The Greatest Knight (14 page)

“I doubt it,” William said with a humourless smile. “Would you?”

John looked over his shoulder towards the castle doorway and Alais who was dandling the baby in her arms. “Probably not,” he said.

***

The following day William took his leave of John, and although their parting was cordial enough, the brothers were relieved to say farewell. John, no matter how he tried to hide it, was jealous of William’s meteoric rise at court. To have a younger brother in the daily company of kings and queens, magnates and archbishops chafed his own sense of self-worth. Nor did he approve of William’s extravagant lifestyle, although part of that disapproval was because he desired such for himself but would not admit it.

For his part, William was fond of John but found him staid and insular—although those traits would probably have been worse had he not had Alais and their infant son to lift him out of his rut. In spite of the stigma of having borne John a child out of wedlock and being his mistress, Alais seemed soft and content. It was that very contentment, the sight of her cuddling her son on her knee in a shaft of evening sunlight and smiling back at John that had given William his own moment of envy. He wasn’t ready to settle down—might never be, and it might never happen—but seeing that moment of quiet pleasure was like standing in the winter snow and looking through a window at a torchlit golden feast to which he was a witness, but not a guest.

As he put distance between himself and Hamstead, William’s envy evaporated and he brightened, glad to be on the road again, a knight errant with a glittering future before him. He paused at Wexcombe to visit his mother and Ancel, promising the latter that as soon as there was a place for him, he would take him on, rode on to Bradenstoke to pay his respects at his father’s tomb, and then turned away from filial and domestic duty towards his other life. Loyalty, gratitude, and a deep affection brought him first to Salisbury and Eleanor.

***

The Queen’s chamber was more suited to that of a nun than a queen and her position as her husband’s prisoner was unequivocal. The walls were devoid of hangings and her opulent bed coverings had been replaced by plain blankets. Instead of her beautiful flagons and goblets, there were heavy jugs and cups fashioned of crude local pottery. The painted coffers were gone and the usual pile of books was missing, although her chessboard stood rather forlornly on a plain wooden chest in the embrasure.

Eleanor herself sat near the open shutters, some sewing in her lap. When William was ushered into the room, she rose to her feet, her face brightening with pleasure. “William!” She came towards him, her hand outstretched and slightly trembling. He knelt and kissed her fingers, which were still adorned with a wealth of gold rings. Henry hadn’t taken those from her at least.

“Oh, it is so good to see you; you cannot know!” She raised him to his feet and when their eyes met, William saw the new lines of suffering and experience dredging her face. The fine bone structure would always guarantee her beauty, and her eyes were still the same slanting bright gold, but the years did not sit as lightly as before.

“Madam, you look well,” he said. It was the truth. Despite her tribulation, there remained a glamour about her, like the gilding on the wing of a dark butterfly.

“Do I?” She gave a sceptical laugh. “Well, I don’t feel it. Jesu, even nuns have more freedom than I do. My gaolers think it a great concession to allow me to dine in the great hall or receive a visitor every once in a while.” She glanced towards the castellan who had followed William into the room. He was looking uncomfortably at the ceiling, but still standing close enough to hear every word.

“I am deeply sorry, madam.”

“Hah, so am I…to be caged at least. For the rest, not even the pincers of hell will wring a confession of remorse from my lips.” She clapped her hand at a maid and gestured her to pour wine. “From Poitou,” she said. “Henry may have given me cracked old cups to drink from, but at least I’m granted the boon of wine from my own province.” Her eyes narrowed. “I would not drink his even if I were dying of thirst.”

Knowing the King’s wine, William didn’t blame her. He took the cup from the maid and saluted Eleanor. The castellan too was grudgingly furnished with wine, but not invited to join the conversation.

“So,” she said brightly, “tell me of the world outside.”

William saw through the smile in her voice to the desolation beneath. To be shut away here on a frugal income, her visitors closely vetted and not encouraged, must be soul-destroying to the vivacious and intellectually hungry Eleanor. She loved to shine in company and to feed upon the dazzle she created. Indeed, she craved company for its own sake. He set out to entertain her with tales of the latest doings at court; the scandals; the political manoeuvring. He made her laugh and for a while forget her circumstances, and he gave her news of her sons. Here too he kept his tone light. Aware of the constable’s stretched ears, he said nothing that could be passed back to the King and used to his or Eleanor’s detriment. She was circumspect too but bade him greet her sons and tell them that they were held in her heart and her prayers.

“As you are held in mine, madam.” He kissed her hand again. When he looked beyond her fingers, still fine, still manicured, but scattered with the brown mottles of age, and into her eyes, he saw that they were shimmering with tears.

William took his leave with a troubled and heavy spirit. He wished he could ransom Eleanor the way that she had once ransomed him. All he could do was watch out for her eldest son, who was in his charge, and do his best to honour that position of trust.

At Hamstead, John had said with a curl of his lip that Eleanor’s plight was of her own making, but William had answered that rebellion was surely never in her mind when she had married Henry of Anjou and that her husband was as much to blame. It was the march of years and the slow, dark spiral into disillusion that had brought her to an edge and then tumbled her over it. How did one guard against that, he wondered? How did one hold on to one’s loyalty when love was dead and fidelity betrayed? Perhaps one did so because it was the only light in the void and to let go was to fall for eternity. He shivered at his thoughts and clapping his heels to his palfrey’s flanks picked up the pace.

Eleven

Anet, Normandy, Spring 1177

The tourney at Anet on the Norman border had attracted competitors from far and wide: France and Flanders, Brie, Champagne, Lombardy, Brittany, Anjou, Poitou, Normandy, and England. There were great lords and their retinues, lesser barons with their squires and grooms, landless knights hoping to be noticed and employed by a patron. Supplying their needs were numerous traders and craftsmen, for without the armourers, smiths, farriers, horse-traders, saddlers, cookstall owners, and a host of others, the event could not have taken place. Clinging like carbuncles and galls upon this great tree of activity, the outcasts performed their parasitic role—the beggars, the thieves and cutpurses, whores and pimps, the men with loaded dice, the women who lured clients into dark alleys where accomplices robbed the victims of their silver.

Tourneys had their own particular scent that nothing else could replicate. William inhaled the mingled aromas with pleasure and anticipation as he walked among the tents and booths with the Young King, greeting old comrades and inspecting the goods. The scent of green turf, dust, and hot horses; the sour smell of anxious sweat that would later be intensified by the effort of battle; the waft of gruel and frying bacon from cooking pots and griddles.

“We’re going to take a fortune in ransoms today,” the Young King said, rubbing his hands. “I can feel it in my bones.” He was posing in an embroidered silk tunic heavily encrusted with small gemstones and his cloak was collared with ermine tails. His retinue moved in front and behind, clearing a path, giving him a space in which to walk and be admired.

William grinned. “You probably will feel it in your bones by the day’s end, my lord.”

“Not if my mesnie is doing its job,” Henry retorted.

A year ago Henry had gained permission from his father to cross the Narrow Sea with his entourage and take part in the tourneys that were held fortnightly across France and neighbouring territories. The King had been reluctant at first, for he had a personal hatred of the sport, seeing it as a waste of time and effort, not to say a breeding place for rebellion. He would like to have seen tourneys banned from all his dominions, not just England. However, worn down by young Henry’s constant harassment and pleading, he finally capitulated, hoping that it would harness his heir’s restless energy, concentrate his fickle brain, and imbue him with some of the discipline he lacked.

At first, the losses of Henry’s mesnie on the field had been spectacular and embarrassing. William still cringed when he thought back upon those early days. Their failure had not been due to any lack of prowess, rather that their opponents were experienced professionals, some of whom had been riding the circuit for years and knew all the tricks, both honest and foul. It had been a matter of learning from their mistakes and learning fast.

William had taken it upon himself to fashion a decent tourney team out of a number of disparate abilities and personalities. He set the more cautious and solid men to hold the flanks and watch Henry. The fiery ones or those with the strongest destriers headed the line. The most versatile were in the middle, ready to attack or defend. He had the knights fight each other with every combination of weapon and he made them practise on their own mounts and other men’s so that they became accustomed to a variety of horses. When Adam Yquebeouf complained that such antics were below his dignity, William remarked that there were plenty of other knights keen to join Henry’s service who would not baulk at what was required. Henry desired to excel at the tourney; it was up to his men to ensure that it happened. Yqueboeuf had looked daggers, but had ceased to grumble—at least in William’s presence.

The intensive training during the slack winter months had begun to bear fruit this new season. Knights who had once laughed at the callow efforts of the Young King’s mesnie were now rubbing their bruises and polishing their respect. Henry basked in the adulation like a cat in warm sunshine and William’s cachet within tourney circles had risen considerably.

Passing a pavilion belonging to a Poitevan knight, William and Henry heard a man and a woman heatedly arguing behind the closed tent flaps. A red-faced squire was checking equipment outside the pavilion and unsuccessfully pretending to be deaf. Several knights were chuckling to each other and exchanging knowing glances.

“You whoreson, you promised me!” The woman’s voice was seething with fury.

“I said I would if I could afford it, and I can’t.”

“Hah, because you’ve swilled your coin away in gaming and dice with your cronies!”

“They’re a better bargain than a carping bitch. Whores like you can be bought ten a penny in any town brothel.” There was the sound of a slap, a scuffle, and a cut-off shriek.

“My parents used to scream at each other like that sometimes,” Henry said, moving on and shaking his head. “My father once compared my mother to a Rouen fishwife, and she replied it was a good thing she wasn’t, because she would have ripped him open with a gutting knife.” He snorted down his nose. “Preferably before he begot John on her and took up with the Clifford slut.” He looked at William, his mouth twisting with distaste. “I would never strike a woman. God knows, Marguerite irritates me on occasion but I’d never beat her for it.”

William thought wryly that Marguerite was probably also irritated by her young husband, who could be difficult in his cups and was frequently inconsiderate. “How is the Queen this morning, sire?”

Henry made a face. “The same as yesterday—puking. Her women say that it’ll stop in the fourth month. I hope so. I can’t abide her company while she’s heaving into a bowl every five minutes, even if she is carrying my heir in her belly. She says she’s not well enough to watch me either.” His tone verged on the petulant, for to Henry an admiring audience was crucial.

“It’s a wide tourney field, sire,” William said diplomatically. “She wouldn’t see much of you anyway.”

Henry made a disgruntled sound. “You’re right,” he said, but in a way that let William know that his words were a gracious concession and that his opinion had not changed.

The attractions of the booths explored and the opposition inspected, Henry repaired to his tent to don his armour. William followed suit, and while he waited for his squire to fetch his accoutrements, mentally prepared himself for the coming fray. Outside his pavilion, Rhys was carefully checking over the harness. His loyalty to William had solidified ever since the news had arrived of the death of Richard de Clare; not in battle, but of an infected leg caused by an old wound that had refused to heal. His children, a girl of six and a boy of three, were in royal wardship and for the moment their vast inheritance was being milked into the royal coffers. William had liked Richard de Clare from the little he had known of him and had attended a mass to honour his passing. Rhys had been deeply affected and it only took an extra cup of wine to make him maudlin with memories and regrets.

As William was adjusting his scabbard at his hip, Wigain arrived bearing slices of cold roast goose wrapped in lime leaves, a loaf, a handful of dried fruit, and a costrel of wine. “I’ve been making wagers with some of the other clerks,” he said as he placed the items on the trestle, ready for William’s saddlebag.

William raised an amused brow. “And what might they be?”

“That you and our lord Henry will win the most ransoms.”

“And you think this a wise thing to do?” William shook his head at the clerk. “I hope you haven’t put your shirt on it.”

Wigain grinned. “More like two shirts. Now that we’ve started winning, I’m recouping the losses of last year.”

“I don’t know whether that speaks to me of your faith or your folly.” William unwrapped one of the leaves and sampled a sliver of goose.

Wigain gave a cheerful shrug. “I was discouraged last year, sir, but then I saw the way you trained the knights every day, even when there was snow on the ground and they were complaining like a bowerful of old women.”

William snorted at the image.

“It’s made all the difference; there’s no one to better us now.”

“Your faith commends you,” William replied, “but why should others accept your wager unless they thought you were going to lose?” He devoured another slice of goose then bade his squire remove it to his saddlebag before he was tempted to eat the lot.

“Because you’ve only just begun to be successful and they still remember how you were. Some say that the Young King is a cocky young wastrel and his mesnie a group of bored fops without a yard of steel amongst them.” Wigain cleared his throat and looked apologetic.

“They’re going to be disappointed then, aren’t they?” William dug in his own purse and thrust a handful of silver into Wigain’s hastily provided palm. “Here, wager this too. Let’s see what a cocky young wastrel and a group of bored fops with soft swords can accomplish.”

***

The fighting was hard, fast, and at times almost as brutal as true war. The hooves of the destriers churned up the sweet spring grass and as the day wore on the horses began to slip in the mud. William changed mounts several times, always aiming to keep his stallion fresh and selecting the animal best suited to the ground.

Henry was fearless and led from the front—which meant extra work for William who had to keep pace with him and turn any blows that threatened his young lord’s superiority. However, the hard training through the winter was paying dividends. Fighting as a tightly knit team, Henry’s mesnie stormed the field. Henry was laughing as he led his team against a conroi of French knights who had just fought their way out of a conflict with another troop. The opposition resisted but William pushed forward, seeking their breaking point, knowing that it wasn’t far away. A blow from his mace sent his opponent reeling and William grabbed the knight’s bridle. “Yield!” he commanded, wrapping his fist around the rein, one eye on his prize, the other on Henry who was caught up in the thick of the brawl, but with Baldwin de Béthune and Roger de Gaugi close to hand. Reassured, William gave his full attention to his opponent who was trying to wrench his destrier away. By the time William had forced him to surrender, the rest of the French had scattered with the Young King’s mesnie in hot pursuit, including Roger and Baldwin. Having been busy taking the ransom pledge of his adversary, Henry was left behind.

“More training, I think,” William avowed, joining his young lord. “What would happen in true battle if they all hared off like that?”

Muffled laughter emerged through the slits in Henry’s gleaming new helm. “I’ve heard tales about you at Drincourt where you pushed forward with no thought for the outcome.”

“It was my first battle and I was green,” William retorted.

Henry leaned over to slap him on the shoulder. “You’re being an old woman again,” he teased. “If you’re going to lecture them, we’ve to catch them first, and likely we’ll catch a few Frenchman along the way too!” He spurred his stallion in the direction that the others had taken.

William and the Young King rode into the town of Anet and clopped their way downhill towards the centre. As they rode, William hunted in his saddlebag and brought out the goose and bread. Henry lifted his wine costrel off the saddle bow and he and William removed their helms and bolted their food and drink in companionable haste. Henry washed down a mouthful of goose with a swig of wine. “I love this life.” He wiped his lips on the cuff of his gambeson, his eyes alight with pleasure.

William nodded vigorous agreement, for he loved it too: it was something that he and the Young King had in common. Troubadours sang of the joy of the breaking of lances on a fine spring morning, the boldness running as red as blood through men’s veins, the hungry elation and desire for glory, and it was all true. Come cold rain, a lame horse, rusting armour, and a bad day at the tilt, a knight might wish to wring said troubadour’s neck, but not now, not when one was living the song.

The main street was empty of combatants but the townsfolk were standing at their balconies and spinning galleries, hoping to see some activity. A few brave souls stood at the roadside, including a wine seller who had set up a trestle of jugs to take advantage of the thirsty knights. A gang of little boys were daring each other to dance in the roadway and then leap clear at the last moment.

“Which way?” William asked a freckled urchin, thumbing him an Angevin penny and a piece of the loaf from his meal. The child’s eyes rounded at such largesse and he pointed down a street leading off to the right. “The knights went down there,” he said. Keeping his fist tight around the precious coin, he bit into the bread and worried the crust like a dog.

Replacing their helms, William and Henry urged their destriers down the road the boy had indicated, but found their way blocked by a lord named Simon de Neauphle and a troop of footsoldiers brandishing fearsome glaives and spears. Henry swore under his breath and reined in so hard that his stallion leaned on its haunches. “What now?” he asked William, some of his confidence evaporating. “We won’t be able to go through them, but we can’t go back.” He half turned in the saddle to gesture at their difficult retreat.

William studied de Neauphle’s men through the eye slits in his helm. “They won’t hold their ground if we charge,” he said. “It’s not true battle where it’s our lives or theirs. Whatever he’s paying them, it’s not worth standing in the path of a pair of galloping stallions. De Neauphle doesn’t have space to make a counter-charge. They won’t defend him…trust me.”