The Greatest Knight (22 page)

“So what is this?” he asked instead, with derision born of hurt. “The last supper?” He gestured at the uneaten food. “Or perhaps the Feast of Fools?”

A tear spilled down her cheek and she swiped at it impatiently. “Even now…” she said. “Even now I thought there was a chance but…but there isn’t, is there?”

A loud banging on the house door prevented William from having to find a reply. They heard the squire open it and then the rumble of voices. With a feeling of relief, William left the table and going to the chamber door, opened it, forestalling the youth’s knock.

“Sir, you are summoned to court,” Eustace announced, his face expressionless.

“What, at this hour?” William narrowed his eyes. It was late and dark, but he knew the Young King’s habit of burning the candles into the small hours. “Did the messenger say what this was about?”

“No, sir.”

“Saddle my courser,” William told him with a terse nod. As Eustace’s footfalls receded down the stairs, William turned back into the room. “I have to go,” he said. “We’ll talk when I return.”

“When is that likely to be?” There was a weary edge to her voice.

“I don’t know.” He ran a distracted hand through his hair. “Hopefully just a few hours. You’ll wait, won’t you?”

“For just a few hours, yes.”

He kissed her mouth and she kissed him back, and as their lips parted, it felt like farewell.

Sixteen

“Sire?” William strode into his lord’s chamber, noting that most of the household knights were already present. Clutching a half-full goblet of wine, Henry was sitting upon his bed which had not yet been prepared for slumber. The hangings were tied back and the day cover of grey and cream wolfskins was still in place.

“My father has made me an offer, Marshal,” Henry said without preamble, “and I have to decide whether to accept or throw it in his teeth.”

William scrambled for his wits. He was tired but knew he would receive no consideration for that. “What does the offer entail, sire?”

Raising his cup, Henry drank the wine to the lees and thrust it out to an attendant to be refilled. “He says that if I will cease making trouble and return to the fold, he will give me seventy pounds a day and stand the expenses for seventy knights for a year.”

William nodded and rubbed his brow. “What do the King of France and the Count of Flanders say?”

Henry made a flat gesture with the palm of his hand. “That I should demand my rights in Normandy and take nothing less—but they would, wouldn’t they, because it’s in their interests to keep my family divided.” He took the refilled cup and immediately gulped down the top third. To judge by his flushed cheek and glassy eye, he would soon be too gilded to stand up, let alone make a decision. “But they’re right too. It’s shameful that Richard and Geoffrey have territories to rule—and ruin in Richard’s case—but I have nothing.”

“In time, my lord, you will have more than any of your brothers,” William pointed out.

“Hah! My father is not yet fifty years old. His father may have died at that age, but his grandsire kept his arse on the throne until he was almost seventy. How old will I be before I have my chance? Perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll die before the old miser if he hoards his life the way he hoards his power.”

“King Philip and the Count of Flanders are right, sire,” said Yqueboeuf aggressively. “You should send your father’s heralds back with the message that you’ll settle for nothing less than the rule of Normandy.”

Henry chewed his forefinger. “You think so?”

“I do, sire. It is the only answer you can give.” The knight folded his arms and cast a challenge-filled glance towards William, daring him to contradict. Predictably, the de Coulances brothers were nodding too, unconsciously echoing Yqueboeuf’s mannerisms. Several others muttered agreement, keen to endorse what looked like the prevailing opinion.

“Baldwin?” Henry turned to Baldwin of Béthune. “What do you say?”

Baldwin scratched his chin. “That you should keep negotiating, sire. I think it unlikely that your father will give you Normandy whatever you do.”

Henry scowled. “You do, do you?”

“You asked for my opinion, sire.” Baldwin stood his ground. His wide, candid gaze was disarming and belied the fact that he was one of the shrewdest knights in Henry’s mesnie.

Henry turned to William. “What should I do? Take my father’s offer, or tell him to go to the devil?”

William’s brow pleated in a frown. “What Baldwin says is true. Your father will not give you Normandy, or even part of Normandy, but your presence at the French court is causing him great discomfort and aggravation. He is unsure of you. He almost lost his crown last time you rebelled and you were only a youth then. How much more havoc could you wreak now you have come to manhood?”

“You think I could take him on and win?” Henry’s eyes gleamed at the prospect.

William shook his head. The notion of father and son facing each other across a battle field curdled his stomach. “Your father won’t repeat the mistakes of nine years ago. He will quash anyone he suspects before they can organise and apportion the blame afterwards. But if you do take up arms against him, it is going to cause him a deal of trouble. I would counsel you not go to war with him, but bargain hard for the best settlement you can achieve. If he will not give you Normandy, then you should demand the trappings that would be yours if you were indeed its ruler.”

Henry mulled the suggestion. “You’re as wily as a merchant, Marshal,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not born from burgher stock?”

“He certainly likes to keep their company,” Yqueboeuf sneered, referring to William’s friendship with several of the traders and brokers who serviced the court.

“You can learn a great deal from merchants,” William retorted. “You should ask something for the Queen’s household too,” he added to Henry. “That way King Philip will not feel that his family’s dignity has been slighted.”

Henry drained his wine. “A good idea.” His laugh was hollow. “One way or the other, I will make my father pay.”

William would have left then, but Henry was not ready to retire. Like an exhausted child at a celebration he was querulous, excited, on edge, and dangerous. He summoned a scribe and had him pen a letter to his father, setting out the terms by which he would agree to come to peace. William listened to him pile on the demands and inwardly winced, knowing who was going to be blamed. Henry seemed to be enjoying the list he was dictating to the scribe and kept looking to Yqueboeuf and the de Coulances brothers for encouragement.

“Our young lord likes your notion,” Baldwin murmured out of the side of his mouth. “Let us hope we won’t regret it.”

“What else could I do? He’s not in a mood to listen except to what he wants to hear. It was better than urging him to war.” William dry-washed his face and wished he was a hundred miles away. Henry’s musicians arrived, their faces puffy and pale from lack of sleep. Knowing exactly how they felt, William watched them set up in a corner and bring out their instruments—a Spanish lute and an Irish harp. He listened to the bleary plunk and twiddle of notes, and grimaced.

“Speaking of not wanting to hear, you should know that the rumours about you and Marguerite haven’t abated,” Baldwin muttered grimly. “There are some in the mesnie who would do anything to see you fall. Yqueboeuf talks to the others about how concerned he is for the Young King’s reputation, but it’s his own rise and your fall that he’s courting.”

“I do know of the rumours, but thank you,” William said quietly and gave Baldwin a bleak smile. “You’re a good friend.”

Baldwin shook his head and looked troubled. “Yes, but I can’t be everywhere at once,” he said. “Watch your back.”

***

It was dawn before Henry finally went to bed. The messengers had been despatched to his father at first light, and as the cockerels of the Île-de-France crowed on their dunghills, William made his way back to his lodging house, accompanied by Harry Norreis. William was staggering with tiredness. All he wanted to do was collapse on a thickly stuffed feather mattress and sleep for ever, but there was little chance of that just yet.

“Harry,” he said with a jaw-cracking yawn, “next time we are on a tourney field, try not to be so exuberant about shouting my prowess abroad. There are some whom it offends, and while I do not give a cat’s tail for their sensibilities, it might be diplomatic for you to hold off for a while.”

Harry reddened. “I will do so if you wish it, sir, but those who are offended are naught but cowards and liars whose deeds will never match up to yours.” The auburn stubble on his jaw bristled with his indignation.

William found a weary smile. “Your faith commends you,” he said. “I am not certain that my deeds will ever match up to theirs though.”

Harry blinked and looked at him with the expression if not the wisdom of an owl. “Sir?”

William shook his head. “Go to. Seek your pallet for a few hours if you can. I have no doubt that we’ll be called to attend on the Young King the moment he wakes.” He slapped Harry on the shoulder and, smiling, watched him shamble off towards his pallet in a corner of the downstairs room. The knight always reminded him of one of the tenacious little terriers that delighted in shoving their heads down fox dens and badger sets and clearing out infestations of rats in barns, often at the risk of being bitten themselves. He wondered how long it would be before one of his detractors referred to Harry as his lap dog.

On heavy legs he mounted the stairs to the bedchamber, set his hand to the latch and shouldered open the door. Although outside a red autumn sun was rising out of the banks of the night, the shutters were still latched and the room was dark and imbued with the lingering smell of snuffed candles. With foreboding but no surprise, William went to the windows, unfastened the boards, and let in the morning. The light from the open window cascaded on to the bed, brightening the colours on the striped coverlet, picking out the lozenges woven into the woollen hangings. It was neatly made and the pillows so plumped and smoothed that not a hint remained that anyone had ever slept there. Clara’s travelling chest was gone from its corner, and with it the enamelled box he had given her to hold her combs and brooches. He knew that she must have waited those few hours of his asking, for the brazier was still warm and there was a feel of recent occupancy, but she had not given him the leeway of more time. Why should she? What would they have said anyway? It was over.

William unlatched his belt and dropped it on the floor. With fumbling hands, he stripped to his shirt and braies and, groaning softly, flopped on to the bed. Upon the pillow, a single fine, dark hair pointed up his loss. Pinching it between finger and thumb, he held it up to the light and then scattered it free. He supposed that she was right. He cared, he cared deeply, but not enough to abandon his post at court and chase after her to Le Mans to try and win her back. He turned on his side, drew up his knees, and slept.

Seventeen

The French court had gone hunting in the woods and pastures to the north of Paris. It was a crisp autumn day, the turning leaves an illuminator’s scrollwork of bronze and verdigris against a sky of enamelled blue. Men and women had brought their hawks to fly at game and their dogs to flush the quarry from cover. Henry had a pair of silver greyhounds, fleet and dainty. On his wrist perched a peregrine falcon, its head covered by a close-fitting embroidered hood. Thus far there had been no word from his father, but Henry was not allowing it to spoil the day’s sport.

William had never been enthusiastic about hunting. The best practice for war was the tourney field. Hunting might help to develop stamina and ability on horseback, but the skills weren’t always of the kind needed to control a destrier in close-in fighting whilst wielding lance and sword. He enjoyed watching the hawks soar and plummet on their prey and he admired the skills of the falconers, but he did not have the same passion for the sport as Henry, Baldwin, and Marguerite. Her excited laughter rang out as she launched her peregrine to climb high above the fields of gleaned stubble. The wind had flushed colour into her cheeks and her brown eyes glowed. She rode her palfrey astride, as Queen Eleanor had been wont to do…and Clara too, her riding boots clipped with stylish silver spurs. Watching Marguerite, William was struck by a poignant sensation of loss. He could go for days on end without thinking about his former lover, but then something would prompt a memory and her ghost would be waiting for him, as once he had found her waiting in his tent.

Shortly after noon, the court stopped beside a stream to enjoy a leisurely picnic, which, besides the hunting, was half the reason for the venture. The hawks were secured to bow perches a little removed from the gathering so that the noise from the company would not disturb them. Cooks and kitchen boys who had been sent on ahead of the hunt laboured over fìrepits filled with a mixture of charcoal and firewood. There were cauldrons of simmering venison stew to greet the ravenous party, wheaten loaves, salmon baked in pastry, small tarts of chopped chicken and raisins, and apples and brambles stewed in honey. The kennel-keepers and grooms leashed the dogs, tethered the horses to graze, and sat around their own fire. Nearby the huntsmen sorted the morning’s kills, neatly tying and bagging.

William took some bread and a bowl of stew and wandered down the stream a way. Usually he would have stayed with the company and sought the banter as a way of banishing unquiet memories, but the loud talk of the hunt was wearisome and suddenly he desired respite.

Shortly he arrived at a grassy bank that was obviously someone’s fishing place, for it had been weeded of bramble and nettle and the turf was cropped short. William spread his cloak and sat down to eat. He could still hear the laughter and conversation of the hunting party but it was muted and the distance made it a comfort rather than an irritant. The sun was warm on his back and he was almost content. Having finished the stew he crouched at the side of the stream to rinse his bowl and spoon in the water. When he turned and rose, he found Marguerite and her maid standing behind him. The Queen’s pet dog was with her: an exuberant brown and white spaniel with floppy ears and a panting pink tongue. It hurtled past William into the stream where it paddled round in the shallow current with huge delight before emerging and shaking itself vigorously, causing the humans to leap hastily aside. Panting, suddenly intent, the dog put its nose to the ground and set off along the river path. William picked up his cloak and followed; so did Marguerite, her hands gathering her trailing woollen skirts above the moist grass and her gown spotted with water from her dog’s coat.

“I haven’t spoken to you in a long while,” she said, “at least not in the proper way that old friends should talk.”

“Madam, there are some at court who would call all ways ‘improper,’” William said, his tone filled with warning.

A look of irritation crossed her face. “And we know who they are and what their opinions are worth. I will walk where I will and talk to whom I wish. I am not a child; I am England’s future Queen and the sister of the King of France.” She jutted her jaw.

“Indeed, madam, but it is dangerous nevertheless.”

Her lips pursed with impatience. “Oh William! Stop using your courtier’s voice and look at me without your mask.”

William blinked at the sharpness of her tone. “If I wear a mask it is the same as the face beneath. How would you have me speak and behave?”

“As if I am your friend and not a stranger to whom you have to be polite.” Marguerite took his arm and shook it gently. “Alone or in company, people will see what they want to see, I weary of the lot of them.” She breathed out hard and stopped to face him, her gaze steady and forthright and her hand still determinedly on his sleeve. “Do you remember when you played with us in Queen Eleanor’s gardens in Poitou? Myself and the Queen’s daughters?”

“Hoodman blind, if I recall.” William’s voice scraped over his larynx.

“You let me catch you. You always swore that you didn’t, but I know that you did. You could have evaded us all every time.”

He shrugged. “But then I wouldn’t have been invited so often into the Queen’s garden.”

“No.” Her smile was wistful. “I always thought that you enjoyed playing with us; it never occurred to me that you were doing it for your own purpose.”

“Ambition and pleasure are not always mutually exclusive. Besides, it wasn’t so much ambition as a case of being besotted with Queen Eleanor.”

“And are you still besotted?”

“Of course I am. She never lets you go.” He gave a pained smile. “Clara looked a little like her; she had a similar grace. I suppose that was half of what attracted me in the first place—that and the fact that she saved my life.”

“Oh, William.” Impulsively, Marguerite took his hand, stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

The spaniel suddenly began to growl, and then to bark, its legs stiff, and its ears cocked in the direction of the woods beyond the grass bank. Marguerite’s eyes widened with fear. The maid moved swiftly to her side and William dropped the bowl and spoon and drew the long hunting knife at his belt. Nothing moved except the wind-rustled grasses. The breeze was blowing towards them, carrying scents to the dog’s sensitive nose.

“Madam, I think you should return to the main party before you are sought,” William said, “and it is probably for the best if I follow at a distance.”

Her eyes widened. “You think we were being spied on?”

“I am certain of it.” He sheathed the knife with deliberate care, forcing control upon himself. It was pointless to go in search of whoever had been watching them. The dog’s barking would have alerted them to the danger of being discovered, even as it had alerted William and Marguerite. “Go, madam,” he said. “And say nothing. You have nothing to be reproached for, unless comforting a friend’s grief is wrong.” He bent her an eloquent look to which she responded with a stiff nod. Pale, but resolute, she clapped her hands to the dog and turned back towards the picnic, her maid close by her side. He watched the women from sight then stooped to pick up his bowl and spoon, his expression sombre. He hoped that it would blow over like a storm cloud on a windy day, but acknowledged that he had given the court gossips all the ammunition they needed to cast him down.