The Greatest Knight (5 page)

Four

Southampton, December 1167

William stood on the dockside in the gathering winter dusk and watched the sailors loading the supplies on to the vessels riding at anchor. He was not fond of sea crossings and silently prayed that the good weather would hold for the voyage to Normandy. The thought that all that lay between him and untold fathoms of icy green sea were a few flimsy spars of wood held together by caulking and nails was one that brought cold sweat to his armpits.

He had bidden farewell to his family several days ago at Bradenstoke Priory where a mass had been said for his father and William had been wished Godspeed. There had been a brief reunion with his brother Henry, now in the service of the Archbishop of York. The twelve-year-old to whom William had bidden farewell five years ago was now an earnest young priest with a precisely clipped tonsure, a small mouth, pursed as if holding secrets, and a pedantic air. He made it clear that living by the sword was an acceptable occupation, but nowhere near as worthy as making one’s mark through the Church. He made much of his ability to read and write in Latin. As he pompously held forth, William and John had exchanged glances, the tension between them thawed by mutual opinion. Having a priest in the family was useful—but, in Henry’s case, preferably at a far distance. “God help anyone who has to listen to his sermons,” John had muttered from the side of his mouth and William had responded with an irreverent chuckle. Still, since Henry was family and the fraternal ties existed for the benefit of all, they let him boast. Who knew when they might need his learning?

William’s mother had given him a cross set with beryls of cat’s-eye green to wear around his neck, saying that it would protect him from injury, and the women had found time to stitch him two new shirts for his baggage. Alais had presented him with a pair of mittens and a kiss on the cheek—much to John’s ire. William smiled, remembering, and turned at a shout to face his uncle who was striding along the dockside, accompanied by his household knights and retainers.

Patrick FitzWalter, Earl of Salisbury, had florid good looks running to flesh at the jowls. His paunch strained against his Flemish woollen tunic, but he moved easily and he was solid rather than flabby. For seven years, he had been the King’s commander in Aquitaine and was a trusted, competent soldier. He had the approval of both King Henry and Queen Eleanor, which, William had discovered, was something of a novelty in the Angevin household these days.

“I wondered where you had gone,” his uncle said.

“I wanted to watch the loading, my lord.” William smiled ruefully. “If I had stayed any longer in that alehouse I’d have been tempted to drink myself into a stupor.”

Earl Patrick grinned, exposing even white teeth marred by a missing incisor. “I take it that you dislike crossing the water.”

“Yes, my lord,” William said, adding hastily, “but I do at need.”

“So do we all, young man. There’s not many of us born sailors. Your horses boarded all right?”

William glanced towards one of the transports riding at anchor. “Yes, my lord. One of the destriers baulked at the gangplank, but a groom tempted him aboard with an apple.”

Earl Patrick cupped his hands and blew on them. The vapour of his breath was wine-scented, revealing that he too had fortified himself for the night crossing to come. “Sounds like its owner,” he said.

William laughed. He had developed an immediate rapport with his uncle who was at home both in the battle-camp and the court. Patrick of Salisbury knew how to roister and how to be refined. Despite rivalry in feats of arms being encouraged among his knights on the practice field, and the existence of a hierarchy, the atmosphere in his household was comfortable and the jesting largely without malice. Not that Patrick FitzWalter was an easy lord. Like Guillaume de Tancarville, he expected to be served with alacrity. He kept long hours and he required his men to do the same. Earl Patrick had been highly entertained to hear that William’s nicknames in de Tancarville’s mesnie had been “Guzzleguts” and “Slugabed.”

“You’ll have no time for either in mine,” he had promised. “The more so because you’re my nephew. Favouritism is out…unless you earn it in front of all.”

Knowing where he stood, William had settled with gratitude and pride to the task of being his uncle’s knight and bearing the Salisbury colours on his shield.

***

Although he had spoken of not favouring William above the other knights of his mesnie, Patrick of Salisbury had taken a keen interest in his nephew. For one so young he had started trailing glory early—if the stories were to be believed. William himself had been dismissive of the incidents, but his mother, who was Salisbury’s sister, had written a fiercely proud letter to recommend her son, filled with details of his achievements thus far. Salisbury thought that the truth lay somewhere in between. The young man must have talent. No knight of his tender years and means would have been able to afford the warhorse and palfrey that he was shipping to Normandy unless he had won them in battle or tourney. Even William’s squire had a Lombardy stallion. Being a good fighter was an excellent start, but Salisbury wanted to mentor William further and see if he had the intelligence to partner his brawn.

“There’s a hard task ahead,” Salisbury said to him as they sailed out of the harbour on a high tide and a strengthening wind. The silver light of a full moon capped the jet glitter of the waves and the pale linen sail resembled a slice of the moon itself, raked down and lashed to the mast.

“Yes, my lord.”

Watching his nephew clench and unclench his fists inside a pair of sheepskin mittens, Salisbury was struck anew by how much the young man resembled his father in looks: the eyes and nose, the stubborn set of the jaw. Pray God that if he had inherited John Marshal’s nature too, the traits were tempered by FitzWalter caution and common sense, otherwise he was a lost cause from the start. “How much do you know about Poitou and Aquitaine?” he asked.

The young man shook his head. “Not a great deal, my lord. I have been no further than the Chamberlain’s castles and a few tourney grounds on the French border. I know that the lands belong to the Queen and they are the source of much discord.”

Salisbury laughed sourly. “You have a way with understatement, William.” He folded his arms beneath his thick, fur-lined cloak. “I sometimes think that not even the Devil would want to dwell in Poitou. Queen Eleanor’s vassals see every petty complaint as reason to rebel, especially the lords of La Marche and Lusignan. They have to be brought to heel, which is what I am being sent to do. The Queen is to accompany me, as is the lord Richard, since he is her heir.”

William looked interested.

“Ten years old,” said Salisbury “and a handful, but he shows promise. Already he excels at arms practice and he’s a good scholar too. He’s going to be a capable ruler for Aquitaine and Poitou, but first he has to grow into the role and we have to buy him that time.” He flashed William a vulpine smile. “Your sword won’t sleep in your scabbard once we arrive there.” He watched William touch his hilt for reassurance and chuckled. “Don’t worry, you’ll have the pleasures of the Norman court and the Christmas feast at Argentan to break you in before we reach Poitou. After that, a pitched battle will seem easy by comparison, I promise you.” He was silent for a moment then asked, “Have you ever met the Queen?”

“No, my lord, although I have heard tell of her beauty.”

“And the tales are not wrong. I would tell you to guard your heart, but it would be a useless warning. She will take it anyway and all other women will lack savour after that.”

His nephew’s gaze flickered to him and then away to study the moon-white sail.

Salisbury smiled. “What is it?”

“I was going to ask if you were smitten, my lord, but then I thought you might consider me impertinent.”

Salisbury threw back his head and laughed. “I do, and ignorant too, but I will tell you anyway. Any man who is not smitten would have to be made of stone, and even then, the resisting would crack him down the middle.”

William hesitated then said, “King Henry must be made of stone then, for the rumour is that he has forsaken the Queen for a mistress.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“My mother told me when I first came home. She said that it was a scandal that the King should be so openly consorting with the daughter of Sir Walter de Clifford and f êting her with all manner of gifts.”

Salisbury sighed. “I fear it is more than rumour. The King has taken the Clifford girl to his bed and to his bosom. He’s always had occasional whores but they have never lasted longer than a week, but this is different. He’s as smitten as a mooncalf and de Clifford’s daughter is no common harlot. He’s given her a household of her own and pays her serious court while shunning his wife, and for that, Eleanor will never forgive him. It’s half the reason she’s returning to Poitou after Christmas.” He studied the sky. “It’s calm out here tonight, nephew, but there are stormy waters ahead.”

***

William swiftly settled into life at King Henry’s court. In many ways it was similar to the time he had spent in the Tancarville mesnie with the same constant bustle of officials and messengers, clerks, priests, soldiers, servants, and hordes of supplicants, their pouches draining of silver as they sought to bribe their way through ushers and stewards to the King’s ear. William was still a small grain in a great mill. His sleeping quarters remained little more than a straw pallet either on the floor of the great hall, outside Salisbury’s chamber, or sometimes in a tent pitched on spare ground in the bailey of whatever castle the court was currently occupying.

Unlike de Tancarville’s orderly household, where William had trained, the royal court functioned in an atmosphere of organised chaos and the food was atrocious. Henry’s impatient palate was not a gourmet’s. As far as he was concerned, bread was bread and if a trifle burned or somewhat gritty, it didn’t matter. Complaints were met with raised eyebrows and short shrift. In Henry’s lexicon, fit for a king was fit for everyone else. The same went for his household wine, which had a reputation throughout his lands. “Like drinking mud,” Salisbury warned William. The Earl had prudently brought his own supply and a servant who knew how to care for it.

Henry was also impatient with ceremony and careless of his clothes. They were always rumpled and there was usually a thread dangling where some of the seed pearl embroidery had torn loose, or been snagged by a dog’s paw. Henry forgot to pass messages on to his ushers and stewards, or he would change his mind after having done so with the result that the court would be ready to move on a morning when the King was still lazing abed, or caught napping while the King sprang to the saddle and hastened off at dawn.

“They say the Angevins come from the Devil!” the Bishop of Winchester spluttered one rainy morning when this had happened for the third time in a row and he was trying to mount his circling, braying mule. “I can believe it, because following the King around is like being at the court of hell, and God in his mercy alone knows if we’ll all have beds tonight!”

The great lords and bishops would send outriders ahead to secure sleeping space and stabling and fodder and there were often undignified squabbles over the most unsavoury of hovels. William learned to take it all in his stride. His genial, easy-going nature meant that he counted having to bed down with his horse less of an earth-shattering disaster than it was to others more tender of their dignity.

The court came to Argentan for the Christmas feast and a great gathering of vassals from all parts of the Angevin lands. The Queen was due to arrive any day with the children, and the servants hastily prepared quarters to house them. Rooms were swept and fires laid. New rushes were strewn on the floors and sweetened with herbs and dried flowers. The damp December cold was further kept at bay by braziers placed in the draughty areas near window splays and doors. Seldom noticing the heat or cold unless they were extremes, Henry cared little for such touches, but with small children expected, additional warmth was a necessity.

On the day the Queen arrived, William was schooling Blancart in the tiltyard. Bleached winter sunshine lit the day, but imparted no warmth. William’s breath smoked in the air and mingled with the stallion’s as he leaned over to pat its muscular arched neck. Mindful of the horse’s tender mouth, he had further adjusted the bit and rode with the lightest of curbs.

Collecting a lance from the stack at the end of the tiltyard, William turned the destrier to face the field and the quintain. A squire was standing beside the upright pole and cross bar and at William’s signal he hooked a small circle of woven reeds on to the end of the latter. William nudged Blancart into a short, bouncing canter and the stallion’s ears twitched and then pricked as he settled to his task. William encouraged Blancart with thighs and heels and the stallion increased speed, galloping in a straight, smooth line. William hooked the ring neatly on to the end of his lance and rode round to the start again, by which time the squire had placed a second, smaller ring on the end of the post.

William continued tilting at the ring, using the smallest diameter garlands and rowing them down the shaft of his lance with each successful pass. He was aware in his peripheral vision that he had an audience, but the sight of knights at their training was always guaranteed to draw spectators and his concentration was such that he paid little heed. However, as he drew rein and slipped the rings down his spear into the squire’s hands, he happened to glance across and noticed that the numbers were unusually large.