The Greatest Knight (16 page)

She touched her bruised cheek. “Some men are worthless,” she said, “and some are without price.” Her voice dropped a notch, becoming husky. “I was hoping when I saw you arrive with the Young King that you were of the second sort. You said when I gave you bandages for your leg that you would not forget the debt owing.”

“Nor have I, my lady.” He opened his hand towards her. “What I have is yours.”

“Then would you give me your protection for as long as I have need?”

Several thoughts flew through William’s mind, some noble, some considerably less so. “What kind of protection?” he asked when he was certain of his voice. “Shall I ask the Young Queen to give you a position in her household? Do you need money?”

Rising to her feet, she unclasped the pin holding her cloak together and cast the garment across the stool. Beneath it, she was wearing the tightly laced gown of yellow silk he remembered from years ago with sleeves almost to the floor and a belt stitched with pearls and jet. “They say you are the best knight on the tourney circuit.”

William shrugged. “There is always talk on the tourney field,” he said. “It’s entertaining, but you shouldn’t set store by it.”

“I don’t. I listen and make my own judgements.” She swept him a look through her lashes. “Money is always useful. I doubt that the Young Queen would take me into her household—a Poitevan whore with a reputation longer than her sleeves.”

“I could send you to my brother in England,” William said. “He is unwed, but he dwells with a mistress and they have an infant son…”

Clara shook her head. “Even if his woman is a saint, she would see me as a rival, and besides, I have no desire to set foot on a ship—ever.” She tilted her head to one side. “I could stay with you. There are advantages to not having your servant throw me out.”

William had often been propositioned and usually deflected the women with courtesy. Until now he had not been tempted beyond his ability to resist. “I would not delegate such a task to Rhys in this situation, but I do not see what gain there is to you.” He stood up, not sure if he was going to see her from the tent or prevent her from leaving.

“Then either you are modest, ignorant, or fishing for compliments.” She moved up to him, into the space where he seldom allowed anyone to stand. “What woman would not want the protection of a knight of your prowess? What woman would not desire such a man?” She took his hands and set them at her waist, holding them there, her palms to his knuckles. “If the man desires her, of course,” she added in a voice smoky with lust.

“A man in my position cannot afford a mistress,” he said, but his hands stayed at her waist, feeling flesh and bone sharpened by an edge of hunger, the delicate ridges of her rib cage, the flat, taut belly.

“I spoke of desiring, not affording,” she said. “Think of all the things a mistress can do for you that a servant cannot.” She set one arm around his neck and kissed him. It was the kiss of a woman experienced in the seductive arts, her body warm with the southern blood of the troubadours. Her other hand left his at her waist and moved down between them to stroke with spine-tingling skill.

The sensations almost undid him, because no woman had ever done that to him before, or not with such boldness and knowing. He hissed through his teeth and his hand tightened involuntarily at her waist. She licked his throat and nipped his earlobe. “I can show you ways of pleasuring that will drive you out of your senses,” she murmured. Her right hand slipped into his hose, found the leg of his braies and worked upwards. “Jesu!” Her breathing caught on laughter and greed. “The tourney field isn’t the only place that you carry a fine straight lance, is it?”

That should have been the moment to stop. Had William been completely sober and his lust not already honed by the performance of the eastern dancing girls, he might have found the strength to give her his pallet for the night and step outside to slumber by the camp fire. But she was dark-eyed, warm, and pliant in his arms, as a young Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine might have been, and her touch was intoxicating. His resistance fell before her onslaught. He set reason aside and let his body take command, although in truth it was she who had the mastery.

***

Lightly, Clara touched William’s naked thigh. “You still bear the scar,” she murmured, her lips following the gentle feather of her fingertips.

“I will have it until my dying day,” he said, squinting down his body to the dark spread of her hair. “Without your succour that day would have come and gone. I will never forget that kindness.”

She gave a breathy chuckle and her lips nipped higher up his thigh. “It was more than kindness,” she said. “It was selfishness too, and defiance. Amalric had warned me to leave well alone, so what was I to do except meddle? Even then, sore wounded and mired as you were, I could see your potential.” She raised her head and her eyes were those of a night-hunting cat. “Are you going to let me stay?”

William hesitated. A short while ago he had been ensnared by the pure, white heat of lust. That tension was gone now, although what Clara was doing was rapidly rekindling it. Wisdom said he should treat this encounter as no more than a casual meeting. That he should give her funds to help her on her way, and when he left the tourney ground, not look back. Usually he would listen to that inner voice, but something else had stirred in him tonight. Perhaps it was her feline manner, which reminded him of Eleanor; perhaps it was the knowledge that she owned an indelible part of his past and that what she had done for him then deserved more than an embarrassed handful of silver as he rode away.

“I won’t demand more of you than you can give,” she said, as if reading his doubts.

He dropped his hand to her hair. It was silky under his calloused touch and as cool as cat’s fur. “And what if all I can give you is a pittance?” he asked. “What if I say that you will be little less impoverished on your own?”

“Then a pittance will suffice, and I know that you are wrong about the impoverishment.” She sat up, straddling him. “You will not regret this, I swear you will not.”

It was a long time since he had lain with a woman and his body responded to the position of hers and what she was doing. “Then stay,” he heard himself say.

She arched as she sheathed him, and leaned over to kiss his mouth. “How much do you know about courtly love?” she asked against his lips. “Shall I show you how to gain your lady’s favour?”

***

Later, fine-dewed with sweat, William collapsed upon his pallet, gulping for breath. Every fibre of his being felt as if it had been compacted on to the point of an arrow and fired with violence from his loins. A wanton, beatific smile on her face, Clara watched him through eyes hazy with satisfaction. “You see,” she purred.

William nodded, too spent to talk. He did see, and knew that he was a novice in the hands of an expert. He had heard hints concerning the rites of
amour courtois
of which the songs and poetry of the Southern troubadours were the outer circle. He knew the conventions by which a man should strive to be worthy of his lady love and seek no reward but a momentary glance and perhaps a smile. Queen Eleanor had played such games with him and in his turn he had played them gently with Marguerite and her women. But there were inner rings to the circle, where the tokens and the flirting led to the bedchamber, and within that secret red heart, it was still the role of the knight to please his lady and withhold his own pleasure if it be her whim. It was not enough to have control of one’s body on the tourney ground. The field of love called for endurance, restraint, and stamina; but there had to be passion too. Clara had taken her pleasure again and again and again, holding him on a fine edge. He could have yielded to temptation, held her down, and surged to his release, but pride and will and a determination to succeed had reined him back.

He gave a weak chuckle and looked at her in the light of the guttering night candle. “I am supposed to lead the Young King’s mesnie to victory on the tourney field on the morrow,” he said. “How am I to do that when I feel as if all the marrow has been sucked from my bones?”

Clara licked her lips and widened her eyes in mock innocence. “I haven’t been anywhere near your bones,” she said.

William spluttered. She was incorrigible.

“You will manage.” She yawned delicately like a cat. “After all, you are only playing at war. You might have to plan a strategy, you might have to fight hard, but at the end of the day, you can shed your mail, eat a decent meal, and sleep in a feather bed with no greater concern than a favourite horse you might have lost, or when the next tourney is going to be held.”

William’s mouth tightened. “I have fought in wars,” he said defensively. “I know the difference.”

“So do I.” The look of hazy pleasure left her eyes. She turned over and moved a little away from him, curling on her side, knees drawn up, and fists gathered beneath her chin.

William lay in silence, adjusting himself to her presence. His body was heavy with lassitude, his thoughts made slow and winding by the need for sleep. He eased over on the pallet to set his arm at her waist and kiss her throat beneath her hair. “It is a game, but all games are practice for the business of living…and living itself is also a game with harsh rules.”

“But you are a winner,” she said. “And I am tired of losing.” She turned into his arms and he folded them around her.

The sleep that he courted remained out of reach and as the dawn birdsong began to flute and cool grey light filtered into the tent, William pressed her waist, eased himself from his pallet, quietly dressed, and went outside. Rhys and his squire, Eustace, were building the fire and the former had been into the town to fetch fresh bread. William tore a hunk off a loaf still hot in the centre, and took the cup of wine that Eustace gave him. The youth kept his gaze studiously lowered whilst Rhys bestowed William a knowing look.

“Lady Clara will be travelling with us for a while,” William told them. “You should know that I owe her a debt of kindness, and that I expect her to be treated with the same respect you afford Queen Marguerite and her ladies. Nor do I want to find you gossiping about her to the likes of Wigain. Her honour is mine.”

“Yes, sir,” Eustace mumbled, red to the ears.

An experienced married man, Rhys was less embarrassed. “I was right to let her wait in your tent last night then?” he asked.

William laughed darkly, and toasted the Welshman. “I don’t know about that.”

Twelve

Pleurs, Champagne, Summer 1177

Seated in the window of the lodging house that William had rented, Clara held up the small hand mirror of grozed glass in its silver case and studied her reflection from various angles, inspecting her face and clothing to satisfy herself that all was in order. The town of Pleurs was playing host to a grand tourney and she was here with William and Roger de Gaugi who were fighting on their own behalf, although under the Young King’s banner. The latter had remained in Paris, awaiting Marguerite’s imminent confinement, but had exhorted his knights to break as many lances on his behalf as they could.

Adorned in a gown of blue silk trimmed with pearls, silver stars stitched on her gauze veil and wound through her plaited hair, Clara had gone to watch the opening bouts of the day’s sport. The prowess of William and Roger on the field had bolstered her pride and given her a sense of her own worth as the mistress of the greatest knight on the field. For a time she had followed their activity across the wide tourney ground, watching them win every engagement. Finally, as they ranged out of sight, she had repaired to their dwelling in the town to wait.

Tonight, the great lords who were the patrons of the tourneys would open their houses and throughout the evening the knights and their ladies would drift from one to the other like moths in search of nectar. As two of its most successful and attractive knights, William and Roger were in high demand and would be plied at each lodging with food and wine and rich gifts. Clara enjoyed basking in the reflected glory. William always introduced her as a highborn Poitevan lady, which amused her greatly.

She had been his mistress for three months now—a position she found both satisfactory and frustrating. His manners were impeccable and he treated her with deference and respect. Although a fierce competitor on the tourney field and assertive as a courtier, he was a considerate, restrained lover. When she had shown him wildness, she had sensed his shock, although he had adapted swiftly enough and she still tingled when she thought of a certain night under the stars somewhere in the County of Eu. The shattering of lances on the tourney ground had been as nothing compared to the impact of their pleasure on William’s rope-framed camp bed. But for all he gave her, she was greedy for more, and the hungrier she grew, the more reluctant he became. There was a well of reserve in him that she could not win past. On the few occasions she had pushed him in an attempt to wring a response, she had received either courteous platitude or silence. Following her tirades, he would invariably perform like a demon upon the tourney field. Clara had begun to think that the latter was where he exorcised all his anger and frustration, channelling it into clean, physical activity.

Seeing several dusty, weary knights and squires clopping up the road towards their lodgings, Clara surmised that the tourney had ended. In anticipation of William’s arrival, she abandoned her grooming, prepared him a bath, and set out meat, bread, fruit, and wine, knowing that he would have the appetite of a bear when he returned. Likely, he would smell like one too, hence the bath.

The water in the tub began to cool and Clara sighed, suspecting that William had lingered to talk with other contestants or else was about the matter of arranging ransom money from those he had taken captive. She had such faith in him it didn’t occur to her to think that William himself had been taken for ransom. Looking impatiently out of the window, she saw two knights and a squire approaching the lodging on foot. The squire was carrying a large salver draped with an embroidered cloth. Mystified, suddenly anxious, Clara hastened down to them.

“We are seeking Sir William Marshal, my lady.” A dark-haired knight bowed as Clara opened the door. “Is he here?”

She shook her head. “He has not yet returned from the tourney.” She glanced towards the cloth. The second knight leaned across the squire to twitch the linen aside and reveal an enormous pike with scales of iridescent silver tabby. It lay upon a bed of herbs and salad leaves, the latter a little wilted. The fish itself still looked fresh though.

“The Countess of Champagne sends this pike to Sir William in honour of his prestige in the tourney,” the knight said.

“Is he not still at the field?” Clara looked at them askance.

“No, my lady, he is not.”

Clara gnawed her lip. “I cannot help you, except to offer to take the pike and…” She paused and raised her head as Rhys clattered into the yard, William’s sweat-caked destrier on a lead rein. Gathering her skirts, she ran to him. “Rhys, where’s your lord?”

The Welshman dismounted and unclipped the lead rein. “At the forge, my lady, by the town gate,” he said. “His helm took some hard blows and he can’t get it off. He sent me to bring his horse back to the stables and to tell you that he will come as soon as he can.”

Relief and apprehension coursed through her. If he had taken blows sufficient to crumple his helm, then he could be injured or concussed. Her fear must have shown on her face, for Rhys gave a reassuring grin. “He’s sore discomfited,” the servant said, “but otherwise unharmed.”

Clara shook her head. “I need to see for myself.” She turned to the waiting knights and squire with their gift. “Do you want to leave that here?”

The knight who had spoken earlier declined her offer, laughter brimming in his eyes. “No, my lady, my instructions were to present it to him in person and I would not miss the sight of William Marshal with his head on an anvil for anything!”

***

Hands on hips, brawny features soot-smudged, the blacksmith studied William and sucked a considering breath between his teeth. “There’s no rescuing this one from the scrap heap,” he announced. “Fact is, I don’t even know how I am going to get you out of it with your head intact. I’m neither a chirurgeon nor a midwife.”

“Just do your best,” William said in a muffled voice. “I don’t expect you to be a chirurgeon or a midwife, just a good blacksmith.” The tourney field had been full of knights determined to make their mark and the sport had been fast and very aggressive. William hadn’t found it difficult to raise his game up to and beyond the new level; indeed he had enjoyed the challenge, but he was paying for it now. The blows he had received had dented his helm so badly that it had become impossible to remove. He could breathe well enough but he couldn’t see and there was no way on God’s earth that the opening of the helm could accommodate the diameters of his skull.

Muttering to himself the smith set out with hammers, wrenches, and pincers to ease the opening sufficiently for it to clear William’s head. The angle at which William had to lay his head on the anvil was distinctly uncomfortable and the muscles in his neck and shoulders were on fire. The smell of sweated iron was metallic and unpleasant. He had often jokingly referred to his helm as a “cooking pot” but it didn’t seem quite so amusing now when he was at the mercy of the blacksmith’s skill. Twice the smith asked William to try and ease off the helm and twice the attempt failed, the second time almost ripping off William’s ears.

“Nearly,” panted the smith and told his apprentice to smear goose grease all around the battered rim of the helm. A few more wrenches, some more grunting and swearing, and at the third try, the helm finally yielded to coaxing and brutality. With gritted teeth, a grazed cranium, and very sore ears, a scarlet-faced William was at last able to take a gulp of fresh air. The mangled wreck of his helm did indeed resemble a cooking pot, but one that had been trampled by an ox. The smith was mopping his brow on a grubby square of linen. “Worst I’ve seen,” he declared. He held out his hands which had been steady while he worked, but were now trembling.

William praised his work fulsomely and promised a rich payment in silver. Looking further, he discovered that he had an audience—not just casual bystanders diverted by the spectacle, but two knights and a squire from the retinue of the Countess of Champagne, and Clara, her expression a mingling of consternation and laughter. The squire, who was more than anxious to be rid of the burden which he had now been carrying around for the best part of two hours, stepped up to William and bowed.

“What’s this?” Lifting the cloth, William eyed the great gleaming pike. It eyed him back.

“The prize for the most worthy knight in the tourney,” said one of the knights, adding drily, “To judge by the remains of your helm, the Countess has made the right decision to bestow the award on you. The wonder is that you are still in a fit state to accept it.”

William laughed. “I was beginning to think I’d be wearing that pot for the rest of my life. Certainly I would not have been able to do justice to this magnificent fish.” Actually, William wasn’t fond of pike, but was too diplomatic to say so, and anyway, it was the symbolism that mattered; he had been deemed deserving of the prize. Besides, once it was cooked and shared around, he need eat no more than a morsel to be polite. “Tell the Countess that I thank her for this gift,” he said. “It is generous of her, as is her judgement.”

***

“You could have been killed,” Clara said much later. In the small hours of the morning, the street was finally silent, the last carousers having tottered back to their lodgings. The pike had been steamed in a bath of herbs and almond milk, which had imparted a delicate flavour to the flesh, and all that remained were the head and the bones, now confined to the midden bucket.

William watched her lazily from the bed as she removed her belt and gown. Clad in shirt and chausses, his tunic discarded, he was lying on his stomach, his head pillowed on his bent forearms. There were red chaff marks on his throat, evidence of his earlier encounter with the now defunct helm. “There is always ‘could have,’” he said. “When I was five years old I was within a few words of being hanged from a gibbet. At Drincourt I had a lucky escape from a thatch gaff.” His voice softened. “I could have died of my wounds when my uncle Patrick was murdered, had you not come to my aid. All I have instead is the scar.”

Clara smiled, although the expression did not reach her eyes. “We all have scars,” she said as she lay down beside him in her chemise.

Taking her hand, he kissed the tips of her fingers. His lips brushed softly over her palm. He grazed his teeth along the inside of her wrist until she shivered, and then kissed his way up to her throat and mounted her.

“Oh William,” she whispered and it was as if there was a great hollow inside her, empty and brimming over at the same time. No matter how many times she said his name, or took him into her body, the hollow remained, and grew.

Their lovemaking was wild and sweet, and when they were finished and there was silence, William listened to the liquid notes of a nightingale torrenting the darkness outside the window. “Count Theobald offered me lands if I would agree to go and fight for him,” he said after a while.

“What did you answer?” She lay against him, her appetite sated but not satisfied. His arm remained around her and he tenderly stroked her hair. He had fine bedchamber etiquette; he knew the courtesies.

“That his offer was generous and that I was tempted, but that I already had a lord and my loyalty was to him.”

“And were you tempted—truly, or were you just being courteous?”

“No, I was attracted by his offer,” William admitted. “To have one’s own domain is the stuff of dreams to a landless man and Theobald of Blois would be a good lord to serve, but my family is beholden to the house of Anjou. I promised Queen Eleanor that I would do my best for young Henry—and for all his flaws, I love him.”

“He may be your King, but you are his master and his mentor in chivalry,” Clara said softly. “Perhaps you love him because he is dependent on you in a way that Theobald of Blois will never be. Henry rules you, but in your turn, you rule him.”

Her assessment was sufficiently astute to make him shrug uncomfortably.

“His wife is fond of you too,” she said, plucking at his chest hair. “The moment she sees you, her face lights up and she makes excuses to touch you.”

William laughed and shook his head in denial. “I have known her since she was a child. It is the fondness of familiarity and friendship. I have great affection for her too, but not in the way that a man loves a woman.”

Clara was not so sure, but she held her tongue. She thought that William probably wanted to see Marguerite in terms of a child and an old friend, but that the reality was more subtle and therefore dangerous. And she knew enough about the looks that women gave to men to know that William was definitely wrong about the Young Queen’s feelings.

***

“God’s bones, how long does it take for a baby to be born?” demanded Henry, collecting a lance and preparing to charge at the quintain. Earlier in the day he had been pacing the rooms of the French royal palace, but the walls had grown too small to contain his agitation and he had repaired outside to the tilting ground.

“Several days for a first one, so I understand,” William said. The midwives had already told Henry that, but the information appeared to have gone in one ear and out of the other.

Henry thundered down the tilt and struck the target a resounding blow. “It’s been two,” he said, trotting back to William. “And weeks before that shut up in confinement with her women and gossips. Christ, I’ll be glad when this whole palaver is over.”

William levelled his lance and fretted his stallion. “I imagine that the Queen will be glad too.” He took his own turn at the quintain, striking the shield with the smooth grace of instinct and long training. He had visited Marguerite on several occasions in the chamber where she had retired to spend the final month of her pregnancy. The room had been pungent with the smell of herbs and unguents; the atmosphere enclosed and anticipatory, as if the room itself were a large womb. Marguerite had appeared content enough on the surface, but he had seen the fear in her wide brown eyes as he took his leave after an evening in her company two days before the birth pangs began. He had carried that image with him ever since. She was trapped; she couldn’t take her leave. No one said that she was the daughter of a mother who had died giving birth, but everyone had been thinking it.