The Greatest Knight (35 page)

Henry stared across the Huisne at the oncoming French troops. Sailing amid the banners of France were those belonging to his son and supposed heir, Richard, Count of Poitou, the silks brightening with the advent of sunrise. Henry bared his teeth. “He wants Le Mans?” he snarled. “I will give him Le Mans and let him see how he likes it!” Rounding his horse, he galloped back into the city with an escort of serjeants and knights, leaving William and a contingent of hastily assembled men to hold off the French for as long as they could.

Baldwin de Béthune joined William before the town gate and gave him a fierce grin before donning his helm. “I hope your sword’s sharp,” he said. “By the look of what’s upon us, it’s going to be blunt by the day’s end.”

Inside his helm, William returned the grin, which was really more a baring of teeth. There was no hope of holding the town against the French now they had found such an easy crossing point. The best they could do was keep them at bay long enough for Henry and his troops to make an orderly retreat.

The fight, like the fight for Drincourt when he was a young knight, was one of hard battle in cramped spaces, of sudden sallies that gained ground, followed by forced withdrawal. The churned turf was littered with broken shields and lances; with pieces of abandoned equipment and corpses of horses and men. As William pivoted to strike at an opponent, his stallion came down on the sharp edge of an iron point and jinked hard sideways, blood welling from the gash. Cursing, William managed to disarm his opponent, forced him from his sound destrier and mounting it himself sent his injured horse back through the lines. The new destrier, a dappled Spanish stallion, was fresh and headstrong, and for a while he had to fight it as well as the French. His sword arm was white hot with effort, his shield arm was numb, and his vision a blur. He and Baldwin were doing no more than holding the French and their own smaller contingent was rapidly tiring.

“Christ, he’s fired the town!” Baldwin suddenly panted.

William lifted his head. He had been too preoccupied with gulping air to feed his starving lungs to notice the difference in quality, but now Baldwin had spoken, he became aware of the stench of burning that went way beyond the normal aroma of cooking fires.

“He said he would, rather than give it to the French…” He lashed out with his sword, buffeted someone with his shield, and plunged the destrier at a footsoldier. Baldwin struck several blows with his mace and bought them a few seconds of respite. There was a sudden flurry of reinforcement, but it was only a temporary relief caused by the King’s bodyguard as Henry himself arrived at the embattled gate. His lips had a bluish tinge and his face wore such an expression of grief and rage that William had to look away. What met his smarting eyes through the slits in his helm was the sight of the French and Poitevan soldiers rallying for another charge, the footsoldiers massing to cross, and the gathering pall of smoke along the city walls.

“The defence of the other gates is too weak, they’re going to fall,” Henry said hoarsely. “We have to withdraw. I’ll not let that hellspawn son of mine and his French catamite take me while there’s a breath left in my body.” He gave a jerky nod. “Pull the men back, Marshal. We’ll regroup at Fresnay.”

“Sire.” William rallied the men from the gate and followed Henry through the burning city towards the Fresnay road. Fanned by a stiff breeze, the flames were spreading fast, consuming thatch and wooden roof shingles, eating through beams, licking through straw, and bedding in outhouses and stables, filling the air with a grey fog alive with red sparks that stung like hornets when they alighted on flesh.

They rode past a merchant’s house, several-storeyed with wooden shingles; it was burning fiercely, the fire having spread from the warehouse next door. A woman was striving to rescue her possessions from the flames. William stared at her and felt his heart kick in his chest. Her face and waistline were softer and plumper, but there was no mistaking the way she held herself. “Clara?” Gesturing peremptorily to his squires to help, William dismounted and hastened to her aid, snatching a quilt from her arms. The underside was on fire and as the smoke filtered through the slits in his helm he began to cough. Jean hastened to help him unlace the helm and William dragged it off, red in the face and choking. “Fetch me my pot helm,” he gagged at the squire. “I can’t wear this.” He stamped on the quilt to put out the fire and felt dismay and shame as he gazed upon the singed embroidery beneath his boots. Somehow, the sight of the charred bedcover was more distressing than the sight of the house burning in its entirety.

Jean came running back from the packhorse with William’s lighter helm which had an open face and a nasal guard. Clara had retreated to sit on a painted coffer in her garden and watch her home burn.

“You have to leave, the French are coming.” William strode to her, grabbed her arm, and hauled her to her feet. “They’ll be on us at any moment.” He turned to cough into his sleeve.

She shook him off. “They can’t be any worse than Henry of Anjou!” she spat and gestured towards the house. “It’s not the French who have fired the town! Stephen said this would happen.”

“And where’s Stephen now?” William snarled. “You must get out!”

“Don’t worry.” She gave him a look from the old days, gleaming with mockery and challenge. “I’ve always chosen men who can take care of me. We took the wine out of the city two days ago, and put our money in a safe place. He’s gone to fetch the horses from the stables. I…” Her face lit up and, gathering her skirts, she pushed William aside and ran towards a barrel-bodied merchant and a servant who were hastening towards them on horseback, with a palfrey and two packhorses following on lead reins. William watched the man dismount and kiss Clara before boosting her into the palfrey’s saddle. With the servant he set about securing the painted chest and the more portable belongings to the packhorses, his actions rapid and efficient. Clara nudged her mount over to William and looked down at him. Numerous fine lines webbed her eye corners, she had a double chin, but her gaze was still as dark and bright as his memory of her. “I know you would have saved me,” she said in a gentler tone, “and I thank you, but as you can see, I did not need it.”

“No.” He glanced towards the man to whom he had lost her—a nondescript, broad town burgher with a paunch at his belt and unprepossessing features. William was both reassured and unnerved. “Godspeed you,” he said. “Make haste.”

“And you,” she said with a half-smile that held remembrance and farewell. For a moment their eyes locked, and then she was reining away and her man was fastening the last strap on the packhorse and leaping to his saddle, nimble despite his bulk. He nodded stiffly to William and without further ado clapped spurs to his mount’s flanks. He, Clara, and the servant faded rapidly into the smoke like a dream and William turned back to his horse, feeling saddened, yet perversely lighter of spirit.

William de Mandeville, Earl of Essex, rode up with his troops and confirmed to Henry that Le Mans was lost. “The French are pouring into the town through the gates, with the Count of Poitou at their head.” His breath tore in his throat. “Sire, you have to leave…”

Henry jerked as if struck at the mention of his eldest son and William flinched with him. He knew that, of all things, Henry dreaded being brought face to face with Richard and humiliated. What pride he had was bleeding, battered, and dying, but to have the final blows delivered by one’s own son, in malice, was not a coup de grace but ignominious murder. “Go, sire,” William said. “I will hold them off.”

Henry looked at him, nodded once, and, without speaking, spurred away. William leaped to horse, ordered his squires to ride hard with Essex’s troops, and with a handful of other knights, took up his position as the King’s rearguard.

At first their way was clogged by people fleeing the town, their possessions in sacks and hand carts, across the backs of pack ponies or piled in ox wains, women weeping, children screaming. William had curses heaped on him by wailing refugees as he pushed his way through. He ignored them. Nothing mattered but seeing Henry to safety. He saw no sign of Clara and assumed that she and her merchant had taken another road, for which he was glad. He would not have wanted to pass her.

Once clear of the suburbs and the fleeing people, they set their horses to a canter. The King clung grimly to his saddle, his face ashen-yellow, but when Baldwin of Béthune enquired if they should slow the pace, he shook his head and insisted instead that they should increase it. De Souville’s horse was lame and the knight was struggling to keep up. Turning in the saddle to look over his shoulder and check de Souville’s progress, William saw a Poitevan knight hurtling towards the fleeing party, lance couched. De Souville raised his shield and tried to rein his horse out of the way, but the knight turned with him and rammed him from the saddle. As de Souville struck the ground, more Poitevans galloped up, dust flurrying from beneath their horses’ hooves. The foremost was riding a powerful dun destrier with flaxen mane and tail. Although the rider carried no shield, William recognised Richard immediately and his blood ran cold. Levelling his lance, he pricked his stallion forward to bar the road.

Richard reined back so hard that his horse reared. “Don’t be a fool!” he roared across the ground between himself and William. “Stand aside!”

William fretted his destrier and prepared to charge. “My lord, you will turn back if you value your life!”

Richard laughed with contemptuous rage. “You would not dare,” he sneered and slapped the reins down on his stallion’s neck. Without hesitation, William spurred his mount. Richard’s eyes widened; he tried to draw aside, but William changed the angle of his lance and thrust with his full might. It was a clean blow and it killed on the instant. Abandoning his lance in situ, William snarled, “Let the devil take you, my lord,” and, wheeling about, galloped off up the road.

A shaken Richard extricated himself from the saddle of his dead horse and pulled back the knights who would have continued the chase. “No,” he said brusquely, “let them go. They’re on the run and we’ll catch them soon enough…and then we’ll have a reckoning.”

Thirty

It was quiet in the village of Coulaine outside Chinon. William squinted into the sky, seeking the skylark that was flinging its song to heaven and finally located the dark pinpoint of sound high in the blue. The throaty warble continued for a moment then ceased as the bird plummeted to earth and was lost to sight amid the grasses of the spring meadow where several mares and colts were grazing.

William had brought his troop out this way with the excuse of inspecting the stock of a local lord who bred destriers, but the truth of the matter was that he needed a respite from watching King Henry deteriorate, his pain so acute that even the strongest potions and soporifics afforded him no ease. And with his deterioration, came the failure of William’s hopes of advancement. William knew he had probably ruined his own future by killing Richard’s stallion under him, but since the alternatives had been either to kill Richard himself or court dishonour and let him past, William’s choice had been simple.

The horse-breeder reclaimed William’s attention by enquiring after the King and expressing his concern that the French would overrun Chinon. “I have spent a lifetime on these animals,” he said, gesturing to the grazing mares and foals. “I would rather die than see them thieved by Poitevan and French gutter sweepings.”

“A truce has been agreed; they will not come to Chinon,” William replied more confidently than he felt. The way that Richard had been hounding his father, he would not put anything past him. A week ago, King Henry had met with Richard and Philip outside Fresnay. Watching Henry’s distressing struggle to face his enemies with dignity, William had felt sick with pity and rage. Before the meeting, Henry had taken refuge in a Templar church and so great had been his pain that he had had to hold on to the wall to stay upright. William had sent a message to Philip and Richard that Henry was indisposed and unable to attend the counsel. Richard had refused to accept the reply and loudly proclaimed that his father was feigning illness in order to wriggle out of the talks and that if he did not come, then more fire and sword would follow. Henry had dragged himself from the church and forced himself across a horse. Teeth clenched in agony, he had ridden to the meeting place, gasping to William that if God granted him time enough, he would have Philip and Richard pay for what they were doing to him. On seeing Henry’s condition, Philip had realised how ill he truly was and had offered him a cloak to sit upon whilst negotiations were conducted, but Henry had refused, preferring to remain on his horse, which at least gave him some small touch of dignity as the humiliating terms for peace were dictated to him. Richard had shown no pity for his father, neither by look nor by gesture. William could not decide if it was a deliberate ploy by Richard to further hurt his father, a defence against being hurt himself, or just blank indifference. Whatever it was, the mask had not cracked throughout the negotiations.

Henry had returned to Chinon and taken to his bed. Abhorring the stenches of the sick room, Prince John had been conspicuous by his absence; but Henry’s bastard son Geoffrey had spent much time at his father’s side, wiping his brow and comforting his rages.

“I have heard rumours that the King is sick unto death.” The trader looked intently at William. “You are close to him, so men say. Is it true?”

“It is true that he is heartsick over the behaviour of his eldest son,” William replied, skirting the issue, “and his health is not robust, but he has a will that is as strong as sword steel and it is far from broken.” His tone did not encourage more questions and he addressed himself to the purchase of a mare and foal and a promising two-year-old colt. He would not think about where he was going to settle the horses in the months to come. For now, he arranged to keep them with the breeder, saying with a wry smile that his decision to do so was a sign of his confidence that the French and Poitevans would not pillage the region. In truth, William did not know what was going to happen and was as much a straw in the wind as any member of the King’s entourage.

As he rode slowly back towards Chinon, he was joined by another company riding in that direction and headed by Roger Malacheal, keeper of the King’s seal. Malacheal was returning from Tours where he had been on business for Henry. King Philip had undertaken to give Henry the names of the men who had turned against him and Malacheal had been to collect that list. He greeted William sombrely, his expression one of utter weariness. William knew better than to enquire directly of his business, but a general question brought a shake of Malacheal’s head and a further downturn of the mouth. “Worse than you know,” was all he would say.

When they arrived in Chinon, Malacheal went directly to Henry’s chamber, and William accompanied him. The King had not risen from his bed, although he was dressed and sitting upon it, attended by physicians and clerks to whom, even in his weakened state, he had been dictating letters. His bastard son Geoffrey clung jealously to his side and watched everyone like a suspicious guard dog.

Malacheal approached the bed, bent his knee, and bowed his head. Henry gestured him to his feet and held out a quivering right hand. “You have the list of traitors?”

“Sire…” Malacheal hesitated.

“Let me see,” Henry said hoarsely.

Giving in to the inevitable, Malacheal handed over the scroll. Henry broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. His eyesight was failing and he had to hold the document at arm’s length to read it. Even then he could not see the names and returned the document to Malacheal with a frustrated shake of his head. “You read it,” he said.

Malacheal took it as if it had been painted with poison. Moistening his lips, he scanned the list. “My lord, so Jesus Christ help me, the first name on the list is that of your son, Lord John.”

Henry whispered the name. He repeated it several times, becoming louder on each occasion, and the shake of his head increased in vigour. “I will not believe this,” he rasped. “John would not do that to me. Bring him to me now.”

Men exchanged glances. “I will go and find him, sire,” William said.

He met Geoffrey’s gaze where the young man stood behind his father and saw the negation in it.

William strode from the room and through the palace to the stables where the grooms informed him that John had left that morning, soon after his own departure to visit the horse-breeder. The prince had taken his bodyguard, his servants, and two laden packhorses and as yet he had not returned. Tight-lipped, William combed the town. The brothels and drinking houses had no word of him, nor the cloth merchant, goldsmith, or the man who dealt in rare gemstones, of which John was fond, and William returned to the palace empty-handed. The King was awaiting the news like a prisoner on the morning of execution, looking for a reprieve but knowing in his heart that none would come.

William stood straight and tall to deliver the blow and no matter what he felt inside, did not let the pity show on his face. “Sire, your son left at dawn this morning. He is no longer in the city.”

Henry looked at William, then at the knights and officials surrounding his bed. His focus slipped and turned inwards as if he had closed a door on the world. “You have said enough,” he muttered. “Draw the curtains and leave me, all of you.” He gestured weakly towards the hangings surrounding his bed.

***

It became clear that King Henry was not going to recover from his illness. The news of John’s desertion had destroyed his will to fight death. He refused all sustenance. The low fever that had been plaguing him for several weeks worsened and soared beyond anything the physicians could do to help him. Henry lost his wits and even when his eyes were open, he did not see the people surrounding him; nor could he respond to what they said.

On the third evening of Henry’s deteriorating condition, Baldwin and William were taking a brief respite in a wine shop not far from the palace. Wigain had accompanied them, and Walter Map, and many of the knights of the chamber were sequestered around the scrubbed benches and trestles. Geoffrey, Henry’s bastard son, was among their company and more drunk than William had ever seen him.

“I saw more men leaving today,” Baldwin announced, hunching over his cup. “The hired soldiers know that there is nothing left for them here. Either they’re going home to their farms or riding to join the unholy trinity of Richard, Philip, and John.”

A girl came to refill their wine pitcher. Wigain’s pinch of her bottom was half-hearted. “You should ride for England and claim your bride while you still can,” he told William morosely.

William shook his head. “How long do you think I would keep her if I did? The lord Richard is not well disposed in my direction, is he?” He tipped wine into his cup. “At least I have some rents in Saint-Omer and a standing offer from Philip of Flanders.”

“Not the same as an earldom though, is it?”

William smiled without humour. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

At the other table Geoffrey FitzRoy raised his voice in angry protest. “I may have been trained in Holy Orders, but I’m not taking vows. Even if Richard does become King, he’ll not make me.”

Walter Map tilted his head in Geoffrey’s direction. “He wants to be a prince,” he remarked. “He was hoping his father would give him lands and titles and set him up in his own little kingdom, but when Henry dies, Richard and John won’t wear it. Whether he likes it or not, ‘brother Geoffrey’ is going to become ‘Brother Geoffrey.’” He smirked at his own pun. No one else did.

“And what of ‘brother John?’” Wigain asked. “What’s to stop him from testing his backside on the throne?”

“If John had wanted the crown, he’d have stayed with his father,” William said, “not gone running to Richard. I am not saying that he does not desire the crown, but since he is Richard’s heir and Richard has sworn to go on crusade, he has time to bide while he chooses his path.”

“The slippery one to hell,” Wigain muttered.

“Very likely,” William answered, emptying more wine into his cup. He wasn’t so much drowning his sorrows as toasting farewell to an almost glittering future. As he started to drink, Jean D’Earley shouldered his way through the press of soldiers and courtiers. William immediately set the cup back on the trestle, for the squire’s features were grim.

“You need to come quickly, sir,” he said.

***

William climbed the stairs to King Henry’s chamber, the wine roiling in his gut and filling the back of his throat with a sour taste. There were no guards on the door, save for his nephew and another white-faced squire who was swallowing convulsively. William strode through the door, noting immediately that the walls to either side of the entrance had been denuded of their hangings and the pole above the doorway was bereft of its embroidered curtain. The chamber was bare, as if it had been stripped ready for a move. The King’s clothing and storage coffers were still in place and a fire was charring to ash in the grate, but all the smaller boxes and chests were gone, including the fine enamelled ones that contained the royal jewels. The sideboard was bare of the cups, plates, and flagons that should have adorned it and the bedcovers and hangings had gone, leaving the bare wood and the curtain poles. On the bed itself the king lay naked with not so much as a sheet to shroud him.

William went swiftly to him and stopped as if he had been struck. “Christ Jesu have mercy on his soul,” he muttered before his throat closed with pity and horror.

The body was sprawled like a child’s doll abandoned in mid-play and the King’s pallid flesh was stained with the blood that had gushed from his nose and mouth in his final paroxysm. The grey eyes stared, dull as dry stones. Behind him, William heard someone retching into the floor rushes.

Gilbert FitzReinfred silently handed William his cloak and William spread the garment over Henry’s body and gently closed the staring eyes. Geoffrey came to the bedside, wiping his mouth. “I should have stayed with him.” Tears streamed down his face. “God forgive me, I should have stayed.” White and shaking, he knelt by the corpse.

“We all should,” William said grimly. He laid his hand to the young man’s shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze. Anger simmered within him. Turning, he barked swift commands to several of the knights and with hands on swords they strode from the stripped and desecrated room. He had no doubt that the thieves were long gone, but if they could be caught, he’d see them strung up higher than the man in the moon.

***

The King’s body was carefully washed and tended. His coffers had all been robbed and there was no robe in which to fittingly clad the corpse. Geoffrey, who was the same size as his father, donated his best one—of costly dark red wool.

Henry was borne to the chapel and following high mass William and the knights of the household kept guard around the body in full mail, their swords drawn. All of them were suffering pangs of guilt brought on by the knowledge that while they had been drinking in a hostel, the King had been enduring his death throes as his chamber and body were robbed of possessions and dignity. It was the latter that most affected William. No one should die like that and it froze his marrow to think on it.

In the morning the body was placed on a bier and the knights took it in turns to carry it on their shoulders as they set out from Chinon to Henry’s designated resting place at the Abbey of Fontevrault. There were no alms to distribute to the poor, for Henry’s strongboxes were all empty and his seneschal denied all knowledge of the money. The crowd that had gathered in the hope of receiving silver as the funeral cortège made its journey were disappointed and had to be dispersed with a niggardly handful of coin distributed from the pouches of the knights who had remained to see the King to his grave.