The Greatest Knight (36 page)

At Fontevrault the Abbess and the nuns emerged in procession to lead Henry’s bier into the church, their voices raised in sweet plainchant. William measured his steps to the altar and to the trestle that waited before it to receive the bier. His shoulders were burning with the weight of bearing the King’s body, but his heart felt as if it were carrying the greatest burden of all. He had borne the Young King to his tomb; now he was doing the same for the father, and once again his own future was in turmoil. Dry-eyed, numb, William helped the other knights to ease the bier down on to the trestle. Resisting the urge to rub his shoulder, he bowed to the Abbess and left the body in her care. His eyes were gritty with fatigue as he returned to the open air, cooling now as afternoon shadows crossed the grass and mellowed the stone—a sight that Henry would never feel and see again.

“Sir?”

He turned to face his squire, Jean, who was standing quietly in the background. He hoped the lad wasn’t going to bedevil him with questions that he was in no case to answer.

“Jack’s arranged stabling for the horses and we’ve stowed your baggage in the guest house.”

William nodded absently for he would have expected the squires to have done so as a matter of course. “And?” he said a trifle irritably.

Jean flushed. “I thought you might want to bathe and eat. I persuaded one of the lay sisters to fill a tub and I begged some food from the kitchens.”

William was immediately contrite. From somewhere he found the semblance of a smile. “You’re both fine squires,” he said and clapped Jean on the shoulder by way of apology.

The tub was a large oval affair, used for the scrubbing of laundry as well as the occasional bathing of guests. William would have liked nothing more than to wallow in the steaming water until it grew cold, but that would have been selfish, and his squires deserved a reward for their labours, so he gave them the use of the water once he had finished and indicated that he would dry and dress himself. There was some jesting in the guest house about William’s fastidiousness and more than one knight declared that washing the goodness out of one’s body wasn’t wise. There was nothing wrong with the smell of good, honest sweat.

“I know some ladies who would dispute that with you,” William retorted as he pushed a comb through his damp hair.

“Not nuns though,” grinned Maurice de Craon, a florid knight with a full black beard. “Who else are you likely to meet here? The Count of Poitou, when he arrives, won’t care what you smell like.”

“Hah, don’t be too sure of that!” someone else shouted.

DeCraon waved the declaration aside with a swipe of his ham-sized fist. “Rumours and gossip!” he growled. “Richard’s no sodomite.”

The word hung in an uncomfortable silence. Men busied themselves with other tasks amidst a lot of throat-clearing and harrumphing.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” William murmured to de Craon.

The knight spread his hands in bewilderment. “Why in God’s name not? I was defending the Count of Poitou’s reputation!”

William set the comb aside. “But also calling attention to the whispers. True or not, the tales will grow with each telling. What began as a grain of sand will eventually become a mountain…as I know from experience.”

De Craon snorted and blustered, but soon grew quiet and wandered off, a thoughtful look on his face like an ox with cud to chew.

With a pensive sigh, William straightened the creased folds of his plum-coloured tunic and sat down to the food his squires had brought. The other knights came and joined him to discuss their predicament. As supporters of the old King were they going to be disgraced and exiled? What price were they going to have to pay to keep their lands? Most expected that they could buy Richard’s favour for a fee, especially as he needed the money for his imminent crusade. Their assessment of William’s situation was less optimistic, but William shrugged it off with the comment that what would be would be. “I haven’t starved yet,” he said, thinking that there was always a first time.

***

Richard arrived early the next morning. Unlike his sick, exhausted father who had jounced along like a half-empty sack of cabbages as he fled from his eldest son’s harassment towards his deathbed, Richard looked every inch the warrior king. He rode a Spanish grey and his tunic was of crimson silk, thickly embroidered with snarling lions in thread of gold. His swordbelt was gilded, so were his shoes, and his cloak was edged with braid that shone with gold filaments. A little to one side and behind rode his brother John, his colour high and his expression defensive, and with him, Richard’s chaplain and chancellor, William Longchamp. The look the latter cast towards William seethed with malice and disdain. William returned the stare with antipathy for there was no love lost between himself and Longchamp.

A hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, William bowed head and knee in submission to England’s new King. The remaining knights of Henry’s mesnie did the same, sending each other sidelong glances. Staring at the ground, William waited. He knew it was foolish, but he half expected to feel the bite of a sword across the back of his neck. However, the touch when it came was to his shoulder, and of a hard, firm hand. William could remember the days when that hand had not been big enough to fold around the grip of an adult sword; he could remember parrying the attacks of the juvenile blade. It had been easy then, but he suspected that nothing was ever going to be easy again.

Richard commanded the men to rise, his voice strong but neutral. “Some grudges I harbour,” he said, “but not against men who are loyal.” He squeezed William’s shoulder before he stepped back and moved on. Exhaling a shaky breath, William rose to his feet and straightened his tunic. Prince John was looking at him, his pale tawny gaze a replica of his mother’s. He raised a sardonic eyebrow and corresponding mouth corner and followed his brother towards the church where their father lay in state. William lowered his gaze for he could not be certain of concealing his anger. If Richard had hounded his father during the failing King’s last days, then John’s desertion had hastened the death and made it into one of despair, lacking all comfort and peace.

The lords and knights followed the royal brothers into the church. John side-stepped softly in the shadows like a cat, but Richard strode forward to the bier; the only sign of his disquiet was the way in which his left hand clutched the grip of his sword.

He stood a long time looking down at his father’s body, his expression contained and devoid of emotion. After a while he moved up to Henry’s uncovered face and gazed upon it, saying not a word to the gathered knights and retainers. John emerged from the shadows, but would not approach the bier. It was said that a corpse would bleed when in the presence of its murderer and William wondered if either brother feared a sudden gush from their father’s body. He wished that they could have seen Henry in his death chamber at Chinon. They deserved to do so, but whether it would have provoked any feelings of pity or remorse was another matter. William suspected that Richard, at least, had no notion of the meaning of the word where his father was concerned. John might have, but although the latter sometimes showed his thoughts on his face, the inner workings of his mind were a mystery. Nor did William want to delve into them, because he suspected that he would find things lurking in their darkness that had grown beyond redemption.

Finally Richard turned from his scrutiny of Henry’s face and between the dead father and the living son there was not an iota of difference in the rigidity of the expression. Richard’s gaze fell upon William. “Marshal, a word.” Gesturing everyone else to remain where they were, he drew William outside. “Ride with me,” he commanded. Rather than wait whilst William had his palfrey saddled, he gave him Longchamp’s chestnut—a move which caused the latter to glare daggers at William. Longchamp harboured jealous suspicion of anyone who he thought might challenge his own influence with Richard and he considered William not only a rival but an enemy. William returned Longchamp’s glower with the indifference that he knew would gall Richard’s chancellor to the bone.

Richard rode straight-backed and with a natural, supple grace, one hand at the reins, the other down by his side. William adjusted the stirrup leathers, which had been strapped to suit Longchamp’s much shorter legs, and brought the chestnut alongside Richard’s stallion. They rode away from the abbey in silence, the hooves making a hollow thud on the dry ground and raising a powder of pale dust. Over Chinon the sky was hazy and suggestive of thunder. William could feel the first hint of pressure building within his skull. He pondered breaking the silence between him and Richard and decided against it. Let the new King set the tone, and if Richard was waiting for contrition or apology, he would wait for ever.

Finally, Richard looked across at William. “You tried to kill me,” he said. His voice had a hoarse catch, but William thought it more a matter of being rusty from too much bellowing on the battlefield than because of strong emotion.

William drew himself up. “No, my lord, I did not. I am still strong enough to direct a lance at a target and be certain of hitting it. If I had wanted to kill you, I would have driven my point through your body with ease, as I did to your horse. I will not apologise for the act. I was defending your father and given the choice again, I would do the same.”

“I thought that you were going to spit me on your lance.” Richard gave William a look that in itself was as piercing as a steel point.

“I almost did, sire, but I decided that skewering your horse would be just as effective as skewering you.”

Richard gave a reluctant laugh. “And it was.” He glanced sidelong at William. “It took great courage and a steady hand.”

William shrugged. “I’ve served a long apprenticeship,” he said.

“And if I said that I had work for you and that I wanted your oath of loyalty now that my father is dead, would you give it?”

William studied the brooding sky and took his time to reply. There might only be one answer but let Richard wait to hear it. Besides, he had to summon his courage for what came next. “Before he died, your father gave Isabelle of Striguil to me in marriage.”

Richard drew hard on the reins, causing his mount to start and sidle. “He didn’t give you anything,” he snapped. “I have my spies; I know what he said. He only promised you, and a promise is so much dross until it is fulfilled. You know that.”

William struggled to read Richard’s expression, but the new King was adept at hiding what he chose not to show.

“I will do more than promise,” Richard said in a grating voice. “This very day you will set out for England bearing messages. You can marry the girl at the same time. Take Isabelle de Clare, take her lands and plough them both with my blessing.”

It was hard for William to draw breath. “Thank you, my lord,” he managed, the words heartfelt and unembellished.

Richard waited, as if expecting more, but when none came, he nodded curtly. “You stood by my father when lesser men deserted. You risked your life for his and jeopardised your own future security. I desire to harness that steadfastness for myself. As you say, you have served your apprenticeship. I have just given you your share of reward and punishment.
Given
,” he emphasised, his voice hardening. “I have done more than promise. You received nothing but empty words from my father and my brother.”

“I started with nothing, my lord, not even a promise. I—”

“But high expectations,” Richard interrupted sharply. “If not, you’d be stuck in England at your brother’s hearth, with a fat-arsed slattern in your lap, instead of riding at my side with a rich heiress within your grasp. You have always made the best of what’s been offered and you cannot deny that I have offered you the most.”

“I do not, my lord, but it will not make me any more loyal.”

Richard gave a brusque laugh. “You’re a good sparring partner, Marshal. I dare say I could best you now, but I’m not willing to take the risk.” He reined his horse about and turned back towards the abbey. “Mark me: I’m going to make you work harder than you have ever done in your life.”

“Thank you, my lord,” William said again, a slow smile breaking across his face.

Thirty-one

Winchester, Summer 1189

“Madam, forgive me if I do not kneel,” William said to the Queen. “It is not through lack of respect, but because I am incapable of doing so.”

“What have you done?” A snap of Eleanor’s fingers brought an attendant hastening forward with a chair. Her tawny eyes, which had been aglow with welcome a moment since, were filled with concern.

He made a face. “The ship’s deck collapsed when we were boarding at Dieppe. I’m one of the fortunate ones; there were shattered limbs aplenty and one poor soul impaled through the ribs on a stake.” Grimacing with pain, William eased himself down in the chair. “I managed to grab a strut and save myself, but my left leg is almost beyond bearing weight.”

“Have you had a physician look at it?”

William’s smile was wry. “He said I should rest it.” He presented her with the letters that Richard had given him.

Eleanor signalled the same attendant to bring wine. “Well, you can do that while you give me your news, can you not? Gersendis, a cushion for Messire Marshal’s back.”

William looked chagrined. “I am about to go and claim a young bride and yet here I am easing myself into a chair like an old man,” he groaned.

Her lips twitched. “I doubt the parts that matter have lost their sap, William,” she remarked. When he looked at her askance, she gave a mischievous laugh. “Your spirit, William, the strength of your will.” She sat down opposite him in a swirl of silk skirts and rested the letters in her lap. “A young bride.” She nodded sagely. “Not Heloise of Kendal, I suspect?”

Eleanor more than suspected, William thought. Even though Henry had kept her under house arrest, she had her spies and her ways and means of getting to know everything that she wanted. He had no doubt that part of Richard’s willingness to give him Isabelle de Clare was down to the Queen’s intercession on his behalf. “No, madam, not Heloise of Kendal. She is to be wed to Gilbert FitzReinfred.” He grinned. “She will lead him over the hills and back again, but I do not think they will be displeased with each other. He is kindly disposed towards women and knows that I will still be watching out for her from a distance. I am fond of her…” he admitted.

“But with the prestige she brings you, you will be fonder of Isabelle de Clare,” Eleanor said shrewdly.

“I hope to make a good match, madam.” He gave a pensive shrug. “I may not look a bargain at the moment, but rest and polish will rectify some of the damage. I met her at the Tower of London last time I was in England. My lord Glanville was not best pleased.”

Eleanor frowned. “My lord Glanville is sworn to go on crusade with Richard,” she said. “He will not have custody of the heiresses in the Tower for much longer.”

William noted that the new rule was beginning to flex its muscles and he could see that some personal circumstances were not going to change for the better. He found it hard to imagine the dignified, urban Ranulf Glanville taking the road to Jerusalem via what was likely to be some hard and bloody fighting. “I have to thank you for my good fortune, madam,” he said, his words partly born of his thoughts. “I could also see why the justiciar might want to hide the lady Isabelle from prying eyes.”

Eleanor’s expression softened. “I do believe that you are smitten,” she teased.

William chuckled. “That would not be difficult, madam. The girl is eighteen years old and beautiful. What she will think of a grizzled old warhorse like me is another matter.”

Eleanor laughed. “Either you are shamelessly angling for praise or you do not see yourself as women do.” She reached a beringed hand to touch the side of his face. “You wear more years than when I first took you into my service, but you were still a boy then, and time has wrought experience, not lines. Isabelle de Clare will have no cause to complain of this match.”

“I pray not.” He had his doubts and dreaded the thought that Isabelle might look upon him as a surrogate father, or that despite her lands and her beauty she might prove to be feather-brained and giggly. If he were to rule the vast estates of Striguil, he needed a solid bedrock of domestic and marital harmony. Knowing that he was striving after the rarely attainable made him feel determined and on edge.

“I trust you still have your singing voice?” Eleanor enquired.

He gave her a puzzled look. “I do not know, madam. It has been so long since there has been anything to sing about, and I have been too busy.”

“If you are to take a bride, I suggest you find it again.” Eleanor’s smile wavered. “Neither of my husbands could sing. Who knows what might have been different if either of them had bothered to learn?” She let out a shaky breath and looked down at her hands. “You may think it strange,” she said, “but even after what has happened, I mourn for Henry. There was a time when it was very sweet between us. Even all the bitterness that came afterwards cannot alter those memories. And he gave me children.” Her lips curved with bleak humour. “He said that they were all mine except for John, but he was wrong. Even John belongs to me.” Eleanor glanced around the chamber which was bright with hangings and banners and painted coffers. A pile of books stood on a chest, the top one open revealing an illumination of a man and woman playing chess in a garden. “When he took away my freedom I swore that I would outlive him. On my knees I prayed to God to give me the strength to live through each day that I was caged. He didn’t trust me. Every minute of every day I was watched, if not by his guards then by his spies.” She sighed and made a weary gesture. “God rest his soul and God rest mine. William, if you are going to love your wife, and have her love you, then take some advice from one who has lived with it and without it and knows its price and its value.”

“Madam?”

“Isabelle de Clare is an heiress. Remember that the lands you rule are hers and that she might desire to have a say in what you do with them. Take her with you when you can. Use her as your captain and your deputy when you cannot, and never give her cause to resent you, because she will have the raising of your sons and daughters.”

William’s colour deepened at the mention of sons and daughters. “I will do my best,” he said.

“You may think me an interfering old woman, but I have had your interests at heart ever since I took you into my service.” She instructed a maid to bring over an enamelled jewel casket and, taking it from the girl, presented it to William. “This is my wedding gift to your bride.”

William thanked her. It was weighty, but it seemed impolite to ask what it contained. Eleanor smiled at him. “Open it,” she said. “It holds the gauds that women enjoy and men do not always think to give them.”

William raised the latch and looked upon a magnificent cloak brooch fashioned of gold set at intervals with dark blue sapphires. There was a smaller one, suited to fastening the neck of a gown, and a wimple band of silk brocade stitched with peridots and pearls. “It is a queenly gift,” he said with the spark of a smile.

Eleanor acknowledged his jest with a smile of her own. “Trust me, your bride will think it so, and if you can add to it, then so much the better. A little generosity will be more than repaid, providing you don’t substitute gems for affection.”

William strove not to grin. Most noble households possessed at least one elderly female relative who would spend her time gossiping by the fire, keeping an eye on the young women of the bower and meting out advice to all and sundry. Eleanor suddenly reminded him of such women, but he knew that it was more than his life was worth to say so. “I will make sure that my wife has plenty of both,” he said blandly, receiving in consequence a sharp look from Eleanor.

“See that you do,” she said in a peremptory tone. “You have already been given your wedding gift from me. You are an earl in all but name. All I ask in return is that you prove yourself worthy of my faith.”

“I will not fail you, madam,” he replied and would have risen to kneel, save that whilst he was sitting his leg had stiffened and bending it was nigh on impossible.

She arrested his struggle with a raised hand. “No,” she said. “You will have plenty of opportunity in the days to come to kneel at the feet of women.” Humour lit in her eyes. “Go to your bride and your lands,” she said, “and remember my advice. And give this to her from me.” Again she touched his face and her lips brushed the corner of his mouth in a tender salute compounded of mischief, affection, and abiding friendship. “I trust you to give it the correct interpretation,” she said.

When William had gone, Eleanor sat down to open and read her letters, a smile curling her mouth corners. William had just bitten off a very large mouthful, but she did not believe that it was more than he could chew. Indeed, in the months to come she fully intended to heap his trestle with further courses and hope that he lived up to his squirehood title of “Gasteviande” or “Guzzleguts.” But first let him have a moment’s respite to enjoy his new status as lord of vast lands and husband to a young wife. “Let her lead him a merry dance,” she said softly, and half wished that she could change places with Isabelle de Clare.