The Greatest Knight (31 page)

“Never drink the King’s wine, especially after the Queen’s,” he told the squire. “They don’t agree with each other.”

“Like their owners,” Eustace said. “Have you eaten?”

William snorted at the first remark and waved away the second. “Less than I’ve drunk but more than enough if my gut’s the judge. All I need now is sleep.”

Eustace saw him inside the tent and loosely retied the flaps. By a lantern’s dim glow, William lay down on his pallet, grateful to find that the squire had stuffed it with plenty of fresh straw. But although he was exhausted, sleep was slow in coming and his brain, like his abused stomach, continued to churn and swirl upon its contents. Henry had wanted to know about his pilgrimage, but in different substance to the Queen. Not for him the colours and texture of the journey, but the stark facts succinctly given like a battle report. The only images he demanded in detail were those of the laying of his dead son’s cloak at Christ’s tomb and the lighting of a candle for the young man’s departed soul. William had given him what he required, as he had given Eleanor, but at cost to himself and with Prince John looking on and absorbing every word and nuance with the greedy eyes of a predator. At least it was over now, he thought, trying to recover his mental balance as the tent whirled around him. At least now that it was told, it could be put in a chest with the silk palls—always there, always a reminder, but not for daily inspection.

When William had done with his tale, Henry had asked him to stay, speaking of grants and riches that could be his for the taking of an oath of fealty while John looked on with a knowing smirk. “I have an heiress in wardship,” Henry had said, “and I have been looking for a suitable administrator for her lands. She is of marriageable age. You can be her warden or her husband as you please.”

William closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his lids until stars came. Her name was Heloise of Kendal and she held substantial estates in the north of England. Henry had given him other wardships too, but they were insignificant when compared to the main one. He had also granted him a piece of land abutting Heloise’s domains, to do with as he chose, although his homage for the land would be owed to Prince John who held it of his father. William had accepted the grant, had drunk a toast of the King’s musty household wine, and sworn his fealty. He had a new lord, a new cloak to put on, but whether it would fit him well was another matter.

Twenty-five

Earley, Berkshire, May 1186

William had never had a wardship before, although he had trained several squires and mentored plenty of young knights. The youth who stood before him now was his responsibility in every sense of the word. Jean D’Earley’s parents were dead and his guardian, the Archdeacon of Wells, was recently deceased. At fourteen Jean was still too young to administer his lands by himself. Not too young though to be wearing a sword at his left hip and the long sheath of a hunting dagger at his right, William noticed, concealing a smile. The sword was far too cumbersome for the youth’s light frame and from the somewhat outmoded style of the hilt was a family heirloom, probably passed down several generations. William recognised the pride, the challenge, and the uncertainty.

“Jean,” he said pleasantly and extended his hand. The youth gave him a wary look out of slate-blue eyes half hidden by a fringe of night-black hair, and after a moment responded. His wrist bones were long and narrow, speaking of recent rapid growth. His damp hand revealed his apprehension, but the strength of the grip showed that he was determined not to be overwhelmed. “I assume you have been told that while the Crown will administer your lands, you yourself are to be trained in my household until you reach your majority.”

“Sir,” the boy said and compressed his lips.

“And you do not know whether to be resentful or pleased.”

The lad looked startled but said nothing—not that William had expected him to. “Let me see your sword.”

His charge drew the weapon and handed it over hilt-first, anxiety entering his expression. William examined the blade thoroughly, noting how the edge was keen and bright and how it had been oiled and looked after. “You care for this yourself?” he asked as he tested the balance.

“Yes, sir.” The youth reddened.

William handed it back to him. “Good,” he said. “Cleaning weapons is the first duty a squire learns, and you’re already competent. How much training in weapon play have you had?”

The youth’s flush deepened. “Only a little, sir.”

Probably next to nothing, William thought. His father had died when he was eight, and the Archdeacon had been an elderly priest. Buried here, all the training the youth had likely received was some basic spear and shield work and the rudiments of swordplay. Likely, the same applied to courtly skills. The only thing polished was that great sword, which was entirely unsuitable. Nevertheless, the lad clearly possessed ability, and was a hard worker if the shine on that steel was any indication.

“That doesn’t matter. As my squire, you’ll learn.”

“Your squire?” The slate-blue eyes widened in surprise.

“What else did you think I was going to do with you? You’re old enough to start full training and you won’t get that here, even it is your home. By the time you come of age, you’ll have all the skills you need and more.”

The boy looked at him, the surprise fading to be replaced by something more measured and thoughtful. William realised with amusement and a strange quirk in his gut that while he had been assessing the lad, he too had been under thorough scrutiny. “You have something to say?”

“Is it true that you were tutor in arms to the sons of King Henry?”

William inclined his head gravely. “It is.”

“And a great tourney champion?” A gleam entered Jean’s gaze.

“I was once.”
Were. Was.
With the boy’s young eyes upon him and those answers defining his past, William felt a surge of melancholy. The last tourney he had attended had been near Saint-Pierre-sur-Dives before his pilgrimage and although he had taken the prize, the gloss had tarnished. The boy had obviously been given a résumé of his new guardian’s past achievements. Whether he had been given the scandal alongside them, William was not about to ask. “I’ll teach you sword- and lance-play,” William said, “but don’t expect to attend any tourneys, and don’t believe half the tales you hear.”

“But if half are untrue, that still leaves half that are,” Jean pointed out, shedding some of his awe to reveal a glimpse of the personality beneath. Reminded of Ancel, William smiled.

“Yes, and you’ll have a laborious task sifting wheat from chaff, but that’s part of the training too. Do your best for me, and I’ll do mine for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You won’t be alone in your duties. My nephew will be joining my household as a squire too. He’s about your age and you’ll share duties between you. We’re fetching him on the morrow.”

Jean nodded, his expression a mingling of apprehension and eagerness. William gestured to the long scabbard at the lad’s hip. “Go and take that off,” he said, “and put it somewhere safe. Let’s start you off with something lighter and less precious to you.”

As the youth departed, William tried not to think of the one he had trained in the past who was sealed in a tomb in Rouen. Let sleeping princes lie. Jean D’Earley had a future, and so—he hoped—did he.

***

“Your son looks more like you than you do yourself,” William said to his brother as they watched Jack draw back his arm and hurl the spear towards a straw target. Jean D’Earley and some other boys were watching and waiting their turn. A lithe little girl with dark braids hovered on their periphery.

The men were seated on a bench outside the hall, enjoying the sun and catching up on the years apart before William collected his second squire and rode north to inspect his other, more lucrative wardship.

“People are always saying that,” said John Marshal. “It is good of you to take him on, but I still do not know if I am doing the right thing.”

William looked at him. “Because of me, or because of him?”

John snorted. “Because of his mother. She dotes on him and Sybilla.” His gaze flickered to the girl who was practising dance steps around the group of boys. “There will be a vale of tears when he goes.” He folded his arms. “Oh, she knows she has to let go and that it is the best for all concerned. She puts a brave face on it, but it will be hard. Of course, she’ll still have Sybilla, but when the girl reaches betrothal age she’ll go to be raised by her in-laws. I can’t settle a great dowry on her, but she’s pretty and related to the earls of Salisbury, so that counts for something.”

It was Jean’s turn to throw the spear and William watched the lad take aim and hurl. He winced, for the technique was execrable, but there was potential. His niece patted Jean on the arm in consolation.

“I suppose in a way it is a boon that Alais is with child again,” John said, his expression wry. “It will take her mind off losing our son.”

“You are not losing him…”

“He will leave a boy and return a man, or I hope he will. It is a rite of passage and she cannot follow. The new infant will keep her busy.”

William gave his brother a sharp glance. “I would congratulate you, but you do not seem overjoyed at the thought of another child.”

John twitched his shoulders. “It came as a surprise, I admit. We have been careful, but plainly not careful enough…John and Sybilla are proof of that. I think it happened after our mother’s funeral. That was a difficult time and we sought more comfort in each other than we had done in a long while.”

William looked sombre. “I was in the Holy Land when she died,” he said. “I lit candles for her at the Holy Sepulchre, even though I didn’t know then. God rest her soul.” Feeling a wave of guilt and sorrow he crossed himself. Since young manhood he had not visited his mother as often as he should, and now it was too late.

“No, you manage to avoid family funerals,” John said a trifle snidely.

“It’s not intentional,” William growled.

John must have sensed that he had stepped close to the mark for he swiftly changed the subject, although it too was a probe at William’s personal life. “What of this heiress you’re set to wed?” he asked. “Do you know anything about her?”

William eyed his brother obliquely. “Who said anything about wedding her? She’s only my ward at the moment.”

“The King intends her for you.”

William folded his arms. “Yes, he does.”

“But you’re not going to.”

“I have yet to decide, and that depends on the lady herself,” William replied and would not be drawn by further searching from his brother. He had originally been of a mind to marry Heloise of Kendal whatever the circumstances, but on the sea crossing from Normandy to England Queen Eleanor had chosen to give the cauldron a quick stir, murmuring to him that he had accepted far too low a reward for his services.

“You can do better for yourself, William,” she had said, laying her hand on his sleeve. “My husband can give you much more than the meagre portion he has doled out to you thus far.”

“It is enough, madam,” William had answered, made uncomfortable by her knowing gaze.

She had nodded shrewdly. “Perhaps it is for now, but will it be enough in the future when you realise how much more you could have had? Think on it. There are more heiresses in my husband’s gift than Heloise of Kendal.”

He had been thinking ever since, his mind plodding like an ox on a treadmill. He had been offered more than he had ever had in his life. Lands to administer, the rents and produce of which would keep him solvent and allow him an entourage; a young wife, the chance of heirs; his own hearth instead of warming himself at the fires of others. Yet Eleanor said he should risk asking for more. Whether out of a genuine concern for him or a desire to make mischief he was not certain, although, knowing the Queen, it was probably a mixture of the two.

With an effort he broke the traces and shook himself free. “I’ll go to London and fetch my new charge,” he said to his brother. “And then I’ll govern the lands entrusted to me and bide my time. There is no need to rush into any decision.”

Twenty-six

Tower of London, May 1186

They were feeding the lions. Isabelle de Clare winced at the distant sound of roaring. She had gone to watch once, but the sight of the great beasts tearing apart the carcass of a horse had not been one she was desperate to repeat. Damask, her small silver hound, would shiver if Isabelle took her anywhere near the lion pit, but sometimes Isabelle would go without the bitch to watch the great golden beasts prowl the walls of their confinement. After all, she told herself, they were a rare sight and when she left the Tower she would probably never see their like again—if she left the Tower, she amended gloomily.

It was three years since she had entered this place and dwelling within its confines like a pawn shut up in an ivory chess casket was immensely frustrating. Her childhood homes had been the windswept shores of Ireland and South Wales, with occasional forays into the Marches, to her family’s great keep of Striguil, hugging the cliffs above the River Wye. Now it was difficult to remember any of them. The faces of her family were growing hazy in her mind too, as if successive layers of mist were being drawn across their images. If she tried she could still picture her mother’s blond braids, but then her own were the same and a constant prompt. Her brother and father had travelled deeper into the fog and at times were almost wholly obscured.

The roars echoed and although they were far from the lions’ quarters, Damask squatted nervously on the grass to urinate, her ears trembling back in the direction of the sound.

“I do not blame her,” said Heloise of Kendal, joining Isabelle on her morning walk with the dog. “The lions make me want to do that too.”

Isabelle smiled at her companion, glad of the company. Like her, Heloise was an heiress, although her lands were nowhere near as great and she had only been here for a few months rather than the three years of Isabelle’s residence. She was a dumpy pigeon of a girl with mead-brown eyes and a freckled complexion. Whereas Isabelle spoke French with the soft lilt of her Irish birthplace, Heloise’s accent was strong and forthright and held the distinct influence of the north.

“The justiciar has had orders about me,” Heloise announced as the girls crossed the sward. The late spring weather had chosen a day to pout and rain clouds threatened in the distance. A cool wind blustered their cloaks and tugged at their veils, exposing Isabelle’s heavy wheat-gold braids and Heloise’s glossy dark ones.

“You’re not leaving?” Isabelle’s gaze widened in dismay. Although Heloise had not been at the Tower for long; she had already made an indelible impression on Isabelle’s lonely existence and she could not bear to think of losing her friend so soon.

Heloise shrugged. “I’ll probably have to. Lord Ranulf said that he’d received letters from the King releasing me into the hands of a warden.”

“Did he say who?”

Heloise wrinkled her nose. “William Marshal,” she said, and sniffed. “He’s not of the north.”

Isabelle shook her head. She had not heard of the man either, but, like Heloise, her upbringing had been away from the hub of all court affairs and the important men she knew about were those of Leinster, Striguil, and Longueville.

“Probably some Norman with planks for wits,” Heloise added. “Lord Ranulf didn’t say much, but I could tell he wasn’t impressed.”

“What will you do?”

“What choice do I have?” Heloise folded her arms inside her cloak. “I suppose if I don’t like him I can always dose his wine with hemlock or cause him to fall in a bog on the moors. The peat pools swallow sheep and cattle whole, so I don’t see why they shouldn’t swallow a man without trace.”

If Heloise had hoped to elicit a horrified response from her friend, she was disappointed. Coming from Ireland, Isabelle knew all about bogs that conveniently swallowed troublesome folk. Her own mother had not been above muttering such sentiments on occasion—especially about Normans. She wished this unknown William Marshal to perdition for taking away her new-found friend. “When’s he coming?” she asked.

Heloise shrugged. “Lord Ranulf didn’t say. You know what he’s like. Getting anything out of him is like trying to prise a limpet off a rock. Soon I hope. I want to go home.”

It started to rain and Damask turned tail and streaked back the way she had come, her coat as sleek as watered silver. Sated by their meat, the lions’ roaring had settled to an occasional desultory rumble.

“I wonder who the King will set over my lands.” Isabelle shivered as she made to follow her dog. The drops struck her face like tears. She wanted to go home too, but that would never happen until she had a warden set over her, and God alone knew how fit for the purpose that man would be. He might buy the office with no more intention than to milk her lands dry, and she would be powerless. A pawn removed from her casket and knocked sideways on the chessboard. Her hands had tightened into fists as she walked and she could feel the tension seeping up the back of her neck and throbbing at her temples.

“Not worth worrying about until it happens,” Heloise said cheerfully. “Nothing you can do about it…except bide your time if he proves unworthy.”

“And what if it doesn’t happen?” Isabelle choked. “What if I am kept here until I rot?”

“Oh, you won’t!” Heloise said, reaching out. “Here now, don’t cry.”

Isabelle twitched away from her. “I’m not crying,” she snapped.

Heloise looked hurt, but took the hint and didn’t persist.

Through the sudden slant of the rain, Isabelle watched a man dismount from a fine black palfrey and hand the reins to one of his squires. She thought how unfair it was that an unknown knight could come and go at will while she was incarcerated like a felon.

***

William could tell that Ranulf de Glanville, England’s justiciar and King Henry’s senior administrator, was displeased at the royal command to release Heloise of Kendal into William’s keeping, but then Ranulf always had an eye to heiresses for the aggrandisement of his own family and his opinion of William was somewhat jaundiced. A tourney circuit wastrel and suspected adulterer, with a fast sword and a smooth tongue. William knew exactly what Ranulf thought.

“You are to be congratulated on your good fortune,” de Glanville said insincerely, although his lips did stretch to a wintry smile. “Not only the lady Heloise, but the lordship of Cartmel too, I understand.”

“I am aware of the King’s generosity,” William replied evenly. “I would like to see the girl and make arrangements for her to leave.”

The justiciar raised his thin, silver eyebrows. “You are in haste…my lord.” The last two words were added delicately and could have been taken as either compliment or insult. William allowed both nuances to bounce off him.

“Naturally I am. I have lands to discover and govern and they are at the other end of England. Since Heloise of Kendal is now my ward, I desire to meet her and give her a day’s grace to pack her baggage.”

De Glanville’s nod was grudging. “I’ll have her summoned.” He beckoned to an attendant. “I assume you intend to wed the girl?”

William made a non-committal sound, thinking that everyone was suddenly very concerned about his marital status. “I have heard that you have another heiress lodged in your keeping,” he said thoughtfully.

“I have several heiresses. They come and go as the King sees fit to grant them to wardens and husbands,” de Glanville said coldly. “And I doubt he will see fit to grant you more than he has already given.”

William answered the rebuff with a smile. He had heard that the daughter of Richard Strongbow was lodged in the Tower and everyone knew that she was one of the greatest marriage prizes in the kingdom. Only the heiress of Châteauroux on the French border had any claim to greater tracts of land. A man who gained such property would not be just a simple baron, but a magnate. He had been wondering for several days if Queen Eleanor was
that
ambitious for him and also how ambitious he was for himself. He had glimpsed Strongbow’s daughter fleetingly on the day he had set out for Jerusalem—a thin girl in the early stages of turning into a woman, with wide blue eyes and ropes of rain-jewelled fair hair.

The attendant returned, escorting two young women: a willowy blonde and a buxom younger girl with a freckled complexion and bright brown eyes. Ranulf de Glanville’s own complexion darkened until it almost matched the madder-red of his woollen tunic.

“As I understood,” he said curtly, “I sent for the lady Heloise alone.”

The attendant stared like an owl caught in daylight and began to stutter an apology. Overriding him, the plump girl took a swift pace forward and said, “I asked Isabelle to accompany me. Have I done wrong?”

The justiciar compressed his lips. “Had I wanted both of you, I would have sent for both of you.” He gestured to the discomforted attendant. “Escort Lady Isabelle back to her chamber.”

William rose and bowed to the girls. “They may both remain as far as I am concerned,” he said easily. “A flower gladdens the eye, but two flowers doubly so.”

“This is not the court of the Young King,” de Glanville snapped. “Your speeches are inappropriate…my lord, as is Lady Isabelle’s presence.”

“But surely the lady is your guest, not your prisoner.” William perused Isabelle de Clare more closely. The wan, slender waif of his brief glimpse three years ago was developing into a beauty. No wonder de Glanville had turned puce at her exposure to William. She returned his regard calmly from eyes flecked with different tones of blue like a summer sea, and then she lowered her gaze towards her neatly clasped hands. Her complexion was pale but pink warmth had seeped into her cheeks.

“Lady Isabelle is the King’s ward, and it is my duty to protect her and do as I see fit for her wellbeing,” de Glanville replied testily and waved his hand at the attendant. “I would hope that your manners are as fine as your speech.”

“My manners are better than most,” William said pointedly and inclined his head to Isabelle de Clare. “Another time perhaps, my lady.”

“My lord,” she murmured and turned with the servant, but not before she had cast a look filled with resentment and anger at Ranulf de Glanville. Not meek then, William thought with amusement, but too mannerly to cause a scene, and perhaps still not experienced enough to exert her authority. Dragging himself back to the matter in hand, he addressed Heloise of Kendal, who was almost as red in the face as the justiciar.

“You have been told I am to be your warden?” He gestured her to sit on the bench and bade a squire give her wine.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied, plumping her ample haunches on the cushions. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“You haven’t,” William said “even if my lord Glanville would dispute the fact.” He gave the justiciar a ribbing glance. “It is a good thing he is not the Queen’s keeper for he would know the meaning of trouble then.”

De Glanville loudly cleared his throat but otherwise did not rise to the bait, his expression one of controlled irritation.

“So,” William said to Heloise, “how long do you need to be ready to ride home? Will the morrow be too soon?”

He watched her eyes brighten. “Oh no, my lord,” she said. “I would go now if it were possible.” And then cast a swift glance at de Glanville and put her hand to her mouth.

William grinned. “I still have matters of my own baggage to attend to, or I’d oblige. As it is, we’ll set out at first light. I take it you can ride?”

Heloise wrinkled her nose. “Like a sack of flour, my lord, but it suffices.” Her tone suggested that even if she couldn’t ride she’d teach herself in a day just to be out of the Tower.

Chuckling, William decided that he was going to enjoy being her warden.

***

Isabelle watched Heloise lumber like an overgrown puppy round the chamber they shared. The lid of her travelling coffer was thrown back and she was tossing items of baggage to a maid for packing. Half these items had to be rescued off the floor for Heloise was terminally untidy. A wrinkled leg of hose came to light from its hiding place under the bed, stiff at the toes and in need of darning.

“I wondered where that had gone,” Heloise said, giving it an experimental sniff and then making a face.

Isabelle shook her head, torn between laughter and disgust. Her own portion of the chamber exuded an orderly tranquillity. “Well,” she said, “tell me what happened. Does he have planks for wits? Are you going to push him into a bog?”

Heloise rolled the hose into a cylinder and stuffed it down the side of the chest. “I don’t think so. Even if he doesn’t know Latin or ciphering, he’s just as sharp as Sir Ranulf. It’ll be hard running rings round him.” Heloise gave a mischievous giggle. “I might try though. He’s not like Sir Ranulf to purse his lips as if he’s an old woman. He likes to laugh.”

“You learned a lot about him in a short time,” Isabelle said peevishly.

Heloise rolled her eyes. “I did, but not from him. He jests and makes easy conversation, but it’s all on the surface. I spoke to Lord Ranulf’s steward and he said that William Marshal used to be the Young King’s tutor and that he’s recently returned from a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. He also said that he’s never been defeated in a tourney and that Queen Eleanor dotes on him.”

Isabelle sat down on her bed and stroked her hound’s silky silver ears. She felt green with jealousy and hated herself for it.