The Greatest Knight (4 page)

“My lord, is there some trouble? Did you want me?”

“Only to wonder where you were, but I’ve been told you were tending your horse. I understand you had some difficulty with it yesterday?”

“Nothing that can’t be solved,” William replied enthusiastically. “I have let out the bridle by three finger-widths so that the bit’s lower in his mouth and not resting on the part that hurts him.”

“You’ll not have the control,” de Lorys warned, folding his arms.

“At least I’ll have a rideable mount. I’ve been out practising, and the change seems to work.”

De Lorys raised a sceptical brow and turned his mouth down at the corners, but held his peace.

“I did not mean for you to receive a bad horse,” de Tancarville said gruffly.

“It isn’t a bad horse, my lord,” William answered, smiling. “Indeed, it is probably the best of all those given out.” He hesitated as he was about to duck inside the tent. “I would ask you not to say anything to Adam Yqueboeuf about that. He has wagered his sword that I won’t win a tourney prize on Blancart, and I want to surprise him.”

De Tancarville gave a snort of reluctant amusement. “William, you surprise us all,” he said. “I won’t say anything; it’ll be evident soon enough. Make haste now, or you’ll not be ready to form up with the rest of the mesnie.”

“Yes, my lord.” William crammed the last chunk of bread into his mouth, moistened it with a swallow of wine from the pitcher standing on his campstool and, chewing vigorously, beckoned a squire to help him arm.

***

Compared to William’s baptism in battle at the desperate, bloody fight for Drincourt, the tourney was a jaunt. Death and injury were hazards of the sport, but the intent was to capture and claim ransom, not to kill. His stallion was fiery and unsettled, but William could deal with that. It was a matter of remembering to go lightly on the reins and do more work than usual with the thighs and heels. When he lined up in close formation with the other Tancarville men, his heart swelled with pride. He had chosen a place in the line well away from Adam Yqueboeuf, but each knight was aware of the other’s presence. William did not allow himself to think of failure. He would make gains today; his honour and his self-esteem depended on it, and he would rather die than yield his sword to a conceited turd like Yqueboeuf.

Their opponents were a medley of French, Flemish, and Scots knights, as eager for the sport as the Normans, English, and Angevins. De Tancarville stayed at the rear of his mesnie. For him the tourney was a place to meet friends and peers and display his largesse and importance through the number and calibre of knights fighting for him. The sport was for the young and reckless whilst he and the other sponsors looked on.

At the trumpet call from a herald, the two opposing lines spurred towards each other. William felt Blancart surge under him, the motion as smooth and powerful as a wave in mid-ocean. He selected his target: a knight wearing a hauberk that glittered silver and gold like the scales of a carp, his warhorse barded in ostentatious saffron and crimson silk. As the two stallions collided like rock and wave, crashing, recoiling, crashing again, William wrapped his fist around the knight’s bridle and strove to drag him back to the Norman pavilions. “Yield!” William’s voice emerged through his helm in a muffled bellow.

“Never!” The knight drew his sword and attempted to beat William off, but William held on, ducking, avoiding blows, striking back in return, and all the time drawing his intended prize towards his own lines. A second French knight who tried to help his companion was beaten off by Gadefer de Lorys. William saluted in acknowledgment, ducked another assault by his now desperate adversary, and spurred Blancart.

“Yield, my lord!” he commanded again, dragging his victim far behind the Norman line.

The knight shook his head, but at William’s single-mindedness and bravado rather than conveying refusal. “Yielded,” he snarled. “I am Philip de Valognes and you have my pledge.” He gave a lofty wave. “You were fortunate to catch me before I had warmed to the sport.” His tone suggested that William’s vigorous assault and grim determination to hold on were not quite chivalrous. “Release me and have done…and I would know to whom I have yielded the price of my horse.”

“My name is William Marshal, my lord,” William replied, his chest heaving, his fist still tight around the knight’s bridle. “I am kin to Guillaume de Tancarville, nephew to the Earl of Salisbury, and cousin to the Count of Perche.”

“And by the looks of you, one of de Tancarville’s young glory hunters without a penny to your patrimony,” growled de Valognes.

“Not until now, my lord,” William said pleasantly.

De Valognes acknowledged the quip with a snort of reluctant humour. “I will have my attendant bring the price of my horse and armour to the sharing of the booty,” he said.

With a bow, William released the bridle, letting de Valognes spur back into the tourney like a carp reprieved by an angler and returned to the river. “Hah!” cried William and, urging Blancart into the fray, went to net more fish.

***

A muscle working in his cheek, Adam Yqueboeuf unbuckled his swordbelt and handed it across to William. “You win your wager,” he muttered gracelessly. “I’ve never seen anyone with so much luck.”

William had gained the price of four warhorses in the tourney and half the price of another which he had shared with Gadefer de Lorys. The amount might be no great sum to the likes of Philip de Valognes and Guillaume de Tancarville, but to William it was a small fortune and proof of his ability to provide for himself. Smiling at Yqueboeuf, he inclined his head. “Some would say that a man makes his own luck, but what do they know?” He studied the swordbelt and the attached scabbard, but did not draw the weapon. “A man’s blade is made to suit his own hand. I gift it back to you with my goodwill.” Bestowing a courtly bow, he returned Yqueboeuf’s sword, his smile becoming a grin.

If Yqueboeuf had been struggling to swallow his mortification before, now it was choking him. Uttering a few strangled words of insincere gratitude, he closed his fist around his scabbard and, turning on his heel, strode away.

“You make enemies as well as friends in life, remember that, lad,” said de Tancarville, drawing William aside for a quiet word before the carousing started. “You’ve a rare talent there and lesser men will resent it.”

“Yes, my lord,” William said. He looked troubled. “Yqueboeuf’s sword would have been of no use to me. I thought about asking him for its value in coin, but it seemed more courtly to return it to him.”

De Tancarville pursed his lips. “I cannot fault your reasoning, but high courtesy will not protect you from malice.”

“I know that, my lord.” William’s eyelids tensed. “I have endured the years of being called ‘Guzzleguts’ and ‘Slugabed.’ Perhaps some of it is deserved, but as much stems from being your impoverished kin as from the truth. At need I can go without food and sleep.”

“I’m sure you can.” The Chamberlain cleared his throat with unnecessary vigour. “What will you do now?”

The question shook William, for he understood what it presaged. Whatever his skill, de Tancarville was not prepared to continue to furnish his helm. The tourney had been a great success, but it was over and now he had a surplus of young knights. William was being as good as told he was too troublesome to keep.

“I have been thinking about visiting my family,” he said, swallowing his disappointment.

“You have been many years away; they will be glad to see you again.” De Tancarville showed his discomfort by rubbing his forefinger over the jewelled band on his cap.

“Perhaps they won’t recognise me,” William said, “nor I them.” He looked thoughtful. “Tourneying is not permitted in England, and Gadefer told me that there is another contest three days’ ride away. I thought I might try my fortune there first—with your permission.”

The last three words gave de Tancarville a way to make a graceful and formal ending to the obligation that had tied him to William and William to him for the past five years. “You have it,” he said, “and my blessing.” He clasped William’s shoulders and kissed him soundly on either cheek, then embraced him hard. “I have nurtured and equipped you. Now go out and prove your knighthood to the world. I expect to hear great deeds of you in the future.”

William returned the embrace, heat prickling his eyes. Guillaume de Tancarville had never been especially paternal towards him, but he had given him the tools with which to make the best of his life. “I will do my best, my lord,” he said, adding after a hesitation, “There is one last boon I would ask of you.”

“Name it and it is yours, and let there be no talk of ‘last boons’ between us,” said de Tancarville, although his mouth quirked as he spoke the words.
Within reason
, said the look in his eyes.

“I ask that you send a messenger to the Earl of Essex with this.” William produced a fine jewelled breast-band and crupper off one of the horses he had claimed in the tourney. “Bid him say that William Marshal pays his debts.”

De Tancarville took the gilded pieces of harness and suddenly he was laughing. “It’s a good thing you were not taken for ransom today,” he chuckled, “for I doubt you have a price.”

William grinned. “Does that make me worthless, or worth too much?” he asked.

Three

Hamstead Marshal, Berkshire, Autumn 1167

Replete with spiced chicken and saffron stew served with fresh wheaten bread and washed down with a satisfying quantity of mead, William leaned back from the trestle and gazed at his surroundings. Hamstead was small and humble when compared to Drincourt, Tancarville, and the other great Norman donjons where he had trained to knighthood. There were no chimneys and the fire blazed in an old-fashioned stone-ringed hearth in the centre of the room, but it didn’t matter. Hamstead, on its hill above the Kennet, was the core of the family patrimony, and it was home.

“So,” said John, his elder brother, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, “you’re a great tourney champion now.” The beard he had cultivated since inheriting their father’s title two years ago edged his jaw in a closely barbered line. Their father had always gone clean-shaven, saying that a man should not be ashamed to bare his face to the world, but John thought that a beard lent his youth gravitas and dignity.

William shrugged. “Hardly that.” His own smile was diffident. “But I’ve had some good fortune at the few I’ve attended.”

“More than that to judge from the horses you have brought with you.” John’s voice was envious. Against William’s courtly dazzle, he was conscious of looking like a poor relation rather than the head of the Marshal household.

“They’re recent gains. At the end of the summer I had naught but a common rouncy to my name.” Amiably, William regaled his fellow diners with the tale of the battle for Drincourt and his subsequent impoverishment. His tone was self-deprecatory and he was careful not to boast but even so, John looked away and fiddled with his eating knife while fourteen-year-old Ancel hung on William’s every word, his eyes as wide as goblet rims.

“A thatch gaff?” his mother said faintly.

William unpinned the neck of his tunic and dragged his shirt aside to show her the narrow pink scar. “I was lucky. My hauberk saved me. It could have been much worse.”

Her horrified expression disagreed with his statement. His sisters, Sybil and Margaret, craned to look.

“Didn’t it hurt?” asked Alais, a damsel of his mother’s chamber. William had known her since her birth, which had caused something of a scandal at Hamstead. She was the result of an affair between one of Sybilla’s women and a married knight in the service of the Earl of Salisbury. Her father had died in battle before her birth, and when Alais was nine years old, her mother had succumbed to a fever. Sybilla Marshal had taken Alais beneath her wing, raised her with her own daughters, and given her a permanent place in the chamber as a companion and attendant. When William had left for Tancarville she had been a skinny little waif, still in wan mourning for her mother, but she had certainly blossomed in the interim.

“Not when it happened,” he said, “but after the battle when I had time to notice it burned like a hot coal. It’s still sore when my shield strap rubs on it.”

Her hazel eyes widened with admiration. “I think you were very brave.”

He chuckled. “Some of the others thought I was foolish.”

“I don’t.” Alais rested her chin on her hand and gave him a melting stare.

Amused, William thanked her and from the corner of his eye caught the brooding look that John was directing at the girl. He suspected that his older brother’s emotions were more involved than mere amusement, and that if their mother noticed, there would be trouble.

“I don’t either,” Ancel said with more than a hint of hero-worship in his cracking adolescent voice.

“Why have you come home?” John asked abruptly.

William’s survival in the Tancarville household had depended on his ability to read expressions and voices. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“Of course I am.” John flushed. “You’re my brother.”

Which said everything, William thought. “And that makes you obligated.”

John shifted uncomfortably in the fine, carved lord’s chair, its arms polished from the wear of their father’s grip. “I was wondering if you were still with Guillaume de Tancarville, that is all.” He spoke as if it didn’t matter, but they both knew that it did.

William looked down at his cup. “He has chosen not to retain me in his household. It was a mutual leave-taking, but done while it could still be counted that.”

His mother made an indignant sound. “Surely he could see the advantage of keeping you as one of his mesnie?”

“Yes, but he could also see the disruption it might cause. Some of the knights believed that he showed me too much favour because of our kinship.”

“Then he should have dismissed them.”

William shook his head. “Not when I was his youngest and least experienced knight. He took a commander’s decision and, likely, in his shoes I would have done the same. Don’t worry,” he said to John, whose taut expression bristled with hostility, “I’m not going to ask you to retain me as a hearth knight when you already have Ancel in training.” He sent a wink towards his youngest brother and managed to keep his tone light.

“I wouldn’t have you,” John replied. “Keeping those horses in oats and stabling would beggar me in a season, and there are no tourneys in England where you could play to earn your silver. Besides,” he added defensively, “you would find life as my knight dull after Normandy. If you can stomach the advice of your older brother, you’ll go to Uncle Patrick at Salisbury. He’s hiring men to take to Poitou.”

The point was made with little finesse—there was no place for William at John’s hearth—although William had known as much ever since their father’s death. It would not have harmed John to make some provision for him out of their father’s revenues, but he had chosen not to. “That was indeed what I was intending to do,” he said evenly, concealing his hurt.

“And what if his knights think that he is showing you favour because of your kinship?” his mother wanted to know.

He shrugged. “At least I will come to my uncle’s household with horses and armour to my name and some experience of war. He won’t have to provide my equipment, nor have I ever served his knights as a squire and been taken for granted by them. It’s a clean slate.”

***

It was very late when William finally retired, for there had been many years of catching up to do on both sides. His mother and sisters retired to the women’s chamber, their way lit by Alais bearing a lantern. William marked how John’s eyes lingered on the latter’s slender form.

“Our mother will kill you if she sees you,” he said. His tongue fumbled the words for the mead had been strong and he had been drinking it slowly but steadily for most of the night. John was in a similar case and the candle flame inside the lantern he was holding wavered and guttered with the unsteadiness of his footsteps.

“Kill me if she sees me what?” John slurred.

“Looking at Alais the way a fox looks at a goose.”

John gave a contemptuous snort. “You’re imagining things. Must be your debauched life at Tancarville.” He staggered along the passage and into the lord’s bedchamber. A string-framed bed and feather mattress had been set up for William in the corner and his gear was deposited around it: sword, shield, hauberk, helm.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” William retorted. “The lady de Tancarville guarded the women of her chamber like a dragon coiled on a hoard of gold and the household whores weren’t interested in a lowly squire.”

“The Sire de Tancarville kept whores?” Ancel asked, eyes agog.

“A few.” William licked his finger and stooped to rub at a mark on the surface of his shield which still bore the Tancarville colours. “They were hand-picked by my lord.”

“Hand-picked?” John guffawed as he set the lantern down precariously on a chest. “Are you sure he didn’t use anything else?”

William laughed. “I meant that they were either barren or knew how to avoid getting with child. That way the place wasn’t overrun with bastard brats.” He looked hard at John. “She’s a maid of Mother’s chamber. If you touch her there’ll be hell to pay, especially when you consider the circumstances of her birth.”

“I don’t need a lecture from you,” John flashed, “riding in here with your fine horses after years away and telling me how to conduct my life. You’re no saint of chivalry, so don’t pretend you are.” He threw himself down on his bed. “There’s no harm in looking and you’re a liar if you say you didn’t look too. I saw you.”

William abandoned the argument with a wave of his hand and turned to warn Ancel against leaving sweat prints on the sword the lad had just drawn from its scabbard.

“I’ve begun my training,” Ancel said indignantly. “I know how to care for a blade.”

“Never a good idea to draw one in your cups though.” William gestured to him to sheath the weapon.

“Why? Do you expect brotherly love to degenerate into a drunken brawl?” John’s tone was sardonic.

“I do not know what I expect of brotherly love, or what brotherly love expects of me,” William said with a bleak smile. He ruffled Ancel’s light brown hair. “On the morrow you can take my sword on to the practice ground and try it out full sober in the daylight. For the nonce, I’m for my bed.”

Although he was tired when he lay down, his brothers’ snores were raising the rafters before William finally relinquished his grasp on consciousness, his last waking thought being that “brotherly love” was a sword that needed to be oiled, sharpened, and treated with the utmost respect and caution if it was to be of any use at all. And it had two edges.