The Greatest Knight (20 page)

“You are well, madam?” he enquired.

She parted her lips to give him the standard reply, then changed her mind and shook her head. “No,” she said, looking down. “I am not well at all.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“But not surprised. I know when my maid holds up my hand mirror and I see my reflection that I look like a “walking corpse.”

“No, madam. You look like a creature from the land of faery—half made of shadows, but lovely nonetheless.”

She gave a laugh filled with pathos. “Oh, William, your courtesy never fails. I know I look like death warmed up. Did you know that I was with child when we sailed from Wissant?”

“There was a rumour, but I always treat court gossip with caution.”

“Then whispers must also have told you that I lost it?”

“I am sorry, madam. It must be a great grief to yourself and my lord.”

She compressed her lips and her chin dimpled. “Indeed yes. But Henry…his grief is different to mine. I have scarcely seen him since we have been in England. He…He pretends that nothing has happened, and that I am nothing too. If he looks through me, if he does not see me, then he does not have to acknowledge our failure. I wish…I wish that…” She swallowed and shook her head. Her brown eyes locked on his, beseeching and tear-filled.

William’s heart wallowed. “The Young King cares for you,” he said and felt the lie burn his tongue.

“Does he?” Her tone was dull. “Then it is probably as much as I care for him. We have our duty, but God alone knows how we will manage to perform it. I heard Yqueboeuf tell Henry that all cats and coneys were dark at night…”

William’s face twisted with revulsion. “If I had been within hearing, Yqueboeuf wouldn’t have had a mouth left to make his confession,” he growled. “What did Henry say?”

Her chin dimpled. “He was very drunk,” she said with careful dignity.

William swore under his breath. Reading between the lines, Henry had said and done nothing, perhaps even condoned the remark. Excuses were always made for Henry’s behaviour. It was never his fault, but there came a point when the blame had to come home to roost.

Marguerite bit her lip. “If you interfere, you will only make matters worse,” she said with dismay. “I should not have told you. For my sake and yours, I beg you say nothing.”

William clenched his jaw.

“Please…”

“Very well, madam,” he said stiffly, “since that be your wish, but if it happens again and I am by, I won’t hold back.”

“Thank you.” She looked relieved.

He left her side and went to watch the chess game, although what he really wanted to do was go and wash his hands and rid himself of the feeling that he had somehow smirched his honour.

Ancel was holding his own against a fiercely determined Eleanor. Her full lower lip was thrust out and the frown lines between her eyes were heavily demarcated. She made her move and looked up at William. “He’s not afraid to risk all,” she said, a gleam of approbation in her eyes.

William found a smile, although it was difficult after what Marguerite had just said. “No,” he said. “He’s not.” And thought of the risks facing himself and the dangerous temptation to take them.

Fourteen

Lagny-sur-Marne, Champagne, November 1179

There was a new Young King and he was French. The fourteen-year-old son of Louis of France, Philip the God-given, so called because he was born when his father had relinquished all hope of siring an heir, had been crowned at Reims on All Saints’ Day and a grand tourney was being held to mark the occasion. All the magnates and lords who had attended the coronation had come to the field with their retinues. Tents and striped pavilions were pitched as far as the eye could see. The weather was cold but clear, the horizon a grainy haze and, as it had been dry recently, the ground was firm for the horses.

William glanced towards the recently risen sun and inhaled deeply. The smell of bread, bacon, and pottage wafted from numerous camp fires and the cookstall booths were doing brisk business as men stoked their bellies for the hard day’s fighting to come.

Adjusting his surcoat, Ancel emerged from William’s pavilion. The garment was parti-coloured green and yellow with a red lion rampant snarling across the background—William’s chosen device. There were several knights kitted out in this barding, their surcoats and shields proclaiming William’s blazon. Like William and Ancel they were of English birth and provided for by the Young King from the expenses given to him as his father’s representative at young Philip’s coronation…expenses that were vanishing faster than water down a piscina with the plug removed.

William admired his brother. “You look a veritable King’s Champion,” he said.

Ancel flashed him a nervous grin. “Let’s hope I perform like one.”

“I have no doubts on that score.” It was true. Ancel had tourneyed throughout the summer at William’s side. Nervous and uncertain at first, his skills had blossomed as his confidence had grown. He was never going to dazzle, but he was a competent fighter, always aware of where others were and what they were doing.

Adam Yqueboeuf and Thomas de Coulances were passing and had overheard the brothers’ exchange. Yqueboeuf’s lips parted in a sneer. “You are the one reckoned to be Lancelot, Marshal, didn’t you know?”

William’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?” The antipathy between the men had increased of late, fuelled on William’s part by knowledge of what Yqueboeuf had said about Marguerite. Yqueboeuf’s hostility stemmed from envy and the higher William rose at court, the more it festered. He would not compare William to King Arthur’s best knight unless there was an insult in it somewhere.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? You deserve all the accolades that come your way, King’s Champion that you are.”

The knights went on their way. Out of hearing, de Coulances leaned towards Yqueboeuf and said something that caused both men to laugh and glance over their shoulders.

“Pity they’re not opposing us,” Ancel said, hands on hips. “I’d enjoy choking them with their own teeth.” He gave William a perceptive look. Only last night in Henry’s chamber, a troubadour had been retelling Chr��tien de Troyes’ story of Lancelot, the greatest of King Arthur’s knights who had betrayed his lord by sleeping with his wife. “Do you think they are insinuating that you and Queen Marguerite—”

William raised his hand to interrupt his brother in mid-sentence. “Say no more.” His features twisted with revulsion. “I will not countenance such filth.”

“No, but they might.”

“They have no grounds. I am never alone with the Queen. If I talk to her or dance with her at court, I don’t linger, and I don’t flirt with her either.”

“Gossip can destroy even the cleanest reputation,” Ancel pointed out.

William made an explosive sound through his pursed lips. “What else am I supposed to do? Everyone, including Marguerite and Henry, knows that I have a mistress and no desire to chase other women.”

Ancel shrugged. “It’s just wise to take care,” he said and then gave a rueful smile. “I know I’m teaching my grandmother to suck eggs.”

William looked wry. “And who’s to say you’re not right? I’ll think on the matter and take heed.” Slapping Ancel’s shoulder, he went to don his armour.

***

Although William did not dismiss the jealous mutterings of Adam Yqueboeuf and Thomas de Coulances, he set them to the back of his mind. He had more immediate matters to concern him than their petty scheming. Rhys brought William’s new stallion round from the horse lines to his tent. Blancart had grown too long in the tooth for the tourneys and Count Philip of Flanders had bought him from William to run him at stud on one of his farms. Blancart’s replacement was a Lombardy stallion with a hide of ruby-gold satin and flaxen mane and tail. Wigain had remarked that his coat resembled the gold bezants brought home by returning crusaders and thus the stallion had come by his name.

“He’s been warmed,” Rhys said cheerfully. “Put him through his paces myself. Sweet as a nut.”

William nodded his thanks, swung into the saddle, and rode to join the English knights who were assembling under his banner ready for the day’s sport. He was pleased to note that every man had taken extra care with his appearance. Harry Norreis, William’s herald, had plaited his horse’s mane with green and yellow ribbons and his bridle jingled with small silver bells. “He looks like a jongleur’s beast,” William said with an amused shake of his head. “And you look like a travelling player.”

“All the better to sing your praises!” As irrepressible as his shock of bright auburn hair, Norreis drew his sword and twirled it in the air like a juggler before revolving it back into the scabbard. Suppressing his laughter, William turned to find a page from Queen Marguerite’s household waiting his attention.

“Sir William, the Queen requests that you carry her favour on the field to bring you good fortune,” he piped and presented William with a red silk strip to tie around his lance.

William had to accept the gift. To have refused would have caused hurt, insult, and more speculation. Taking it would usually have meant nothing, but with the bad taste of rumour still in his mouth, he wondered if others would misconstrue what they saw. “Tell the Queen that I thank her and I am proud to bear her token.” He tied the gaudy flutter of silk to the end of his lance. The page bowed and ran off as the Young King arrived at the head of the two hundred Norman and Angevin knights he had employed for the occasion. The serried ranks of red and gold were a magnificent, throat-catching sight. Henry’s surcoat was blood-red silk and two lions snarled across his breast in glittering thread of gold with jet beads for eyes and rock crystal claws. His swordbelt was decorated with enamelled lions, and his horse harness bore more of the lion badges across the brow-band, chest strap, and at each buckle point. William was relieved to see an identical strip of silk to the one just bestowed on him fluttering from the haft of Henry’s lance. At least Marguerite had had the good sense to gift her husband similarly. Beyond the knights wearing the red and gold of Anjou were others in disparate hues whom he had attracted to his side at the last moment, and some smaller contingents, like William’s, who carried their own flags on the field but were fighting under Henry’s banner.

“Ready to take all comers with your doughty Englishmen, Marshal?” Henry teased. There was mockery about the way he said “doughty Englishmen,” for the latter were perceived as being less civilised than their Norman and Angevin counterparts—drunken clods with only half a wit to share between all of them. Such prejudices gave the English a gritty, brawling edge when it came to a fight for they were ready with a vengeance to prove their true worth.

“Never more so, sire.” William gave Henry an assured smile. In the ranks behind the Young King, his gaze fell upon the partnership of Adam Yqueboeuf and Thomas de Coulances. The latter gestured obscenely at William, who ignored the provocation, knowing that his indifference was more galling than a response. The English, appropriately enough, had a word for men such as Yqueboeuf and Coulances:
nithing
. It was what he called them in private. “The nithings.”

Other entourages were riding on to the tourney ground. The Flemish under Philip, Count of Flanders and his brother Matthew of Boulogne, the men of Burgundy following their Duke, the Earl of Huntingdon with his Scots, the French in vast numbers, parading to honour their new Young King. It was a brave and daunting sight and made William’s stomach wallow with anticipation while pride tightened his throat. Henry must have felt it too, for there was a sparkle of tears in his eyes as he paused before taking his great helm from his squire and settling it over his arming cap. “There will never be a greater moment than this in all our days of tourneying,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “Never.”

***

A greater moment there might never be, but the fight was hard and bruising and there were so many knights involved that it was often more like a real battle than one played by tourney rules. The noise was deafening and at times there was scarcely room to manoeuvre the destriers. When there was space to charge, men and horses were so strung up that the clashes were thunderous. Lances splintered into myriad shards; knights were thrown; destriers fell—and some horses and men did not rise again. The vine fields over which the companies ranged were trampled and churned. Battle cries and rallying cries rang out. Harry Norreis was as good as his word and bellowed William’s name for all to hear at the top of his lungs. “God is with the Marshal!” he roared, twirling his lance, while the bells on his bridle rang and rang.

The field was a wheeling, changing tapestry of movement and at one point William and his troop became separated from Henry by a conroi of Flemings. Cursing, William hacked a path through them and was in time to see his lord’s bodyguards, including Yqueboeuf and the de Coulances brothers, haring off in pursuit of some richly caparisoned French knights, whilst Henry, oblivious with battle fire, launched himself into a group of Burgundians with only a handful of knights to back him up. William saw Henry’s lance shatter like glass on an opponent’s shield, the pieces flying far and wide. His opponent rocked in the saddle but did not fall and his companions closed in on the Young King, seizing his bridle, attempting to bring him down off his horse.

William spurred into the fray and Norreis’s cry rang out. “The Marshal, the Marshal! God is with the Marshal!” Laying about with his sword, William battered his way to Henry’s side. The young man had lost his helm and arming cap and his hair stuck up in spiky brown tufts around his flushed face. His arm rose and fell and his teeth were gritted with determination: he was not going to be taken for ransom at such a prestigious tourney with all his peers looking on. However, the Burgundians were loath to relinquish their prize and without control of his horse, Henry was still theirs. William reached out, laid hands to the brow-band of Henry’s destrier and pulled. The stallion struggled and plunged. The Burgundians battered at William, but he held on grimly, aided in his endeavour by Ancel who had galloped up on his right. William managed to peel the bridle off the destrier’s head, leaving the opposing knights with nothing to grasp. Henry had nothing to grasp either, except a handful of mane, but that was enough and he was able to kick his destrier out of the fray.

“Ware!” Ancel roared, pointing towards a band of Flemish knights who had seen Henry’s predicament and were galloping to take advantage. Cursing, William leaned to grab a fallen lance and charged to intercept their leader. Giving Bezant an extra dig in the flank, he ran the lance on to the knight’s shield and felt the impact shudder up his arm. The shock flung Bezant back on his haunches, sturdy though he was, and the overstrained length of ash splintered and broke, leaving William clutching a stump. For a terrifying instant William thought that Bezant was going over, but with a tremendous heave, the destrier recovered his legs and William drew his sword, hoping that he had bought Henry time to escape to one of the sanctuary points. Parrying his opponent’s determined blows, it was all William could do to avoid being captured himself and it was with a great surge of relief that he heard Harry Norreis shouting the Marshal rallying cry. From some desperate corner of himself, he found the breath to roar an answer. Ancel blocked a blow that would have struck William side on, and Baldwin de Béthune appeared, his surcoat torn and muddy. William renewed his efforts, and his adversary drew off rather than risk being taken for ransom. As the opposition withdrew, William leaned over his saddle bow and gulped breath into his starving lungs. Eyes stinging with sweat, he studied the field through the slits in his helm and was furious to see a blurred cluster of red and gold at one of the respite enclosures.

He spurred Bezant towards them. Arriving at the enclosure, he removed his helm and thrust it at a royal squire. “Good of you to rejoin us, gentlemen,” he snarled at the knot of Norman knights, which included Yqueboeuf and de Coulances. “Where were you when your lord was within a gnat’s cock of being taken for ransom? A gang of peasant brats has more discipline and control!”

Yqueboeuf strode up to William’s destrier, his complexion dusky with exertion and temper. “As far as we knew, you and your mighty band of English lackwits were at our lord’s heels. It is not our fault that you were not up to the task.”

William flung down from the saddle and seized Yqueboeuf by the throat. “You dare speak thus to me when you lack the competence of a swineherd!”

Yqueboeuf wrenched William’s hand away and pushed him, his eyes blazing. “You treat our lord as if he’s a babe in need of a wet nurse when he is a skilled fighter in his own right. At least we took some ransoms for our lord’s coffers. Your only concern is to promote your own glory. ‘
The Marshal, the Marshal, God is with the Marshal!
’ Hah!” Yqueboeuf spat at William’s feet then turned in appeal towards Henry, who had been intently watching the exchange. “Did we do wrong, sire?”