The Greatest Knight (26 page)

“Marshal is returning to the service of your husband,” said Philip. “I am sending him with letters of recommendation that all may know the King of France has every faith in his good character.” He made the announcement in a raised voice so that all on the dais could hear and take note. When William murmured words of gratitude, Philip gave him a measured look. “I speak as I find. If I thought your honour blemished, I would not be entertaining you at my board; nor would my sister be here.”

Marguerite took her place with her brother one side of her and William on the other. Her hand shook as she raised her goblet to her lips and took the first sip of wine.

“I have been to the shrine of the Magi in Cologne, madam,” William said conversationally. He launched into a description of his journey complete with small anecdotes and verbal sketches of his encounters along the way. All Marguerite had to do was nod and murmur in the appropriate places. Freed of the encumbrance of having to make conversation, she recovered her composure. Her hands ceased to tremble and she was able to make a passable show of eating the salmon cooked in wine that was the centrepiece of the meal.

“I am glad that you are returning to my husband’s service.” She tried to match his conversational tone of voice and didn’t quite succeed. “He needs you.”

“So I am told, madam.”

She lowered her voice “As you can see, he has no need of me.”

“He must move quickly, madam, and he would not want you to fall into the hands of his father or Richard. You are safer here. Once the dust has settled…”

“Yes,” she said, “once the dust has settled…” and then she gave a little shake of her head. “Sometimes you look over your shoulder and see that it was caused by a great fall of rubble across the road and you cannot go back.”

He gave her a thoughtful look. “If you have others to bring with you, sometimes you must turn and find a way round,” he said.

“Perhaps I do not want to.”

William gave a smile. “I didn’t say finding a way round would be easy.”

She resisted the urge to fold her arms across her body. To witnesses, this was supposed to be an innocuous conversation. “Do you want to go back?”

“Does the salmon not return against the current?” he replied and she saw pain flicker briefly in his eyes.

Their discussion ended there, for Philip demanded William’s attention with a question about tourneys. Perhaps it was fortuitous, perhaps deliberate. She sensed William’s relief at diverting from such murky waters and realised that she too was relieved. There was no point in her own turning back for there was nothing to go back for. She and Henry were separated by the stones in the road and neither of them had the inclination to dig a way through.

***

William had been afforded sleeping space in the great hall, at the end nearer the dais, away from draughts, and granted a modicum of privacy by a heavy curtain. He smiled to himself, thinking of his early years with Guillaume de Tancarville and his often cold and frequently disturbed bed near the door. As he took his blanket from his saddlebag, he checked again that King Philip’s letter of recommendation to Henry was tucked down against the worn, scuffed leather—his safe conduct back into the society that had shunned him.

He was spreading the blanket over his pallet when the sound of a throat being cleared on the other side of the curtain made him turn. Parting the hanging, his heart sank as he looked at Marguerite’s squire of the chamber. If she had sent an invitation to her apartments, he knew that he would have to be curt and decline it. The youth bowed and held out a pouch of embroidered silk, pulled tight with drawstrings of gold silk cord.

“What’s this?” William hesitated to take it from him.

“Queen Marguerite said to tell you that she wishes you Godspeed on the morrow and that she hopes you will accept this as a leaving gift in the spirit it is intended.”

William took the pouch from the youth’s hand, opened the drawstrings and tipped out a coiled-up braid belt—the one Marguerite had been wearing at table tonight. Gold beads bordered the edges and down the centre were riveted coins of Byzantine gold. It was the kind of token a lady might bestow on her champion on the tourney field…or her lover.

William gave a poignant smile. “Tell your lady that I thank her for the gift. It is gracious of her and I will treasure it always, but perhaps never quite as much as a certain piece of boiled sugar. Can you remember that?”

The youth nodded and William sent him on his way with two silver pennies for his trouble. He was not sure that he would ever wear the belt, but as a memento of the past and a reminder of why he could never let down his guard in the future, it was timely.

No sooner had the attendant departed than Ancel arrived. His brother’s gaze fell on the belt that William was rolling up to return to its pouch, and he gave a low whistle. “That’ll keep you in wine for longer than a sennight.”

William gave a wordless nod. He knew he should be pleased to see his brother, but just now he could do without Ancel’s lively presence. Oblivious to atmosphere, his brother unfolded a stool and sat down. He had gained weight. The whipcord leanness of young manhood was setting into maturity, and the living was obviously good in Rotrou’s household. The lines on Ancel’s face were of fulfilment and William felt a gut-surge of envy.

“I think you are mad for going back to the Young King,” Ancel said cheerfully, “especially when you could make a decent living elsewhere.”

William closed the drawstrings of the pouch and gave Ancel a warning look. The latter threw up his hands and sighed dramatically. “I’m with the French, you’re supporting Prince Henry, John is with the King, and our brother Henry’s with the Archbishop of York, so his prayers should count for something. No one can accuse the Marshals of putting all their eggs in one basket. One of us is bound to emerge covered in glory—although I wouldn’t care to wager which one.”

William snorted with reluctant humour and his mood lightened. “Neither would I, but I’d settle for contentment above glory.”

Ancel eyed him. “If that were so, you’d have retired long since. You chose the wrong word, brother. You should have said you’d settle for achievement above glory.”

William blinked. Ancel tended to live life in the shallows, but what he had just said was insightful and shrewd and gave William pause for thought. He had achieved nothing where the Young King was concerned—or nothing of which he was proud.

Ancel rose from the stool. “I was going to invite you to come to Rotrou’s pavilion and drink wine all night, but I can see you’re not in a carousing mood. I’ll not take no for an answer on the morrow though.”

William smiled at Ancel and then embraced him hard. “You won’t need to,” he said.

***

In his tent outside the walls of Limoges, King Henry studied the letters from King Philip, from the Duke of Burgundy, and the Count of Flanders. Then he raised his head to William. “You have been busy,” he said drily.

“My name has been dragged through the mire,” William answered. “It is natural that I should wish to have my innocence acknowledged in no uncertain terms.” Outside the tent, the April twilight was drawing in and the air was balmy with the scent of spring. A soldier ran past the opened flaps leading a warhorse, the sound of the hooves clumping on the turf.

“I forced your dismissal from my son’s service because I was led to believe that you were responsible for his profligate overspending. I realise now that the rumours were overblown, but you do not stint to spend money, and some, although not all, I grant you, comes from my son’s coffers, which in turn have to be filled by me. Nor have you displayed wisdom in other areas of your life. Having a henchman bellow aloud your prowess on the tourney field and flirting with my eldest son’s wife, no matter that it was indeed only a flirtation, are not the attributes I desire from my son’s marshal.” He pushed the letters back across the table to William. “Yes, you have been exonerated, and yes, you were the victim of a conspiracy, but you are no washed lamb either. Just so that we understand each other.”

“Perfectly, sire,” William said, tight-lipped but resolute.

“Good.” Henry rubbed the index and middle fingers of his right hand between his brows in a tired gesture. “My son needs you and you’re probably one of the few who can help him now. Do this for me, for him, and you’ll not go unrewarded, I promise you.”

William’s stomach leaped at the words. He didn’t know whether to feel pleased or insulted. “In what way do you want me to help him, sire? Making him see reason is not always easy, and in the end my loyalty is to him. If he chooses to ride into the fire, I will try to stop him, but if I cannot, then it is my duty to ride in after him.”

The King’s mouth twitched in a humourless smile. “Coming from someone else, I’d say that statement was grandiose posturing, Marshal, but coming from you, I’ll take it as true intent.”

“Thank you, sire…just so that we understand each other.”

Henry gave a bark of laughter. “Well enough. If you can bring him to his senses without smirching that precious honour of yours, then do so.”

“And if I cannot?”

Henry gave him a level look. “Stay with him,” he said. “It was a misjudgement to make you leave.”

Twenty-one

Martel, Limousin, June 1183

The Young King embraced William like a long-lost brother, weeping, declaring remorsefully that he should never have doubted William’s integrity. It was as if the weeks and months of black looks and ostracism had been no more to Henry than a passing tantrum—all-encompassing at the time, but completely forgotten now that it was over. His pressing concern was with his campaign against his father and Richard, which was not progressing well and, like a frustrated child, he wanted William to set matters to rights. Of Marguerite he said not a word; it was as if she too had never existed.

William was perturbed to discover that while the Young King had rid himself of Adam Yqueboeuf and his cronies, he had welcomed Geoffrey de Lusignan to his banner. Rannulf had omitted to mention that small detail on the road from Cologne. William had never forgiven the murder of his uncle on that bright spring morning in Poitou, nor the circumstances of his own captivity. To discover that he had to live and fight alongside one of the perpetrators of the crime, and to have to trust him at his back, was almost more than he could swallow.

De Lusignan was entirely pragmatic. “It was my brother who killed your uncle and wounded you,” he said. “Perhaps it was ill judged, but all men make mistakes in their lives and pay for them. I do not expect us to be friends, but at least let us have a truce.”

William refused to give de Lusignan the kiss of peace or clasp his hand, but managed a stiff nod of acceptance before he walked away from him. Beggars could not be choosers and his young lord was perilously close to being one of the former. However murky his past, there was no doubting Geoffrey de Lusignan’s abilities as a fighter and, as he said, he had not struck the blows. Repeating these palliatives to himself, William managed to choke down his disgust.

As usual money was scarce and Henry’s mercenaries were complaining vociferously that they had not been paid. Casting around for the coin to keep them employed, Henry had turned to pillaging the Church. When William baulked in horror at the notion of such sacrilege, Henry scoffed at him. “All the silver and gold the Church has amassed does naught but drape their chapels, gawked at by peasants and gloated over by priests.”

“It was given to God,” William protested, “to the glory of God.”

They were seated in Henry’s chamber in a fortified house in Martel, which Henry had commandeered. The tents of his mercenaries were spread like a locust cloud over the village and the pastures beyond.

“And God knows that I will repay Him. Have I not taken the Cross in his name?” Henry indicated the bright red strips of silk ostentatiously stitched to the breast of his mantle. He parted his lips in a mocking grin. “Twice taken, in fact.” From the open coffer at his feet, he withdrew a cross of gold and gemstones, purloined from the altar of the shrine of Saint Martial. Henry had sworn over the tomb of the saint and in the presence of his father, with whom he had called a truce, to go on holy crusade. But on the day the truce was due to expire, he had plundered the shrine and carried off all the coin and trappings to pay his expenses. Now, short of funds again, he was contemplating more raids on the easily milked churches. Henry tilted the cross this way and that, admiring the way that the sunlight shining through the window reflected off the gold and gemstones and scattered the wall with coloured lozenges.

William swallowed bile. “Surely it would be more profitable to make peace with your father?” he said.

Henry gave a rude snort. “Depends what you mean by profitable. All he’ll do is pay my debts and tell me to behave myself in future. Perhaps I really should go on crusade,” he mused. “That would whiten the old goat’s beard.”

“So you have no intention of taking the cross?” William’s nape prickled. The flippancy in his young lord’s voice frightened him. God was not mocked.

“Of course I’m taking it,” Henry said impatiently. “But I can hardly set out now, can I?” His expression turned sly. “Besides, I’ve no funds, so it’s up to the Church to provide them.”

William felt like seizing Henry by the scruff and shaking him until his teeth fell out, but he controlled the urge. The Old King had hoped that William could rein in his eldest son’s excesses, but for the nonce there was nothing to be done except let Henry run until he was exhausted—and then tackle him again and hope to find a spark of reason. “I should think your father’s beard is already white over the treatment of his heralds,” William said. “He sends knights to parley with you under a banner of truce and your troops beat and slay them.”

Henry looked sulky and tossed the cross back into the chest where it clanged against two candlesticks and a goblet of silver-gilt—the last of the treasure purloined from Saint Martial. “That wasn’t my fault. The men were over-zealous. I hanged the perpetrators. What more do you want?”

William shook his head. “Perhaps it saddens me to watch chivalry dying piecemeal.”

“It’s already dead,” Henry retorted. “This is war, Marshal, not a tourney. I told you, I punished those responsible.”

William’s patience came close to snapping. “I know the difference between war and playing at war, but what your men did shows appalling lack of discipline. You need brutality in soldiers, but you need to be able to contain as well as unleash it. The dog should wag the tail, not the tail the dog.”

“Then you lick them into shape, Marshal. That’s what you’re here for…After all, you don’t have a dog and bark yourself.” Henry thrust himself up from his chair and went to stand by the hearth, one arm braced against the wall. “I have a desire to pray at the tomb of Saint Amadour. Have the men saddle up.”

William’s gut tightened and twisted. “Sire, you should not do this,” he said hoarsely.

“I will decide what I should and should not do. Does any man dare to question my brother Richard? Am I less than him?” Henry rounded on him, eyes bright with anger. “Do you think that Richard and his mercenaries would hesitate for one moment to take whatever they needed? Jesu, he’s been stripping Aquitaine like a butcher fleshing a corpse for the past ten years!”

“But you are not Richard, sire. The barons of Aquitaine hate and fear him, but they do not hate and fear you. If you despoil and strip the wealth from their people and their churches, they will quickly learn to do so. I still say you should not do it.”

“I have heard you. Now, order the men, or else stand down as my marshal,” Henry said coldly.

William wrestled with his conscience. He wanted to refuse and ride away, but if he stayed, perhaps he could still turn the Young King from his purpose. Besides, he had given his promise to the young man’s father that he would ride into the fire with him if necessary. “As you wish, sire,” he said, and bowed from the chamber.

***

The sun was blazing from a sky the colour of the finest blue enamel when Henry the Young King came to Rocamadour and stripped the shrine of Saint Amadour of all its relics, including Durendal, the sword of the hero Roland who had given his life fighting the Saracens at the pass of Roncesvalles. “It is for the crusade,” he said, when the monks tried to stop him. They had made a hasty effort to conceal some of the finer pieces, including the sword, but the hiding place was soon discovered and looted.

William looked on, taking no part, but still filled with shame and fear. By allowing Henry’s mercenaries to desecrate the shrine, he was condoning the deed of thieving from God and knew the punishment would be dire. “Christ Jesu, forgive me,” he muttered, feeling as if the rock walls of the shrine were closing in and crushing him. The gentle, lop-sided smile of a figurine of the Madonna, carved with devotion and rustic joy by a long-forgotten artisan, reproached him as the offerings were stripped from her niche, even down to the small change of half coins and cheap iron rings left by the poorest pilgrims. It was as obscene as rape.

Henry strode through the several chapels, moving with vigorous purpose and enjoyment, the sword of Roncesvalles clutched in his right fist.

“Your sins will catch up with you and take you to hell!” threatened the Abbot, flapping his sleeves like flightless wings. “God will curse you for this!”

Henry wagged his forefinger at the monk and tut-tutted. “You can afford to give generously to poor crusaders.” He touched the blood-red cross on the shoulder of his cloak. “I am under oath to visit the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Surely you would not deny me your donation?”

“You are committing blasphemy!”

Henry gave the priest a tolerant smile. “I’ll overlook that you said that.” He set his hand to the monk’s quivering shoulder. “You have my royal oath that your wealth will be restored to you—I would say five-fold but that smacks of usury and we all know how much the Church is against that, don’t we?”

They departed Rocamadour, their saddlebags stuffed with the treasures from the stripped shrine, including several pounds of beeswax for the altar candles and the carcass of a pig that was intended for the monks’ dinner. Henry was in a high good mood, laughing aloud to the late spring sky, working his horse to make it prink and dance. “Don’t look so grim, Marshal!” he cried, leaning across to belt William on the shoulder. “I’ve said I’ll pay it back and I will. Christ, did you see their faces!”

William said nothing for he was fighting his gorge. The stripping of God’s altar and the cowing of a handful of bewildered monks was no great victory but the thin end of the wedge. A knight was sworn to protect the Church, and what they had done was the opposite. He felt dirty and defiled. And when this became common knowledge, Henry’s popularity would wane faster than the bloom from a whore’s cheek.

At Martel, Henry paid his mercenaries some (but not all) of their arrears. Had he settled in full, there would have been nothing left for his own use. When the men grumbled he told them what he had told the monks—that they would eventually be paid. If they wanted to supplement their incomes, they could always go raiding the lands that were controlled by Richard, or rob one of his father’s supply trains.

“That won’t ingratiate you with your father,” William said darkly.

“Hah, he already thinks me a parricide,” Henry replied, pouring wine into his cup, drinking, pouring and drinking again, then looking up as the chamber door opened and Wigain entered the room, a vellum scroll in his hand. The little clerk’s sallow complexion had an underlying greyish cast and for once he was not smiling.

“Don’t tell me, the pig we sent to the kitchens was going off,” Henry laughed, his voice overloud. He looked at the scroll. “What’s that?”

Wigain handed the parchment to Henry. “A messenger came from the Archbishop of Canterbury, but chose not to stay, sire. I…we…He said that we’ve been excommunicated.”

There was a horrified silence in the chamber. Henry cursed, set down his wine, checked the seal, and slit it with his eating knife. Unrolling the vellum, he rapidly scanned what was written. Then he gave a shaken laugh and placed the corner of the message into the flame of the nearest candle. “Peace, Wigain. Go and say your prayers tonight. You’re still in a state of grace. The good Archbishop and the rest of those crows in Caen have only excommunicated those who would come between myself and my father making peace. They haven’t named anyone; it’s an empty threat.” He held the vellum while it charred into smoke and when the flames came near his pinched fingers, he dropped the final scrap to the floor and ground out the fire with his boot. He looked across at William. “It’s a ploy by my father to try and separate me from my supporters. He’ll try every trick he knows to bring me to heel, but it won’t work. I can’t see the Count of Burgundy running in fear, can you?”

“Perhaps it is a sign that the Church is uneasy at what you are doing,” William said sombrely. “They don’t know about Rocamadour yet, but they will know by now what happened at Saint Martial.”

Henry snorted down his nose. “Don’t push me on to that treadmill again. My father’s behind this, otherwise why involve the Archbishop of Canterbury? What’s wrong, Marshal? Scared for your soul?”

“Yes,” William admitted curtly and, making his excuses, went to check on his stallion, which had earlier cast a shoe. He knew that they were desperate for money and that the recent raid would only keep them solvent for a short while. Soon they would have to go out and rob another shrine or raid a town and he was not sure that he could continue to do it.

The farrier had seen to Bezant’s cast shoe and William had the destrier saddled up. He rode to a nearby field to school the horse, using heels and hands to make him trot out and draw in; to rear and back-kick; to charge flat out: all the tricks of the tourney field. William wished he was back there now. Usually a bout of practice with the stallion would relax William if he felt tense or unsettled, but today his edginess remained. Quitting the field, he went to the village church to pray but even here there was no peace. God would not forgive him for being a party to the robbing of the shrine at Rocamadour. There was going to be a payment; he knew there was. Henry thought that because he was a king’s son, he had impunity, but there was no impunity before God. Every ill deed committed on earth was marked for punishment in the afterlife. William stared at the cross shining on the altar until the gold dazzled and his vision made a second, darker image beside the first. When he had lisped his promise to King Stephen in a campaign tent thirty years ago, he had had no inkling that such an oath would lead him into peril for his soul.

***

It was gone midnight when the Young King retired to bed. His steps were unsteady with drink and his gaze wandered like a guttering candle. Accustomed to seeing Henry in such a state, William set his shoulder beneath his arm and helped him to his chamber. Henry flopped on to the bed and his squire set about removing his boots and loosening his clothes.