The Greatest Knight (9 page)

“I wouldn’t call it a waste that Patrick FitzWalter is dead,” answered Guy. “We were hunted before, so nothing changes in that respect. They’ll have to choose FitzWalter’s successor before they turn their attention to us, and that’ll take them a while. Besides,” he added, his tone aggressive as he attempted to justify his action, “I wasn’t to know it was FitzWalter. He had neither shield nor armour to mark him out.”

“But it never occurred to you that a man dressed in a tunic of embroidered silk might be worth a decent ransom?” Geoffrey snapped. “You still never thought twice about spearing an unarmed man through the spine.”

“He would have been armed in another moment. What else was I to do?”

Geoffrey made an impatient sound and sat down on the fallen log that the brothers were using as a bench.

“No corpse was ever resurrected by wishing a thing undone,” Guy said with brutal practicality. “I still say we’re well rid of him. He’s been a scourge to us for far too long.”

William eased awkwardly round, turning away from the sparking camp fire and the men discussing the murder they had done. His wound throbbing, he faced the darkness of the woods and remembered Eleanor’s husky amusement of that morning, now a lifetime ago, as they rode along a sunlit path and she asked him if he ever bore grudges. He had answered lightly, but then, a lifetime ago, he had not understood what a grudge was.

Six

The de Lusignan brothers approached the castle through a quickening spring dusk and William gazed at the pale walls and red-tiled turrets with a mingling of relief and despair. Whilst he welcomed a respite from the jolting of the horse and the rubbing of the pack saddle against his wounded thigh, he knew that his likely destination was the damp bowels of the donjon. He had no delusions; he was going to die here among his enemies with no one the wiser to his fate.

Having satisfied the castle guards that they were allies, the brothers and their troop clattered beneath the gate arch and into a dusty bailey filled with an assortment of timber sheds and workshops. A ratcatcher watched them from a bench while he ate a bowl of stew, his latest victims dangling by their tails from the wheeled pole at his side. A grubby child was poking at the dead rodents with a stick and making them swing about while two women, fussy as hens themselves, cooped up the castle poultry for the night. As the soldiers were dismounting, William noticed a woman watching their arrival from a spinning gallery that spanned the upper storey of the stone hall. She was olive-skinned and slender, her gown a startling saffron-yellow that blazed in the encroaching dusk. Her gaze lit on William and lingered a moment in curiosity before she left the gallery rail and disappeared from sight into the room beyond.

Without consideration for his wound, William was hauled off the pack beast and manhandled into the hall. The lord of the castle, whose name was Amalric, greeted his visitors with a smiling mouth and wary eyes and William gleaned that he was either a vassal or a castellan of one of the brothers.

The latter were ushered to the dais table at the far end of the hall and promptly served with wine. William was thrown into the straw in the corner of the hall near the door. The stink of urine filled his nostrils, for this was where men came to piss at night rather than go outside to the midden pit or seek the garderobe. He eased himself away from the fouled straw, but each movement caused him excruciating pain and dewed him in cold sweat. His "bandages" were filthy with blood and grime and he knew that he was in mortal danger of contracting the wound sickness. It wasn't as bad as the donjon, but by a degree that made little difference.

Several women entered the hall, among them the one in the yellow gown whom he had seen on the spinning gallery. Ingrained courtliness and his knowledge of the potential tenderness of women made William incline his head when they glanced his way. They twittered to each other like sparrows confronted by a cat and hastened into the body of the hall, except for the young woman in yellow, who paused to accost a servant. Even from a distance, William could tell that her tone was peremptory. The man bowed to her, went to the flagons on the sideboard, poured wine, and brought it to William, his manner nervous and reluctant.

William's hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold the cup. "Thank you," he croaked, then somehow trembled the rim to his lips and drank. The wine was little better than the poison served up at Henry's court, but it tasted ambrosial as it slipped down his parched throat and he had to stop himself from gulping. He made a point of toasting the woman in yellow as if they were dining partners at a formal feast. She returned his gesture with an infinitesimal dip of her head and turned away.

"My lady asks if there is anything that you need," the servant muttered. His eyes darted about and he looked briefly over his shoulder, plainly worried at being seen talking to William.

"Thank your mistress," William replied, his throat tight with emotion, "and tell her that apart from my freedom, my most pressing need is for clean bandages. If I can have them, I will be in her debt for ever."

The servant hovered until William had finished the wine and, without another word, snatched the cup from him and hastened away.

William fell into a feverish doze. The servants erected trestle tables and the Lusignan party was served with a hastily assembled meal. William's patroness sat with the other ladies at a side table, attending studiously to her food. Not once did she glance in his direction and no one brought him food.

Having eaten, the de Lusignan brothers and their host retired to the private solar on the floor above, the ladies accompanying them. The one in the yellow gown paid no attention to William, but followed the men, her gaze modestly downcast.

William's part of the hall grew quiet. No one ever settled near the piss corner unless forced and with the weather being fine, folk were content to relieve themselves outdoors. The dining trestles had been stacked against the walls and men began laying out their pallets, ready to retire. William tugged his stinking, louse-infested horse blanket over his shoulders and sought sleep, but his pain and discomfort were too great to grant him that blessing.

"Messire..."

The voice was soft yet vibrant. William turned over and struggled to sit up, his wound pounding. The woman in the yellow gown stood before him. Bound with ribbons of gold silk, her jet braids fell to her waist and her eyes were as dark as polished obsidian. "My lady," William acknowledged in a voice hoarse with pain. "I must thank you for your kindness earlier."

"I would offer any wounded man the same," she said. "To see you thus treated makes me ashamed but I cannot go against the will of our overlord."

"I understand, my lady."

"Do you?" She smiled cynically and shook her head. "You said you needed bandages." Stooping, she placed a large loaf in his hands, so fresh that it was still slightly warm. For a moment, the stench of his surroundings was overlaid by the homely aroma of the bread and the spicy scent emanating from her garments.

William had to swallow before he could speak. "Thank you, my lady," he said huskily. "I will not forget your charity."

"Perhaps," she murmured, giving him a sceptical look from her great dark eyes. Gathering her skirts to hold them clear of the soiled floor rushes, she left the hall. William looked down at the loaf. The golden crust was cracked in several places and it was from these that the appetising smell was leaching. He broke a piece off one particularly damaged end and saw that the middle had been hollowed out and replaced with several tight rolls of linen bandage. His vision blurred and he had to cuff his eyes. So small an act of compassion, yet beyond price. He meant what he said; he would not forget.

At dawn, they left the castle and headed deeper into the Limousin with its numerous hidden forests and gorges. William had cleaned his wound with water begged from one of the hall wenches, and bound it with a strip of new bandage. The girl had told him that the lady's name was Clara, and he consigned it to his memory so that he could light a candle for her soul next time he was in a church.

William was young and strong; fortune was with him and his injury healed cleanly, except for a slight limp when he was tired. With his flair for being sociable good company, he steadily eroded his enemies' hostility, whilst keeping an essential rein on his own, and by high summer, they had almost accepted him as one of their own.

As the Lusignan brothers rode between their allies, claiming sporadic succour and support, news came to them that Guillaume de Tancarville, Chamberlain of Normandy—and also William's kin—had replaced Patrick of Salisbury as governor of Poitou. The Lusignans grilled William for details of de Tancarville's character, his methods and his men and William cheerfully fed them a complex, subtle concoction of half-truths and lies, telling them much and giving them nothing.

One evening in late July four months after the ambush, the de Lusignan brothers returned to the castle where they had first brought William. Amalric's greeting was strained and it was plain that while he would do his duty and aid his overlords, he was fearful too. De Tancarville had brought fire and sword to Poitou and prudent men were keeping their heads below their battlements.

Under the watchful eye of a Lusignan serjeant, William was unsaddling the spavined nag they had given him to ride, when a youth stuck his head round the stable door to say that William was summoned to the great hall. "There's a messenger arrived on the business of the Queen Eleanor," the lad announced, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist before loping off.

"Hah!" declared the serjeant. "Looks as if someone's finally decided you're worth something."

William's heartbeat quickened. He tethered his horse, avoiding the snap of its long yellow teeth, and headed for the hall at a swift limp.

The messenger he recognised as Father André, one of Eleanor's chaplains. As a priest, his spiritual calling gave him a certain (although not guaranteed) immunity and he was more easily able to venture where a sword-wearing man could not. The chaplain's eyes widened and William became conscious of the sorry vision he must present. Four months of continuous wear had rendered his garments so filthy that they could have stood up by themselves. His hair was overlong and matted, his beard thick, and both were infested with lice; his braies were held up by strips of leather and frayed string.

"My son..." he said, shaking his head. "My dear, dear son..." Pity and concern creased his blunt features.

Falling to his knees, William bowed his head. "Thank God." His voice cracked as he fought not to weep. "Tell me that you are here to ransom me?"

"Indeed, my son, that is my purpose." The priest's tone was gentle with compassion. "Queen Eleanor has redeemed your price in full. On the morrow you are free to leave."

The words were the sweetest that William had ever heard. The lump in his throat made speech impossible. Father André set his hand to William's sleeve and gently raised him to his feet. "Although not as free as you might choose," the priest added with a smile. "The Queen desires words with you on your return."

***

William stepped into the steaming bathtub and hissed at the scalding heat. A swift command from the lady Clara hastened a serving girl to the tub with an extra half-pail of cold water. Now that he had been ransomed and was no longer a prisoner, the laws of hospitality declared that he must be treated as a guest—perhaps not a welcome one, but the courtesies still had to be observed. Since Eleanor herself had paid his ransom, William's importance had suddenly risen dramatically and neither the Lusignans nor Amalric were about to return him to her clad in filthy rags and looking like a scabrous beggar. He had been brought to the domestic chambers above the hall and the women instructed to tend him and find him fresh raiment.

The bathwater was already turning a scummy grey. Clara brought a jar of soap and some stavesacre lotion to deal with the lice. Sitting on a stool to the side of the tub she set about ministering to him, efficiently barbering off his beard and cutting his hair before rubbing the pungent stavesacre lotion into his scalp.

William was embarrassed. "You do not need to do this, my lady, I can see to these things myself."

Her lips curved in a half-smile. "I do not need to, but I wish to."

"May I look a gift horse in the mouth and ask why?"

She slowed kneading his scalp. "Because I was angered and ashamed by the way they treated you," she said. "I do not like to see suffering. I would have done more for you if I could, that first time."

"I am very grateful, my lady, for what you did do."

"It was little enough." Her breathing hesitated, but when he tried to look round, she tipped a jug of water over his hair to sluice it clean.

She provided him with clean garments from the chest containing clothing that had been made as gifts for the household knights. The linen shirt was a little too short but fitted well across the shoulders; the braies could be made to fit any waist by adjusting the drawstring tie; and she found some good woollen hose for him that were sufficiently long in the leg. When she enquired if his wound needed dressing, he answered swiftly that it did not. The thought of her long, slim fingers anywhere north of his knees sent a flood of heat to his groin. If she caught his turmoil, she was sufficiently tactful to ignore it and presented him with a tunic of green linen, a light woollen cloak and a leather hood.

"My lady, you have my thanks," he said as, finally, clean and spruce for the first time in four months, he prepared to go down to the hall and take his place among the knights instead of in the piss corner. "If ever there is anything I can do to repay you, then you need only send word and I am at your service."

Mischief lit a gleam in her dark eyes. "Anything?" she said, and then laughed. "Thank you, messire; I will bear it in mind. For the moment, you can best repay me by staying alive lest I should need you to fulfil your promise."

He bowed over the hand she extended to him. "I will do my best, my lady," he said.

***

When William entered the Queen's chambers in Poitiers, he was immediately struck by the familiar scents of cedar and sandalwood and by the opulent shades that Eleanor so loved: crimson and purple and gold. He drew a deep, savouring breath; he was home. Eleanor had been standing near the window talking to Guillaume de Tancarville but, on seeing William, she ceased the conversation and hastened across the chamber.

Somewhat stiffly, William knelt and bowed his head. Clara had shorn his hair close to his scalp to help rid him of the remainder of the lice and the air was cold on the back of his neck.

"William, God save you!" Eleanor stooped, took his hands and raised him to his feet, her tawny eyes full of concern. "You're as thin as a lance, and I was told that you had been grievously injured."