The Greatest Knight (24 page)

***

William woke to find himself being shaken like a rat in the jaws of a terrier. He squinted at the painful splinters of daylight poking through the shutters. The woman beside him sat up and drew the sheets around her body with a gasp of alarm.

“Jesu, are you set on destroying yourself?” demanded Baldwin de Béthune, his voice gruff with anger. “Get up, for Christ’s sake.” Bundling up the woman’s garments, he thrust them at her. “Out,” he snapped.

“It’s all right, leave her be,” William groaned. He peered through half-closed lids at Baldwin who was simmering like a cauldron with too much steam under the lid.

“That’s a fine thing for you to say. Do you know the trouble you’re in?”

William pushed his hair out of his eyes. Catching a stench of armpit he grimaced. “No, but I can guess.”

“No you can’t.” Baldwin flicked another look at the woman. With a sigh and a curse at the pain spearing through his wine-abused skull, William reached over the bed, found his pouch, and paid her with a handful of coins. Baldwin eyed her impatiently and tapped his fingers against the buckle of his swordbelt. She wasn’t one of the court whores, he knew all of them, but she was handsome and her clothes were of good quality. But then William had taste—Baldwin had to allow him that. The best or nothing…and it had just cost him far more dearly than a handful of Angevin silver pennies.

Knotting her pay in a kerchief, the whore retreated into the bay overhanging the street to don her clothes and braid her hair. William left the bed, washed his face and torso in a shallow brass bowl on the coffer and, drying himself on the coarse linen towel beside it, looked at his friend. “Tell me the worst.”

“That is yet to come,” Baldwin replied tersely. “Ralph Farci went to Henry last night and told him that you and the Young Queen were lovers—that you had committed adultery together, and Farci summoned witnesses, including Yqueboeuf and de Coulances, to confirm his accusation.”

William froze in mid-wipe. “What?”

“Rannulf the chamberlain came to me and told me to warn you. Henry has taken the news badly…”

William flung the towel towards the bed and dragged a clean shirt off the clothing pole. “I have to speak to him,” he said as he dived into the garment. He felt as if someone were determinedly screwing a knife into his left temple. The whore finished her toilet and quietly left the room.

“You can’t,” Baldwin said. “Henry has given orders that you’re not to be admitted to his presence. He doesn’t want to speak to you.”

William paused in the act of reaching for his tunic. He had known that the situation was serious, but this raised the stakes. “Surely he doesn’t believe the rumours? Surely he knows me better than that?”

Baldwin fixed him with a sombre stare. “I do not know how well he knows any of us, or how well we know him. All I can tell you is what Rannulf told me, and that was not a great deal.”

Slowly William donned his tunic. His headache and a general feeling of malaise made it hard to think. While he had been seeking oblivion in a flagon of wine and the embraces of a whore, Henry had been finding answers—most of them slanted in the wrong direction by the sounds of it. He concentrated on fastening his belt. “Yesterday, at the hunt, when we stopped to picnic, Marguerite came upon me by the banks of the stream…We talked of times past and she kissed me.”

Baldwin’s gaze widened with dismay. “Christ on the cross!” he muttered.

William flushed. “It was bestowed out of friendship—foolish and ill advised, yes, but with no intent to play Henry false. I swear to you on the body of our Lord Jesus Christ that I have never touched Marguerite in the manner of a lover, nor she me. Anyone who says that we have is a base liar.” He reached for his cloak. “I need to see Henry.”

“I’ve told you, you can’t,” Baldwin said in exasperation. “He won’t receive you.”

“But I need at least to try,” William said grimly. He started to the door, and then turned back to Baldwin. “I will understand if you choose to distance yourself.”

Baldwin snorted and laid a hand to William’s shoulder. “The day that I throw in my lot with toads like Adam Yqueboeuf and the de Coulances brothers is the day I die. If I can help you, I will. I’ll send letters to my father. I know he’ll aid you.”

William didn’t like the way Baldwin seemed to think it a foregone conclusion that matters would go badly for him at court, but there was nothing to be done except walk into the lion’s den and find out what awaited.

Nineteen

Béthune, Artois, December 1182

"If you take my advice, which I know you won’t, you’ll go nowhere near the Christmas court.” Mounting his horse, Baldwin’s father Robert de Béthune cast William a warning look.

William, who had been lodging with him at Béthune following a tourney, set his hand to his palfrey’s bridle. His baggage roll lay on the crupper and the pack pony’s panniers were laden with armour and accoutrements. Bezant restlessly pawed a forehoof on the courtyard floor, eager to be off. “I have to,” he replied. “The Young King is still my lord and one way or another I must resolve the bad blood between us.”

Robert de Béthune gave him one of the sidelong stares that William was more accustomed to seeing from Baldwin, but said nothing. The family came out to bid the men Godspeed to the royal gathering at Caen. Robert’s youngest daughter, Matilda, looked shyly through her lashes at William. Baldwin had hinted that should William find himself in a bind, their father might see clear to arranging a marriage, but it was a hint that William had tactfully ignored. Fond though he was of Baldwin and his family, he had no intention of settling down with a wife towards whose relatives he would be eternally beholden for his daily bread.

Robert de Béthune was a taciturn travelling companion, content to ride in silence through the bare-treed winter landscape and thus William was able to ponder and take stock of the changes in his life.

The situation with Henry remained awkward and unresolved. Baldwin’s fears had been borne out and the Young King had refused to see him, even to the point of having his guards clash crossed spears beneath William’s nose. There had been no place for him at the high table or counsel chamber. On a couple of occasions he had managed to slip past the guards, but without satisfaction, for Henry had turned his head aside and refused to acknowledge William’s presence. To all intents and purposes, he had become invisible. Marguerite was keeping to her chambers and William dared not send a message to her lest it aggravate the situation.

There was rampant speculation about the rift, the opinion at large being that William’s reputation for great deeds and chivalry had eclipsed the Young King’s star; that William had risen too high and now must fall. Whispers hinting at an affair between William and the Queen were fed upon with relish, not least because such a deed was high treason and carried the death penalty. Folk watched, awaited the outcome, and were disappointed when all Henry did was ignore William until the latter put an end to the intolerable situation by quitting the court. The bond between them had not been officially severed but there had been no point in remaining. Neither absolved nor dishonoured, William was simply being ignored and he found it difficult. All his life he had been afforded attention, mostly of the positive kind. Now he was an outcast at the hearth where he had dominated for more than ten years, and it hurt.

For a while he had sojourned with Guillaume de Tancarville, who was also out of favour with his royal masters, although for questionable political dealings rather than for taking all the glory at tourneys and stealing the heart of his overlord’s wife. Baldwin de Béthune kept William abreast of the situation at court. Farci, Yqueboeuf, and the de Coulances brothers were lording it over the other knights in the Young King’s retinue, especially the English ones who had prospered when William had been in favour. The only good piece of news was that Henry and his father had ended their dispute with a financial agreement that would guarantee Henry a large increase in funds.

William watched a flock of crows take flight from a fallow field and flap ponderously across a smoke-coloured sky. His thoughts drew a deep sigh from him, and Robert de Béthune, who had been dozing in the saddle, squinted a sleepy eye in his direction. “You’re brooding up a rare clutch of troubles there,” he said. “In my experience the ones that hatch are never those you expect.”

William managed a smile. “If I had any sense I’d abandon the nest and build another one far away.”

Robert gave a snort of dour amusement. “Aye, roosting with Plantagenets is a hazardous business. If matters go ill for you at court, you know you have a place at Béthune. My daughter is rather taken with you, and I’d be glad to see her married to someone of your fibre.”

William laughed acidly. “You do know of what I stand accused?”

Baldwin’s father waved a hand in disgust. “Ach, that campaign against you is one of deliberate sabotage; everyone knows that. Your enemies have neither the proof nor the backbone to stand against you, but say something often enough in vulnerable ears and incredulity turns to belief.”

“I have a remedy for that,” William replied grimly. “I have a right in the King’s court to trial by combat. I will challenge my accusers to prove their case against me on the field of battle and let God be the judge.”

“That carries its own risks,” de Béthune warned.

“I do not fear to be judged.”

“No, but they might,” the older man said shrewdly. “Knowing your quarry is simple, but flushing it out of the bushes is a different matter.” He sighed deeply. “I come to court when I must. I do not think that I could dwell there as a matter of course. My son does, and I admire his fortitude, but I fear for him too.” He nodded again at William. “I meant what I said about finding you a place in my family. As a man grows older he needs able deputies. Of course your own family may have a welcome for you…?” He ended the statement as a question to which William responded by shaking his head.

“Probably the kind of welcome that would make hell seem cold by comparison,” he said mordantly, imagining John’s response should he arrive at Hamstead disgraced and stripped of his position. “
I warned you
,” would be the first, sanctimonious words William would have to parry. “I will bear your offer in mind; you truly do me more honour than I deserve.”

***

King Henry’s Christmas court at Caen was a great and lavish gathering. The hall was packed with earls, counts, dukes, bishops, deacons, archdeacons, barons, knights, and their retainers. The room glittered like an open jewel box for everyone was wearing his or her best robes, adorned with every last ring, brooch, and gemstone rifled from the family coffers or bought with credit from the Jews. When William arrived, he immediately stood out, for he was wearing a tunic of a blue as dark as the night sky and chausses of deepest brazilwood red. A single gold ring adorned his left hand and his person was devoid of other embellishment except for his gilded belt. Both the understated nature of his garb and the fact of his presence caused heads to turn and whispers to trail in his wake.

Henry’s sons were all attending the gathering, a miracle given the strife between them. Richard ruled Aquitaine with an iron hand and was ruthless to those who opposed him, but he hadn’t been able entirely to stamp out the rebels, some of whom had appealed to Henry the Young King for aid, which he had been only too pleased to promise. The brothers had been circling each other warily ever since, a mere fraction from open war. Their father had forced a bridge across the breach between them, but it was a crumbling edifice built on worthless promises and soothing but meaningless murmurs of: “We’ll see what can be done.” William thought it more likely that it was all going to collapse and plunge everyone into the dark chasm of war.

He made his way unobtrusively closer to the dais. The King sat on a high-backed chair, his red hands clutching the lion’s head finials in a way that spoke of assertion and power. At his left hand side Richard was resplendent in a kingfisher-coloured tunic that contrasted with his auburn-gold hair and gave lucent clarity to his eyes. He resembled a young lion, dangerous and fiery. Beside him sat Geoffrey, the King’s third son and Count of Brittany, dark-haired and stocky. To their father’s right Henry the Young King lounged in his chair, his expression bored and petulant. The candlelight shot his brown hair with tawny lights and slanted across the high cheekbones and strong jaw. He was robed in gold silk, encrusted with gems, and he wore his crown, to emphasise his standing. The knights of his retinue stood close guard, chief amongst them Farci and Yqueboeuf. William was also glad to see Baldwin de Béthune and three of the de Preaux brothers. Henry wasn’t entirely surrounded by sycophants and idiots.

“You are mad coming here, you know,” Wigain muttered, suddenly appearing at William’s side.

“You think so, do you?” William glanced at him. Wigain had long outgrown the simple duties of a kitchen clerk, and was often to be found on more dangerous and delicate missions than sourcing capons for the royal table.

Wigain folded his arms and leaned against a trestle. “I’d back you against anyone on the tourney field. You’ve the measure and more of every man in this room, but the mêlée of the court is not so clean and honourable.” He gave William a penetrating look. “Until recently you’ve escaped serious injury, but if you fight on now, it’ll be to the death, and I’m not sure whose.”

William smiled bleakly. “You’re not wagering on me to win this time then?”

Wigain gave a sombre shake of his head. “I only bet on certainties.”

William pressed the clerk’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Wigain,” he said, and meant it. He watched the dais and waited his moment. The court was indeed like a tourney field in many ways and he knew that sooner or later Adam Yqueboeuf and Ralph Farci would quit their posts to pursue their own business. The moment arrived when Farci went to relieve himself, leaving Baldwin de Béthune at Henry’s side. Yqueboeuf was watching one of the jesters who was walking on his hands while balancing meat pies on the soles of his feet. Drawing a deep breath, William strode to the dais, mounted it, and bowed head and knee before Young Henry.

Yqueboeuf started to draw his sword but Baldwin warned him back, and de Coulances was similarly stopped by Peter de Preaux. Young Henry ceased slouching in his chair and sat up, a red flush creeping over the stubble on his throat and mantling his face.

“Sire, I ask you the boon of listening to me,” William said formally. An upward glance was not promising for it showed him that the Young King was scowling ferociously and looking away. His father, however, was leaning forward and stroking his chin. Geoffrey’s expression was neutral, Richard’s curious.

Doggedly, William pressed on. “Rumourmongers have been spreading the vicious lie that I have committed treason against you—you know the matter of which I speak, as you know those who have spread these vile stories. Today, before your lord father, in full view of all men who are able to judge right from wrong, I have come to defend myself. I challenge my accusers to come forward and face me on the field of battle.” His voice rang along the high table, for he was appealing to be judged by his peers. Although he had not been bid to stand, he rose to his feet and fixed Yqueboeuf, Thomas de Coulances, and the newly returned Ralph Farci with a contemptuous stare. “Let three of their number come forward and I will fight each one, on three successive days. Should I fail on any count, then take me to the gibbet and have me hanged and drawn forthwith. I trust in God to prove my innocence.”

Farci’s gaze widened, whilst Yqueboeuf’s narrowed. Thomas de Coulances shot both of them a look filled with apprehension. The Young King said nothing, although the red flush had now reached his scalp. It was left to his father to wave his hand in a gesture of weary dismissal.

“Marshal, you are souring my digestion with your complaint and I want none of it. This is neither the time nor the place.”

“Then if not here before my King and my lord and all my peers, when is the time and place?” William retorted bitterly. “The men who started the rumours against me are present and within listening distance. Why have none of them spoken up to defend their vile whisperings?” He had intended to speak with diplomacy but found it no longer possible. He was known for his implacable good humour but the last few months had worn it threadbare. He raised his right hand and spread it palm facing outwards, towards father and sons, showing the hard, strong span of his fingers. “Take my right hand,” he said hoarsely, “the one that has wielded sword and lance in the loyal service of your family for all of my adult life. Cut off a finger and let the man among my accusers who considers himself the best do battle with me. If he can bring me to defeat, then deal with me as you would any traitor. Otherwise let my name be cleared once and for all of these putrid rumours.”

The King looked at his own hands and his eldest son at the floor. William stared at them, rage and despair scalding through him. “It is plain to see that a lying tongue will brave all that its owner dare not prove,” he said with scathing contempt. “I may be a fool, but I am not blind. You are seeking to be rid of me. Have your desire. There is no point in my remaining if you will not grant me justice in your court. In full hearing of all present, I renounce my service to you. I will seek patronage from men who do not tolerate liars and cowards under their roofs.”

At William’s words, Young Henry clenched the arms of his chair until his knuckles blenched, but still he made no answer. His father slowly raised his head. “So be it,” he said impassively. “You may have a safe conduct as far as Mortagne. All ties are sundered herewith.” He waved William away with the indifference he might bestow on a chance-come supplicant he had never met before. Thomas de Coulances eagerly stepped forward to manhandle William from the dais. William thrust him off with an elbow to the midriff that doubled the knight over in a whoof of exhaled breath. His brother and another knight hastened to his aid and William was pummelled and shoved. Yqueboeuf seized William’s right arm and rammed it behind his back, intent on dislocating or breaking the limb. Baldwin and Peter de Preaux strode into the fray and sundered Yqueboeuf’s grip. A frowning Prince Geoffrey leaned to speak to his father.