back the way they had come. “He took advantage of one of those gutters—swung up on to it without you seeing. Christ, it was funny.” The mirth that he had been struggling to contain burst out of him and he bowed over his saddle, incapacitated by laughter.

Scowling, William strode back up the street. Simon de Neauphle was no longer hanging off a gutter, but capering on the walk of the spinning gallery belonging to the same house. A shocked matron was standing near him, clutching her distaff to her bosom as if it were a talisman against rape.

“I claim sanctuary, Marshal!” de Neauphle cried, showing William a taunting forefinger. “You enter this house and the good dame here will beat you to a pulp with her distaff!”

Hands on hips, William stared up at his escaped quarry. “Well, she couldn’t be any worse at defending you than your men!” he retorted, and began to laugh himself as the humour in the situation overrode his annoyance at losing his quarry. “Enjoy your nuptials.” He flourished a bow. “I’d serenade you, but I’ve a fine warhorse and harness to stow.”

Predictably, de Neauphle dropped his braies and waggled his buttocks at William, who threw up his hands and returned to the stables to find Henry still convulsed. “If you had seen him, Marshal!” he spluttered. “What a trick, what a trick!”

William wasn’t so sure the incident had been that sidesplitting, but he had the grace to laugh at himself and the good nature to enter into the spirit of the jest. Henry harped on about the matter to all who would listen and by the time they arrived back at the tourney field there was scarcely a contestant who had not heard the tale of de Neauphle’s escape literally behind William’s back. William endured the joshing and back-slapping and consoled himself with the knowledge that he had the ransom money due from de Neauphle’s Lombard destrier and its fine Spanish harness. He was further mollified when a grinning, excited Wigain dropped a weighty pouch of silver into his cupped palm—profits from wagers won on the success of Henry’s mesnie.

The great lords hosted feasts in their tents, vying to outdo each other in extravagance and largesse, offering the strongest wine, the whitest bread served on silver dishes, the most skilled tumblers, the most amusing jester, the best troubadour. The townspeople and farmers playing host to this vast locust plague prayed to be reimbursed for the supplies consumed and the crops trampled in the course of the contest. The presence of a tourney crowd was always enlivening and exciting, creating a spectacle amidst a fairground atmosphere, but although the silence was resounding when it moved on, the peace was a relief, especially to the older members of the community. Silly, smitten girls and young lads with the shine of armour in their dreams took longer to fall back into the monotonous daily routine.

The tally of injuries to Henry’s mesnie included cracked ribs, broken fingers, and a dislocated shoulder, but nothing too serious, and the celebrations continued long into the night. William drank, but not to excess, and kept an eye on the men. There was to be more sport on the morrow and the winners would be those who were able to rise in the morning without heads as thick as thunderclouds.

Queen Marguerite appeared with her ladies and briefly joined her husband for the early courses of the feast. He regaled her with tales of the day’s doings, and the story of William’s escapee was repeated yet again. Marguerite laughed dutifully, but the laughter scarcely reached her eyes, which were shadowed with fatigue.

“Are you unwell, madam?” William enquired with concern, for she was as pale as a shroud.

She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Just tired,” she said, “but I thank you for asking, messire.”

“You should eat a sliver of loaf sugar,” William said. “I always do when I run out of strength.”

“You do?” Her eyes lit with a moment of genuine warmth. “Do you remember when I gave you that piece at Chinon?” She leaned a little towards him, her gaze eager.

“Indeed, madam, I do. It was the best gift I have ever received, and I am not teasing you. Boiled sugar truly does lift your spirits if you are flagging.”

“Then I will have some brought to my chamber. I wish…” She started to speak and then changed her mind.

“William, stop making love to my wife and tell my lord of Flanders about de Neauphle’s escape!” Henry gave William an impatient nudge.

Marguerite flushed at her husband’s words, but William read nothing more into them than Henry’s impatient desire to have his captain’s attention directed towards discussing the tourney rather than making small talk with a woman.

“I would rather talk to a beautiful lady than tell tales about de Neauphle’s acrobatics,” he retorted, but nevertheless obliged the impatient Young King with a repeat of the story. Marguerite begged leave to retire with her women, pleading the fatigue of her pregnancy. Henry managed to be solicitous to her for a moment, escorting her out, holding her hand, and kissing her temple, but he was obviously relieved to see her depart, and returned to the gathering, rubbing his hands and exhaling with anticipation. “Wigain says there’s a pair of eastern dancing girls doing the rounds of the lodgings. Rubies in their navels, so I’m told. Now the women have gone, I’ll have them sent for.”

William raised his brows. At least, he thought, Henry had waited until his wife had retired. He supposed that not every lord would have done so.

It was well past midnight before William finally made his way to his pavilion, his footsteps still reasonably steady. He had enjoyed watching the dancing girls perform, and they had indeed had jewels in some interesting places. One boasted a ruby, the other a pearl. Someone said that the latter was a symbol of her virginity. William doubted that any girl who was prepared to dance on a table clad in exotic nothings still had her pearl to give, but it was an entertaining fantasy—even if it would have to be admitted next time he sought the grace of confession.

Rhys was waiting outside his tent mending a piece of harness, but jumped to his feet when William arrived. “Sir, you have a visitor,” he said.

“At this time of night?” William cast his glance towards the closed tent flaps. “Who is it?” Notions of a few decent hours of sleep fled.

“It is a lady, sir. She said she knew you and that you would not refuse to see her.”

William looked severely at the Welshman. “If you have allowed a camp whore into my tent, I’ll have you picking rust off hauberk rivets with your fingernails for a sennight. Did she give her name?”

“No, sir, but she said she was an old friend.”

Mystified, William parted the flap and stepped inside his tent. Seated on the folding stool at his bedside, hands clasped in her lap, was a young woman of about his own age. She was wearing a cloak of good wool, although it had been patched near the hem, and her hair was properly concealed beneath a veil of fine, bleached linen. William stared. In the years since he had been a hostage to the de Lusignan brothers, he had had his share of dealings with women, most of them fleeting due to the peripatetic nature of the Young King’s household and his own decision not to add the complication of a woman to his baggage train. Names, faces had blended into each other, but he had never forgotten the woman sitting before him. Her face was thinner, her bones more defined, but the wide dark eyes were the same, and the straight, fine nose. What she was doing in his tent without an attendant for decency’s sake and at midnight was a mystery.

“Lady Clara,” he said, and bowed.

She rose and came to him, a smile on her lips, but her eyes filled with caution. “You remembered my name,” she said. “I did not know if you would.”

He kissed her hand in formal greeting. “It is not so much a case of remembering, as never forgetting, my lady,” he murmured. “Has my attendant offered you wine?”

She shook her head. “No, but do not rebuke him. I gained the impression that he was risking his life by allowing me to wait in your tent.”

“He was indeed,” William said. “You would not guess the number of subterfuges that some of the camp women perpetrate, and Rhys knows that my bed is usually a solitary one.”

She lowered her lids and the light from the hanging lamp in the tent roof made fan shadows of her lashes. “I would not have to guess,” she murmured, “because I am one of them.”

William went to the pitcher standing on his coffer and poured wine into the cup standing beside it, making time to compose himself. One-handed, he unfolded a second stool for himself, and gesturing her to be reseated, gave her the cup.

“None for yourself?” she asked.

William shook his head. “I need a clear head for the morrow,” he said, “and perhaps for now as well. What do you mean, you are one of them?”

Her mouth twisted. “I am a whore…one of the women of the camp. You can put finer words on it—say that I am a courtesan and a concubine, but it amounts to the same thing. I belong to any man who has my price, and providing he pays it, I will do all that he asks.” She took a sip of the wine.

Her words sent an involuntary shock down William’s spine and into his loins. “How did you come to such a pass?” He leaned forward on the stool. “When last I saw you, you were lady of a castle.” Looking closer he saw that the discoloration on one cheek he had taken for shadow and rouge was actually a bruise. He thought of the argument he and Henry had overheard earlier in the day as they walked through the camp, and wondered.

She gave a bitter laugh. “When last you saw me I was Amalric’s mistress, not his wife—a concubine. My mother was the youngest daughter of a knight and my father a passing troubadour who duped her into lying with him. I was always going to be either a lady’s maid, a whore, or a nun. I started off as the first, became the second when Amalric took me out of the bower for his own use, and some day, who knows, perhaps I’ll repent and take my vows.”

William’s eyelids tensed as he thought of his brother and Alais. The stories ran parallel, save that Alais had the security of a roof over her head and had borne John a son upon whom his brother clearly doted.

“Amalric was killed in a skirmish with the troops of Guillaume de Tancarville,” she continued, “and the keep was seized. I gathered what I could, saddled up Amalric’s palfrey, and fled to the tourneys. I’ve been following them for four years now, finding ‘protectors’ when I have been able.”

“That is a sorry tale, my lady.”

She shrugged. “I do not need your pity. I live from day to day and thus far I have survived.”

The defiant gleam in her eyes reminded William strongly of Queen Eleanor. He inclined his head, acknowledging her ability and her pride. “But at what cost?” he said. “Your face does not tell a fortunate story just now.”