The Greatest Knight (25 page)

The King rose to his feet. “Enough.” His harsh voice cut across the babble in the hall. “William Marshal’s safe conduct begins here at my feet and you will let him go in my peace.”

The knights released William with a final shove that sent him stumbling against one of the trestles. A goblet of wine tipped over and a red stain spread across the napery. William pushed himself upright and straightened his tunic. His heart was hammering against his ribs and a mist blurred his vision. He wanted to lash out, to sweep his hand along the board and see the cups and platters, the loaves and sauce dishes fly in all directions. To use his fists and smash the smug expressions from the faces of the men who thought they had won. It took every iota of his control but he managed to check himself and walk away from the temptation, the sounds of the hall echoing in his ears. The mist across his vision became moisture and seeped over his lids.

The guards stood aside to let him pass and then crossed their spears behind him. There was bile in William’s throat. He swallowed and swallowed, but it was no use. In the end, he gave up the struggle and, leaning against the pale grey stone, retched up the wine he had drunk. There was nothing else in his stomach but the hollow sensation of shame and failure and loss.

His gut aching, he straightened up and walked unsteadily towards the stables. Wigain came running after him, clutching the writ of safe conduct, the ink still wet and the sealing wax still warm. “It is a shame, a vile shame!” he said furiously as William signalled Rhys to saddle his horse.

William shook his head. “It is more than that,” he replied, then compressed his lips so that he would not say more.

“King Henry is angry with you for making all those demands on our young lord’s behalf.”

“What demands?” William asked blankly.

“When our lord desired to have Normandy for his own rule and you said that he should milk his father for as much as he could obtain. The King blames you for what he lost from his coffers in order to pacify his son.”

“I was trying to avert another war of the kind that almost brought the house of Anjou to its knees last time,” William snapped. “I shouldn’t have bothered; I should have let them tear each other limb from limb.”

Wigain lifted his shoulders. “As far as the King is concerned, you are the one who helps Henry spend beyond his means and waste his time at the tourneys. He thinks that you have grown too great and proud and you need a lesson in humility.”

William thought he had control of himself, but something must have shown in his face for Wigain took several steps back and licked his lips. “I am only telling you what I have heard. Do you think I am your enemy too?”

William released his breath on a hard sigh. “No, Wigain, I don’t, never that.” He took the safe conduct from the clerk and pushed it down between tunic and shirt.

Wigain’s dark eyes were robin-bright. “Promise me you will send word if you are going to take part in any tourneys. I’ll want to wager on your success.”

William eyed him sidelong. “Even now?”

“I never make a bad bet,” Wigain said. “That heap of dross surrounding the Young King won’t last long. I give them until spring at the most.”

William set his foot to the stirrup and swung astride his palfrey. “Is that a wager too?”

Wigain shook his head. “No, my lord,” he said. “A certainty.”

William did not miss the fact that Wigain had called him “my lord.” There was no irony in Wigain’s tone, only a troubled respect.

As William turned his mount, Baldwin came striding towards him from the direction of the hall, his expression thunderous. “The whoresons!” he spat. “The bastards! They’ll rot in hell for this! I’ll see justice done if it kills me.”

William shook his head. “Do not jeopardise yourself for me.” He drew in the reins as the palfrey caught the tension in the air and pranced. “If you find the opportunity, tell Queen Marguerite that I am sorry and bid her have courage.”

“It’s not about you and the Queen at all,” Baldwin said vehemently. “It’s about the petty jealousy of small and cowardly men.”

William shrugged. “Then I am free of it now.” He leaned down to clasp Baldwin’s arm in a soldier’s grip. “Tell her.”

Baldwin gave a stiff nod. “I will. Where will you go?”

Again William shrugged. “Wherever the wind blows me,” he said. “And in a way it will be a relief.”

Twenty

The Rhineland, Spring 1183

March snow never lasted long, but from the density of flakes whirling from the massed banks of thick, yellow-grey clouds, no one would have believed it. A biting north wind swept William’s cloak against his spine. There was no telling the time of day for the sky gave no indication as to the position of the sun but William knew that it must be after noon. He could feel snow seeping through his hood in ice-water tendrils. The flakes were melting to grey slush as they landed on the rutted track. In the trees bracketing the road, a wolf howled and William heard his squire invoking the Holy Virgin to protect their small company from harm. There were terrifying tales of pilgrims being attacked by the packs that prowled the swathes of forest in what had been the heart of the Holy Roman Empire and although sharp swords were a comfort, the fear was sharper still.

William was returning from a pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Cologne, where he had visited the shrine of the Three Magi. He had offered up prayers asking for their intercession in the matter of his banishment from the Young King’s household. The shrine itself was still being built but its popularity was already widespread. William had been one amongst hundreds, including pilgrims who had already made the journeys to Rome, to Compostela, and even the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The experience had both humbled and uplifted him. Pride had been taken and pride had been restored.

There was a momentary lull in the wind and the snowflakes became smaller, like drifting hawthorn blossom. “Lights,” cried Eustace, jabbing his mittened hand towards a yellow twinkle on the road ahead.

“Praise God.” William made the sign of the cross. He wouldn’t have relished pitching a tent at the roadside tonight. Moments later a hostel loomed out of the weather, smoke eddying from its louvres and dissipating amid the swirls of snow. With relief, the men rode into the yard and were directed by an attendant to a spacious barn to stable their mounts. As Rhys and Eustace set about tending the palfreys, packhorses, and destrier, William inspected the mounts belonging to the other guests. There were a couple of solid hacks, a handsome grey mule, the usual motley assortment of pack beasts, and a fine, strong palfrey the bitter brown colour of oak gall ink. William stared at the beast as it rested on one hip and champed on the hay in its net. Since horses were a valuable and integral part of his life, he seldom forgot one, and he had long admired this particular animal.

Leaving Eustace and Rhys to finish the stabling, he hastened across the yard towards the torchlit reek of the main tavern, cursing as he stepped in a slushy puddle and liquid ice sprang through the ankle fastening of his right boot. The solid door swung open on a main room with a floor that was almost as thick in straw as the stables, but considerably more trampled and thatched with age. New had been thrown on top of old and the layers piled up to make a thick insulating carpet. Most of the guests were huddled on stools and benches around the central hearth, warming themselves at the fire. William’s gaze trawled the assortment of merchants, soldiers, carters, and clerics until he arrived at the owner of the brown palfrey who was hunched over the flames, the beaver lining of his cloak folded over in a deep collar and drawn around his bright red ears. A mug of hot wine occupied his equally reddened hands. He looked round as William’s entry swept a gust of icy wind through the room.

“God on the Cross!” swore Rannulf FitzGodfrey, the Young King’s chamberlain. Putting down his cup, he sprang to his feet. “At last! Do you know how far I’ve searched for you? You’re more elusive than a blasted unicorn!”

The two men embraced hard with much back slapping. At length, pulling back, Rannulf called to the hosteller for more hot wine, which William accepted with alacrity. “I have been to the shrine of the Magi at Cologne Cathedral,” he said. “And before that I was in France and Flanders. You could always have found me there…” He gave Rannulf a keen look and took a seat at one of the benches. The heat glowed out towards him from the hearth bricks. A couple of large earthenware cooking pots stood on them, a savoury steam wafting tantalisingly over their rims. William’s stomach rumbled. It seemed an age since his mid-morning meal of bread, mutton pasty, and sour wine, snatched in the saddle.

“Well, I went to France and Flanders,” Rannulf said, “but you were always ahead of me, and your reputation with you.”

“Oh yes?” William’s tone was neutral. “And what reputation would that be?” The door opened again as Eustace and Rhys came in, blowing on their fingers. William made room for them at the fire and pointed to the jug of hot wine sitting on the hearth beside the pottage.

Rannulf said, “Philip of Flanders told me that he had given you money for your journey and offered you a place in his mesnie should you want it. Theobald of Blois and his Countess wished you well. Robert de Béthune said you were like another son to him and he would willingly take you into his family. Not one of them believed the rumours that sent you from the Young King’s court.”

“It’s a pity the Young King could not have done the same,” William answered flatly.

Rannulf looked uncomfortable. “He was in a difficult position.”

“So was I. Why are you seeking me?”

The Young King’s chamberlain rubbed his hands on his knees. “You and I have always been friends,” he said, “even in the difficult times.”

William nodded. “I bear no grudges towards you.” He drank the hot wine, pungent with the flavours of cinnamon and pepper. “I cannot be as forgiving towards certain knights of the household though.”

“Then it will gladden you to know that they are no longer members of the Young King’s mesnie.”

William had to gulp his last mouthful before he choked. Eyes watering, he stared at Rannulf. “What are you saying?”

Rannulf glanced round at their fellow guests and lowered his voice. “The Young King was distressed at the shameful way you were treated at Caen…”

William laughed acrimoniously. “That was not the impression I received. He did nothing to prevent my humiliation. The matter could have been settled long before Caen if he had been willing to listen—but he plainly had his reasons for letting it get so far.”

Rannulf cleared his throat and looked discomforted. “He was lied to and badly advised by men he thought were his friends. Farci, Yqueboeuf, and the de Coulances brothers have now been sent forth in disgrace. The reason I am seeking you is that the Young King bids you return to his service as soon as you may. He has great need of your skills.”

William drank his wine and for a while said nothing. Rannulf made no mention of an apology from Henry, no admission that he had been wrong. But then, to William’s knowledge, Henry had never apologised for anything in his life and would see no reason to begin now. “And if I choose to withhold them?” he finally replied.

The hosteller’s wife brought baskets of freshly baked bread to the benches around the fire, checked the pots of pottage, and began doling the thick mixture into wooden bowls.

“There is a great deal you have to know,” Rannulf said and gestured to the food. “Eat first. You’re going to need your stamina.”

***

Outside the wind howled at the shutters with the same high keening as the wolves in the forest. Satiated with bread and pottage, William and Rannulf moved themselves and a jug of hot wine to a trestle a little away from the fire where there was more privacy. What Rannulf had to say was complicated and convoluted: a squabble here, a misunderstanding there—festering wounds that no amount of money could cleanse and heal. Prince Richard had quarrelled with his father and his brothers. The Young King and his brother Geoffrey had joined the disaffected barons of Aquitaine and had taken up arms against Richard. The money that King Henry had given his heir had gone straight to buy support and mercenaries and the southern Angevin lands were in turmoil. When the exasperated King had set out to separate and deal with his warring sons, he had been turned upon.

“In Limoges, when he came to try and talk to our lord, a crossbowman shot at him from the walls and the arrow passed through his cloak. Two of his heralds were set upon and slain too.” Rannulf looked morose and disgusted. “I never thought to see such shame and dishonour in my lifetime.”

“Did the Young King order them to it?” William asked with resignation.

“In my heart I pray not, but he has grown hard and bitter of late. He is angry with his father, but whether he would deliberately shoot at him from the keep walls…” Rannulf spread his hands. “All I can say is that he did not give such an order in my hearing and I hope he did not give it in anyone else’s either. Were I to guess at the truth I would say that the arrow-shot was an unfortunate mistake and the ill treatment of the heralds an over-zealous interpretation of an order given by Yqueboeuf.”

William winced at the name. Rannulf’s expression held a spark of gratification. “Farci showed his true mettle by deserting,” he said. “He used the excuse that he had never officially sworn allegiance to our lord. Yqueboeuf tried to prevent him from leaving and during their argument it emerged that there had been a conspiracy against you with Yqueboeuf the instigator. Farci insisted that he had been a dupe. Henry turned on Yqueboeuf and would have cloven him with his sword had not the others stopped him. Needless to say, Yqueboeuf and Farci are no longer in his service; neither are the de Coulances brothers. Henry’s lacking a marshal and he wants you to return with all haste.”

William drank his wine and listened to the growl of the wind. “The Count of Flanders has gifted me some house rents in Saint-Omer, and offered me more if I will cleave to him. Robert of Béthune wants me to wed his daughter. The Counts of Champagne and Burgundy have made me lucrative propositions. What would you do in my place? Return to a lord who has broken faith with you and shamed your honour before the entire court, or accept the offers of men who respect you and whom you in turn respect?”

Rannulf chose to interpret William’s question as a rhetorical one rather than undertake the difficulty of answering it. “What price are you asking Henry for your return?” he said warily.

“You don’t put a price on loyalty,” William answered. “I ought to refuse him out of hand, but I cannot do it. It doesn’t matter how faithless he is, I made my promise to him…and to his mother the Queen. The rest counts for nothing in the balance.” He heaved a deep sigh. “There is no choice for my honour save to return to his service as soon as I may.” He held up a forefinger as Rannulf’s tired features brightened. “But first I want guarantees, including one from his father.” Finishing his wine, he pushed his cup aside. “I want an acknowledgement of my loyalty, not in coin but in letters patent so that they will last for longer than the moment of their speaking.”

***

Marguerite stared at her reflection in the silver-bordered hand mirror that the maid held up for her inspection. She wasn’t vain, but today she was pleased with what she saw. Her eyes were bright, her skin was clear, and she was no longer the drawn and distraught creature who had arrived at her brother’s court, sent home by her husband in peremptory fashion. Ostensibly Henry had packed her off to Paris to be safe from the growing dissent between him, his father, and brothers, but Marguerite knew that really it was a convenient excuse to be rid of her. Their relationship had soured to the point where even being in each other’s company was too great a strain. The rumours about her were constant and Henry had done little to prevent them and, she thought, he probably more than half believed them.

Her half-brother Philip was not yet twenty years old, but mature for his age. Unlike Henry, he weighed all things carefully before he acted. He was prepared to listen to Marguerite’s version of the tale—and, knowing his brother-in-law and William Marshal, to draw his own conclusions.

She had her maids dress her in a gown of green silk brocade, its gores embroidered with gold. Her belt was decorated with Syrian bezants that she had once intended as a gift for William Marshal because of the name of his favourite destrier. She had been going to have them riveted on to a breast strap for the stallion, but that had been before the autumn picnic and its terrible repercussions. Now she arranged the belt with poignant care and thought about lessons hard learned.

A steward arrived to summon her to the dinner table. Since it was still Lent, Marguerite could well guess the fare awaiting her palate. Fish stew if she was fortunate, perhaps enlivened by mussels and oysters. Not eel, she prayed. Her husband’s household had always been awash in lampreys and the faintest whiff of them when she was pregnant had been enough to make her violently sick. Even now by association they disgusted her.

Entering the great hall, she accepted the bows and obeisance of her brother’s knights and retainers as her due. Philip’s court was more organised and formal than the Angevin one. In time it would come to irritate her, but for the moment she found its rituals calming. And then she caught sight of William Marshal and her lights plummeted to her loins. He was seated at the high table with his cousin, Rotrou of Perche, and he was engaged in urbane, smiling conversation as if the past few months had never been. Aware that all eyes, including her brother’s, were upon her progress, Marguerite approached the dais as if William Marshal was no more to her than a chance-come guest.

She managed to smile and greet him with the formal warmth expected of the King’s sister to a welcome visitor. He responded appropriately with a polite curve of his lips and the bland gaze of a courtier.