The Greatest Knight (7 page)

“If you are not careful, he will repay you by being sick all over your fine tunic,” said Queen Eleanor, her voice husky with amusement.

It was a good thing that William was not in the throw part of the game, or he might have missed his catch and dropped the youngest royal on his head. He spun round, John in his arms. “It doesn’t matter, madam,” he said, and thought how foolish the words sounded.

Her laughter caused his stomach to wallow. “I am sure that it does,” she replied, “unless you are like the King and do not care about appearance.”

“A tunic can be cleaned, madam,” William responded, seeking a diplomatic path through the dilemma she had created—whether to admit to being vain or slovenly, of which he was neither. “I was more concerned with comforting the Princeling.”

“He is a young man of many talents, madam,” chuckled Salisbury, standing by her shoulder. “Even I did not know he had this particular one, but I’m sure it will come in most useful.”

Eleanor pursed her lips. “Indeed,” she said softly, looking William up and down. “I am sure it will.”

Later in the evening there was singing and dancing and as the candles burned down, they were replaced by new ones. The Queen had no intention of retiring early and seemed determined to prove that although she was a decade older than her husband, her energy was more than a match for his. She flirted with the men both young and old, but was careful never to step outside the bounds of propriety, sharing her favours in equal measure, never lingering with a particular man unless he was old enough to be her grandfather. Twice she danced with William and her hand, cool at first touch but warm beneath, pressed to his damp one as she moved lightly to left and right.

“Not only a skilled horseman and nursemaid, but a fine dancer too,” she complimented him with a smile. “What other talents do you hide I wonder?”

“None that you would find worthy, madam,” William said, trying not to sound callow.

“And how do you know what I would find worthy?”

He hoped the question was rhetorical, for he did not have an answer. Their hands met and parted on the diagonal: right to right, left to left.

“Perhaps in Poitou we’ll find out.”

She moved on to the next man in the line in a swirl of heavy woollen skirts, a flash of gold, and a smile over her shoulder, leaving William bemused, his senses reeling. If the musicians hadn’t been playing their instruments, his swallow would have been audible. Since the dance was progressive, he found himself partnering a plump, pale-faced child, chestnut-haired, brown-eyed, gowned in a dress that was lavishly embroidered with tiny silver daisies. Princess Marguerite was Prince Henry’s nine-year-old wife and daughter of King Louis of France by Constance, his second queen. The children had been married since infancy, a papal dispensation having been granted to permit the nuptials. William could remember his father laughing about the event at the time and admiring the way King Henry had manipulated the Church and outmanoeuvred Louis, who had handed his daughter to the keeping of Henry’s court expecting many years of betrothal. Instead there had been a rapid marriage, thus enabling Henry legally to appropriate little Marguerite’s dower lands on the Franco-Norman border.

William solemnly danced with the child and bowed formally to her when she moved on, treating her as he would one of the grown women. Marguerite too cast a glance over her shoulder as the Queen had done, but her eyes and her smile were as innocent as the flower for which she was named. Her look, her broad, toothy grin, relaxed William’s tension and enabled him to recover his equilibrium. By the time he had danced with Eleanor’s small daughters, their nurses, and then a couple of Eleanor’s ladies, he felt much more at home in the company.

Between the dances, there was singing, a pastime that William loved. He might not be able to read or write, but he had an excellent memory for tunes and lyrics, and his voice was clear, strong, and wide-ranging. Modest in the exalted company, he let the other knights and ladies take their turn, but when Salisbury clapped him on the shoulder and pressed him forward, he took up the challenge, choosing a lay written by the Queen’s famous and infamous poet grandsire Guillaume, Count of Poitou: a song of springtime after winter and the frustration and pain of unrequited love. Lest folk think him too bold, he sang then of the virtues of the Virgin Mary and finally a child’s ditty for Marguerite and the little ones, which involved hand-clapping at certain parts. Throughout the singing, he was aware of Eleanor’s eyes on him, watching, assessing, peeling back the layers until he felt as exposed and vulnerable as a newborn infant.

“No talents that I would find worthy indeed!” she said to William, teasing laughter in her eyes as she finally chose to retire and bade goodnight to her guests. “Either you do not realise your own skills, or you are a shameless liar.”

William’s face burned. “Madam, I have never been called upon to sing in such exalted company before. I would not presume to know what you deem worthy, but if I have entertained you, that is the most I can hope.”

“Oh yes,” Eleanor murmured. “I have been most diverted, and who knows what hope might bring you, Messire Marshal.”

With a parting smile, she moved away to bid farewell to the next guest. William bowed, straightened, and then bowed again as Princess Marguerite held out her hand for him to kiss.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, “and I liked your songs. Will you sing again tomorrow?”

“If you command it, my lady.” He brushed his lips against the back of her small, soft hand, playing the role of courtier to the hilt for her amusement.

Returning to the great hall, William lay down on his pallet, his head light with wine and his thoughts whirling. The restless stirrings of the other sleepers in the hall, the coughs and snores, the wandering of dogs, the drunks lumbering for a piss in the corner, prevented him from falling immediately into slumber even though he was tired. The image of the Queen of England lingered in his mind’s eye. Behind his lids, he pictured her turning from the barred door, gesturing to servants, dismissing the children into the care of their nurses. He envisioned her maids removing her veil, unbraiding her hair, and combing it down around her shoulders in a heavy dark waterfall.

He did not for one moment believe that Eleanor had singled him out for special attention. She had spoken to her other guests in similar wise; she had laid her hand on his uncle Patrick’s sleeve and smiled at him as if he were the only man in the room. William knew there was a difference between play and pragmatic reality. Queen Eleanor was inhabiting the role of the lady worthy of courtly love for her own diversion and amusement, and the men she attracted, himself included, were her victims, albeit willing ones.

His imagination took him to her bed. How big it was for one person, and how small she looked inside the shadows of the wool brocade hangings. She was lying on her side, facing towards him, her elbow bent, her head propped on her hand, a beguiling smile on her lips. He swallowed, his throat dry and his heart pounding. His body was light except for the area of his groin which was beating like a lead drum. Eleanor continued to smile, but she beckoned him no closer and he was aware of a reluctance to go forward. It was as if a line were drawn on the floor, and he knew that if he crossed it and approached the bed, he would be destroyed.

William twisted restlessly on his pallet and opened his eyes, trying to banish the image. He was met by the sight of the man beside him copulating with one of the castle whores. They were rolled in the knight’s cloak; there was little to see, but the stealthy sounds they made and the increasingly rapid movements told their own tale. William turned over and clenched his jaw. There was always a lack of privacy for hearth knights and servants and at a great gathering like this where even breathing space was at a premium, the sight of couples furtively swiving was commonplace. Everyone knew it happened and if close to the activity, pretended that it didn’t—except for those who gained salacious pleasure from watching.

The woman made a different sound, almost a yelp, and the knight’s breath caught, held, and then shuddered out of him. There was silence, then a long sigh. Coins clinked softly together and the woman left, an anonymous dark shape picking her way between the pallets of the sleeping men until moments later she stooped by one of them and lifted his blankets. Muffled by a greater distance, the sounds began again, while beside William, the knight began to snore.

Thinking of the transaction that had just taken place and the new one in progress, William realised what that line on the Queen’s bedchamber floor had symbolised, why he wouldn’t cross it, and why she would never invite him to do so. The realisation relaxed his thoughts and he closed his eyes. The tension in his groin remained though—a dull, persistent surge that was not eased by the moans emanating from further down the line of pallets. Priests advocated will power and prayer to battle the lusts of the flesh. The Sire de Tancarville, of a more worldly and practical mind, had provided whores for his men, like the one going about her business now. For the soldiers lacking funds or fastidious like William, he had baldly suggested the common remedy. William resorted to this now, quickly and quietly. He was young and aroused and it took no time. There was guilt after the swift pangs of pleasure, but not as much as there might have been given other circumstances, and there was relief too. Soon he was as soundly asleep as his companions, and since his dreams had arrived early and troubled his waking mind, they did not disturb his slumber.

Five

Lusignan, Poitou, March 1168

Eleanor’s three sons had been riding their ponies all morning, practising at the quintain with blunted lances fashioned to their size and playing at jousts with the sons of the knights and lords billeted at Lusignan. The quintain post had been lowered to take account of the stature of the children and their mounts. Richard was proving more adept than Henry, although both lads possessed natural ability. There was intense rivalry between them. Resenting being younger than Henry, Richard had set out to prove that age was no indicator of skill. Henry was enraged at being defeated by Richard because it undermined his natal superiority and made him look less glorious in the eyes of the other children and their nurses who were watching from the sidelines.

“That’s twelve to me and nine to you,” Richard declared, returning to the start of the quintain run, his teeth bared in a triumphant grin, a withy ring decorating the end of his lance. His pony was sweating hard, its sides working like bellows.

“Ten.” Henry thrust out his lower lip. “I hooked the last one.”

“Yes, but it dropped off, so it doesn’t count.”

“Yes it does.”

“I’m still winning,” Richard scoffed. “I bet I could beat you at swordplay too. William Marshal says I’m good,” he added, as if that clinched the matter.

Henry glared at Richard. Praise from William Marshal was an accolade sought by Eleanor’s sons—not the courtly sort provided by William’s ready smile, but the approbation that sometimes showed in his eyes when one or all of them had been particularly good during battle practice. Not that William was their tutor or involved in any aspect of their training, but Henry, Richard, and Geoffrey often contrived to be around when William was honing his skills. They became his shadows; they tried to emulate, and sometimes, if he had the time and his mood was right, he would give them an impromptu lesson. “He says I’m good too,” Henry declared haughtily. He didn’t particularly want to fight Richard. His brother’s pure aggression made him a difficult opponent. Henry had the advantage of two years’ growth and a longer reach, but he preferred things that came easily; that did not have to be fought for quite so hard. Richard had been a lot worse since the skirmishing in Poitou and kept talking about becoming Duke of Aquitaine and riding to war himself instead of following in the army’s tail. Henry couldn’t wait until he was King of England, Duke of Normandy, and Count of Anjou, but that was different.

“Not as good as me.”

Henry’s jaw tightened. “He didn’t say that.”

“No, I did.” Leaping from his pony, Richard drew his practice sword from his belt. It was made of whalebone and the grip was bound just like a true knight’s with overlapping layers of buckskin. “Come on—or are you afraid?”

The words goaded Henry. He always swore that he would not rise to Richard’s bait, but he always did. Giving his pony to a groom, he drew his own whalebone sword and prepared to do battle. Richard came at him like a fury, as if it were a fight to the death. Henry parried and tried to hold his ground, but Richard pressed him back towards the watching children, his eyes glowing with relish. With a thrust and a flick, he struck Henry’s sword from his hand. The suddenness of the blow stung Henry’s palms and fingers, but not as much as his pride. He made a sideways lunge for his dropped blade, but Richard got there first and brought the tip of his play sword to Henry’s throat.

“Yield.” The gleam in Richard’s eyes was almost incandescent.

Henry glowered at him. To complain that it wasn’t fair would only allow Richard to prove again and again that it was. “Yielded,” Henry muttered. Richard made his point by keeping the weapon at his brother’s throat an instant longer than necessary, then withdrew it and smugly sheathed it through his belt.

“Just remember that you’ll have to kneel to me in homage when I’m King of England,” Henry snarled, fighting the shameful heat of tears.

“I won’t ‘have’ to do anything,” Richard retorted. “And you won’t be able to make me.”

“I will. You’ll only be a duke, after all.” Flinging away from Richard, Henry snatched his pony from his groom and heeled it towards the stables.

The farrier had been reshoeing some of the castle horses and an acrid stench of hot metal and burning horn filled the air. Several animals were tethered to a hitching bar, awaiting collection and return to their stalls, among them William Marshal’s two stallions, Blancart and Fauvel. The latter was plucking in desultory fashion at a net of hay and resting on one hip, eyes half closed. Henry had ridden him several times. For a destrier he was good-natured and indolent. It took a sharp dig in the flanks to remind him that he was a warhorse at all. Blancart, however, was gazing around with pricked ears and flaring nostrils, every inch the stallion. Now and then, he sidled, giving a flash of his new iron shoes, and his tail swished like a fly whisk. He was saddled which meant that Sir William intended riding him before he was returned to his stall. Henry gazed at the horse, his winter coat now grown out and his hide the colour of damp cream silk. Richard kept talking about riding him; he had tried to do so several times but had been thwarted by a mingling of circumstance and the vigilance of others. Henry glanced around; the horses were momentarily unattended, the opportunity was God-given and it would be a sin not to take advantage. It would counter the recent humiliation tenfold and wipe the smug expression off Richard’s face.

***

William was in the armoury having his hauberk mended and altered. Some links had been broken during a skirmish with the Lusignan rebels a fortnight ago. The damage had been simple enough to repair, but William had put on weight and muscle during the months since his knighting and the garment was now too snug across his chest.

The armourer sat on a bench outside his workshop, making the most of the good March light. His tools were laid to hand and a shallow wooden bowl contained a coruscation of several hundred mail links. Another dish held masses of tiny rivets the size of pinheads. The armourer had been painstakingly inserting new links into the garment and closing each one by hammering in a rivet. Finished, he rose to his feet, shook out the mail shirt, and requested that William try it on over the quilted tunic he was wearing.

“Much better.” William nodded his approval as he flexed his arms and peered at the mended links in his armpit. The new rings were a shade darker than the old ones. There was another small patch of a different hue across the shoulder of the garment where the gaff had caught him at Drincourt. He wondered how much of the original would remain by the time he died. You could always tell the hardest fighters by the dappled patches of repair on their hauberks…the most fortunate too. Now all he had to do was wear it for a while to grow accustomed.

“I swear you live in that thing,” Salisbury remarked, pausing by the armoury on his way elsewhere.

William looked rueful. “I have to, the amount of battle we have seen these past few months.”

Salisbury nodded and turned his mouth down at the corners to show that William had a point. “You’ve earned your keep of late, I’ll give you that,” he admitted. “If you need new rings in your hauberk, it’s due to hard work, not gluttony.” His glance flickered to a platter occupied by a half-eaten pie and a substantial chunk of bread. William noticed the direction of his uncle’s gaze and said sheepishly, “I didn’t have time to dine in the hall.”

“You need make no excuses to me,” Salisbury laughed. “As long as you perform your duties to my satisfaction, what you eat and when is your own business. Do as you will.”

William drank a mouthful of wine from the cup beside the platter and turned sharply as a groom’s lad burst upon them.

“Messire Marshal, come quickly! Prince Henry’s up on Blancart in the tiltyard!” the youth panted.

William and Salisbury looked at each other and, with one accord, sprinted towards the sward, arriving in time to see the heir to England and Normandy white-faced, grimly determined, cantering Blancart towards the quintain. A lance wobbled under the boy’s arm. Through his anger and alarm, William noted that the Prince had about as much control of horse and weapon as a drunkard did of his senses. The wonder was that Blancart had not yet bucked him off into the mud. To run out and stop the boy on his approach to the quintain would cause more harm than good and William halted at the front of the gathering crowd. Princess Marguerite looked up at him, her expression filled with fear and guilt on her boy husband’s behalf.

“Don’t be angry,” she pleaded anxiously. “Henry didn’t mean to do it.”

“If Henry hadn’t meant to do it, Princess, he would not be riding at the ring on a warhorse worth a hundred marks without seeking my permission,” William said grimly.

Her voice continued to twitter and he shut it out, watching the lad, willing him not to make a mistake and bring both himself and the horse to grief. It was an act of God rather than any human design that Henry stayed on Blancart’s back as the stallion thundered towards the quintain post. Henry’s eyes were squeezed shut and his seat in the saddle was appalling. The stallion’s new-shod hooves churned clods of turf and his tail was swishing with that mingling of eagerness and irritation that William recognised with foreboding.

By rights, Henry should have missed the ring entirely, but the miracle continued as with more than his lifetime’s share of divine providence he succeeded in spearing the withy ring and riding on. As the stallion turned away from the tilt, Henry’s eyes opened and a beatific expression spread across his face. Features ablaze with triumph, he sought Richard in the crowd—a victor gloating at the vanquished.

William started forward and Henry’s attention turned. Fear and defiance constricted the elation, but it didn’t vanish entirely. The lad fixed William with an imperious stare, which William ignored. He would kneel to the King and the Queen and yield deference to the royal children in a formal situation. But this wasn’t a formal situation and young Henry had just broken the code of chivalry and needed teaching a lesson. However, before he could reach horse and boy and secure them both, Blancart gave an irritated buck. Henry was flung backwards, his spine striking the hard wood of the cantle. He dropped the lance, grabbed the reins in panic, and yanked on them. The stallion went wild, twisting, kicking, plunging. Prince Henry tried to hold on but he stood no chance for he was straddling a whirlwind. The inevitable moment arrived when he lost his grip, sailed from the saddle, and hit the ground with a breath-jarring thud. Blancart bolted, punctuating his gallop with a series of violent bucks and kicks.

Salisbury ran to the Prince who was bleeding from the nose and mouth. William chased after the agitated stallion and managed to seize the trailing rein before the horse could put his hoof through the loop, fall, and break a leg. Speaking firmly and slowly, standing side on, William slid his hands up the rein until he was close enough to grip the cheek strap. He laid his palm to the sweating, trembling neck, grabbed a fistful of mane, and swung into the saddle. Blancart shuddered, but with a familiar solid weight across his back rather than a child’s flimsiness, he steadied. Using knees and thighs, putting no pressure on the reins, William rode over to the fallen prince, his heart filled with dread. “
Christ, let him be all right
,” he prayed, crossing himself. A crowd had gathered around the boy, including the senior royal nurse, Hodierna, who was weeping and wringing her hands.

Salisbury looked up as William arrived. Henry was sitting up, hugging his body, his face twisted with pain. Closer now, William could see that the blood in his mouth was from a bitten lip and the nosebleed had already stopped.

“Bruised ribs, I would say,” Salisbury said. “He bounced well. Is the horse all right?”

“Hard to tell, my lord. It hasn’t done his temper much good.” William rubbed his hand reassuringly along Blancart’s neck and crest and felt the horse shiver under his touch.

“Stop panicking, woman, he’s not dead,” Salisbury snapped at Hodierna as she continued to wail. He gripped Henry’s shoulder and squeezed hard. “What do you think you were doing?”

The boy gasped. His eyes were glassy with the tears he would not let fall. “I wanted to ride a real destrier. Richard said I couldn’t do it, but I did.” He raised his chin, suddenly defiant.

“And might have died. If that horse is injured through your stupidity, you will owe Messire William the price of its tending or replacement. A King’s heir or not, you’re a young fool!”

Henry compressed his lips. Clearly in pain, he rose to his feet and gingerly turned, clutching his ribs, to face William. “I am sorry, Messire Marshal. He is such a fine horse that I could not help myself.”

“Then you have much to learn about self-discipline,” growled Salisbury.

William’s heart was still pounding in reaction to the incident, but something about the lad’s manner, the look in the eyes, the set of the mouth, softened his anger. He understood the emotions: the need to prove oneself before one’s peers and siblings; the need itself when one was thirteen and raised among sharp swords and valuable horses. “Lord Henry has learned from his prank the painful way,” William said with a warning look at the boy. “I don’t think he’ll be attempting it again?”

Henry stared at William through his fringe and mutely shook his head.

Salisbury grunted and looked severe. “You’re getting off lightly,” he told Henry. “Best go and get your bruises seen to.” He gave the boy to Hodierna, which was in itself something of a humiliation, for Henry saw himself as being almost too old for a nurse these days, especially one who was making as much fuss as an old hen. The Earl dispersed the crowd with a wave of his arm, but with a sudden lunge caught Richard back by the scruff. “You saw what happened to your brother,” he warned, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. “Don’t ever think of doing the same.”