The Greatest Knight (46 page)

Immediately contrite, he leaned forward to kiss her and rose to his feet. “I’ve tired you out,” he said. “I’ll return later.”

She gave him a sleepy smile. “Not too much later,” she said. “I need to sleep, but I’d rather talk, and I know you’ll have to leave soon.”

“Not for a few days at least,” he said. “I’m in safe harbour and a captain doesn’t put out to chancy seas again without repairing his ship.”

Thirty-nine

Westminster, London, December 1192

Queen Eleanor bit her lip in agitation and, hugging her ermine-lined cloak around her body, moved to warm her hands at one of several braziers heating the room. The weather had turned bitterly cold and even at midday, hoar frost rimed doors and lintels. Water butts and horse troughs were solid ice and the outside air was like a knife in the lungs. Many of the barons and magnates were gathered in the great Rufus Hall, but the Queen had retired to her apartments early, bringing only a select few guests with her, William and Isabelle among them.

“Another crusader ship has put in to port without news of Richard,” Eleanor muttered to William as he joined her at the brazier. “I am beginning to worry for him.”

“There is still time yet, madam,” William said.

Her reproachful look told him that she judged him guilty of mouthing platitudes. “There should have been word or sight by now. We know he sailed from Acre in October and that his galley came safely into Brindisi, but we have heard nothing since. How long did it take you to travel back from Jerusalem, William?”

He twitched his shoulders. “Less than two months, but that is not a time carved in stone for all men.”

“Richard would not dally. He knows the trouble that Philip of France will cause in his absence and he also knows that there are matters in England to resolve.” She shivered and washed her hands together. “Yesterday my youngest son told me that I should prepare myself to hear that Richard is dead…but I won’t. I refuse to do that.” She swallowed, the tendons in her throat taut with strain. “He is the child of my heart. I would know if he were dead. John would usurp his place in an instant. I know that he’s stuffing his castles to the rafters. I know that word has gone out to his castellans to prepare for him to become a king…” Her eyes narrowed. “I have given my full consent to John being Richard’s heir, but that is all—his heir, and until I know for certain that Richard is dead, I will not countenance any attempt by John to take the crown.” She studied William. “We have been friends through thick and thin.”

“Yes, madam,” William said gently. “And I have known your sons since they were infants and children.”

She smiled bleakly. “And watched them grow into men and squander the promise…”

He gave a wordless shrug that was open to interpretation.

“I have relied on you in the past, and you know how much you owe me.” Her tawny glance flickered to Isabelle who was talking to Walter of Coutances. “Your lands, your wife.”

William drew himself up. “My loyalty is not dependent on gifts and largesse,” he said stiffly.

Eleanor quickly laid her hand on his sleeve. “Of course not. I never meant to imply that it was and I am sorry if I have offended you. Worry makes my tongue clumsy. Even though your brother is John’s man and you are John’s vassal for your Leinster lands, I do not doubt your fidelity…and I truly mean that…It is just that it would comfort an old woman to hear you say that come hell or high water you will stand up for Richard.” Her fingers gripped. Looking down at them he saw how the shanks of her rings were loose on her bones and how her skin was mottled. If Richard was dead, he thought, it would kill her, but while she yet believed he lived, the fire in her was like a hot coal.

He gave her a knowing look. “Not that old, madam,” he said, “but I would not deny you comfort. You have my word. Come hell or high water, I will stand up for Richard while he lives—as I stood for King Henry your husband and for the Young King your son.” Before all the company he placed his hands in hers and knelt to her like a vassal to a feudal lord.

Eleanor’s eyes grew moist. She stooped, kissed William on either cheek, then lightly on the mouth and raised him to his feet. “The point is made and taken,” she said. “You are right. I am not, after all, that old.”

A frozen silver-blue dusk was falling over the city as William and Isabelle returned to their riverside lodging, both in pensive mood following the gathering in the Queen’s chamber. If news of Richard did not come soon, there were going to be changes and shifts in the power at court. They had to be prepared to acknowledge Prince John as King, but it would not be an easy transition.

“My lord, my lady, you have a visitor,” his usher said as he bowed William and Isabelle into the main room. William raised his brow. There was never a time when he didn’t have visitors, but for his usher to mention the detail, it had to be personal. And then his gaze lit on his brother’s former mistress and her daughter who were warming themselves by the hearth. They had but recently arrived, for they still wore their cloaks and their faces were red from the cold. Alais was talking animatedly to a man sitting beside her, and he was smiling and paying her close attention. Seeing William enter, she laid her hand lightly on the man’s sleeve, then, leaving him, hurried over, drawing her daughter with her.

“Alais,” William said with genuine pleasure, kissing her on either cheek, and then Sybilla, who was slender as a young deer with glossy dark braids and wide eyes of clear grey-green. “Holy Mother, you’ve grown up!”

“Almost ten years old,” Alais said with a smile that was affectionate and a little sad. “She’ll be a woman all too soon.”

“Mama!” Sybilla wrinkled her nose.

Alais dipped a curtsey to Isabelle, who greeted her as William had done with kisses on the cheek, but there was a certain reserve between the women. Owing to the ambivalent circumstances of her position in the Marshal family, Alais was awkward with Isabelle. Being more familiar with Aline, John Marshal’s young wife, Isabelle’s attitude towards Alais was cool and restrained.

“What brings you to London?” William asked once he had brought Alais and Sybilla to the private chamber and seen them furnished with hot wine and a platter of date pastries.

“My son brings me,” said Alais with a smiling glance towards William’s squires. “I did not think you would mind me paying a visit, and I have a gift for him to celebrate the season. I’m also here to visit the markets. As you say, Sybilla is growing and she needs to be clothed.” She flushed and lowered her voice. “John has sent us money and bid us use it as we require.”

“You do know that if you lack for anything you can come to me,” William said quietly.

Alais accepted the offer with a dignified tilt of her head. “I know that, and thank you, but you are already doing enough in raising my son to knighthood, and truly, there is nothing we need. John is generous…perhaps more generous than I deserve.”

“Or perhaps not generous enough. Do not set yourself at naught,” William said, and received a poignant, grateful smile in response. “Have you seen him of late?”

She studied her hands. “He came to Hamstead after Michaelmas with money for us…I think he regards us as part of his accounting much of the time, and I think he has regrets—as I do. But you cannot dwell in the past, can you?” She raised her chin bravely. “He’s at Marlborough for the Christmas season with his wife—and caught up in matters concerning Prince John, so I understand.” She gave William a curious look. “There have been rumours about King Richard…that he is missing.”

William felt Isabelle stiffen at his side. “Rumours are all they are,” Isabelle said with a bland smile. “He is expected any day and the Queen has every confidence in his return.”

“Of course…I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” Alais said, reddening. “It’s just that I overheard the talk in the cloth market.”

“There is always talk in the cloth market, most of it not worth a wisp of latrine hay,” Isabelle said. Although she had not intended it, her words made Alais appear like a foolish chattering housewife. William tactfully eased the awkward moment by leaving Alais and Sybilla alone with his nephew who was the reason for their visit, and returned with Isabelle to the noisy hall to give them some private moments.

***

“Who was that knight talking to you?” Isabelle nudged William. They were lying in bed, the curtains drawn closed, secluding them from the other sleepers in the room. They had recently made muffled, surreptitious love and she had been drifting into slumber when the memory caught her and pulled her back to the shore of consciousness.

“A lot of knights talked to me tonight,” he mumbled.

“The one with the dark curly hair. He was sitting at the fire with Alais and Sybilla and he was with them when we arrived back from the palace.”

“Guillaume de Colleville. His second cousin Thomas is in my retinue.” He yawned and turned over, dragging the bedclothes with him. Isabelle promptly dragged her portion back.

“Is he in search of a position?”

“No, he has lands in his own right,” William replied in a sleep-blurred voice. “Just claiming a night’s hospitality on his way to other business.”

“Does he have a wife?”

“Not that I know of…and probably sleeps the better for it,” he growled.

Isabelle took the hint and fell silent. She curled herself against William’s spine. The warmth of the bed and the heat from his body gradually lulled her back into drowsiness but she had plenty of food for thought.

Forty

Caversham, Berkshire, February 1193

“He’s alive, he’s been found!”

On her knees, Isabelle looked up from the chest of cloth she had been sorting through as William strode into the room waving a piece of parchment bearing Queen Eleanor’s seal. “Who?” she asked, her tone vague for her mind was still half occupied with mental tallies of how many bolts of linen they had and how many they were going to need for summer garments.

“King Richard! He’s been found, praise God!” There was relief and agitation in William’s tone as he swept his youngest son into his arms and swung him round, making him squeal. “What is not so good is that he’s in the dungeon of Emperor Henry of Germany who has no cause to love him.”

“He’s what?” Isabelle stared at him.

“He was captured crossing the lands of Leopold of Austria, who’s no friend to Richard and sold him on to the Emperor.”

“But surely his captors’ souls will be imperilled if they interfere with a crusader?” Isabelle rose to her feet and stifled a sneeze caused by fabric filaments.

“Silver buys absolution,” William said with distaste. “Even if the Emperor doesn’t love Richard, he has an affinity for money. I warrant that he’ll allow Richard to go for a consideration.”

Isabelle looked disgusted.

“At least we know that he’s alive.” William set his son down on the floor and went to the clothing chest next to the one his wife had been sorting through. He threw back the lid, stared at the contents, and absently massaged his thigh over the area of the lance scar from his youth.

“What is it?” Isabelle knew there was more. “Tell me.”

He sighed out hard. “The Queen has summoned the justiciars to a meeting to discuss the issue. Prince John already knew about Richard through his spies. He’s gone to King Philip and done him homage for England and all of Richard’s lands over the Narrow Sea.”

“Holy Mary!” Isabelle gazed at William with foreboding while gooseflesh rose on her arms. Richard alive but helpless, John on the rampage for the crown. It was a disastrous brew even before it was stirred.

William dragged his winter court robe from the coffer and a pair of thick woollen braies. “We’ll have to alert all the shoreline castles and keep a watch on John’s vassals—and find a fast way of releasing Richard from prison, which is going to involve a lot of silver that we don’t have. The council will have to make some swift decisions.” Going to another coffer he removed his baggage roll and wrapped tunic, braies, a pair of fine court shoes, and a clean shirt inside it, fastened the ties, and lifted his fur-lined cloak off the peg in the wall. “I’ll be home with news as soon as I can. If we ride now, we can be in Oxford before nightfall.” He turned back to her, embraced her hard and swiftly, kissed his two sons, and blew out of the room.

Isabelle leaned against the coffer, her lips tingling from the pressure of his. After a moment she went to pick up Richard. Carrying him at her hip, ushering little Will before her, she took her sons down to the courtyard to watch their father and his mesnie ride out into the raw February afternoon, gold and green silks snapping against a leaden sky.

Rain lashed against the shutters of Eleanor’s chamber at Oxford Castle, the drops striking so hard that they sounded like stones. Outside it was full night and black as hell. The Queen shivered and huddled into her fur-lined mantle. Her right hand clutched a water-stained parchment. The ink had run and smeared, but the words were still legible to those who could read, and those who could not had been apprised of the contents. A messenger from John had been intercepted on his way to Windsor and from the details Eleanor had just read out, it was obvious that the Prince and the King of France were assembling a fleet at Wissant and hiring mercenaries hand over fist, ready to invade England. It was also plain that the messenger captured had only been one of several and that all of John’s castellans would be receiving letters from the Prince that would put their keeps on a war footing.

“We should call out the fyrd along the south coast,” William said. “If we are vigilant, we can prevent the enemy from landing.”

Eleanor’s jaw jutted as she agreed. There was fire and anger in her eyes. Over seventy years old she might be, but still a lioness. “I will have every baron in the land swear allegiance to Richard. Let all faithful castellans look to their defences and prepare to deal with invaders and rebels.”

“It shall be done, madam.” De Coutances bowed acknowledgement. “I will draft the notices tonight. The Abbots of Boxley and Robertsbridge will go immediately to Germany and open negotiations for the King’s release.”

“Good.” Eleanor’s agitation showed in the way she kneaded the thick fabric of her mantle between her fingers. She glanced irritably towards the shutters. “This accursed rain,” she snapped. “I’ve never grown used to it.”

“Other difficulties I can do my best to allay, madam,” said de Coutances with bleak humour, “but all I can offer to do about the weather is pray.”

Eleanor gave a hollow laugh. “I think we have more important things to ask God,” she said. “My husband kept me prisoner for sixteen years in Salisbury. I know how it corrodes the spirit.” Her face took on a stubborn cast. “I will have my older son returned, and I will have my younger one put in his place—and it is not Richard’s, nor will be while Richard draws breath.”

William exchanged glances with the other justiciars. Richard and John had never been renowned for their brotherly love and where John at least was concerned, fratricide was probably well within his lexicon of capabilities. The Queen must know it too, but from the way she was holding herself, the men judged it wise to keep their own counsel.

***

John Marshal gazed over the battlements at the Welsh mercenaries pitching camp in Marlborough’s bailey and swallowed hard. A March wind roared around his ears and his cloak kept trying to take off like a huge bird of prey. Wales being a traditional enemy as well as a fruitful place to recruit mercenaries, he was made uneasy at the sight of so many of them so close to the keep and armed with their innocuous-looking but deadly longbows. However, he could hardly refuse to house them when his royal master was standing next to him, a sour smile on his lips and his amber eyes narrowed against the bite of the wind.

The Prince had crept into England by crossing the Narrow Sea during the night in an unlit fishing boat and beaching in a bay where the only witnesses, a pair of fishermen, were now feeding the denizens of the sea floor. Of course others would be aware of his presence here now, but he had stolen a march on the justiciars and by coming around behind them had succeeded in buying troops that otherwise he would have had difficulty obtaining.

“I’m glad to see the keep is well stocked,” the Prince said.

“Yes, sire,” John Marshal replied, thinking that he would have to find the wherewithal to restock it unless the Prince moved on very soon with his locust army of Welsh. He had ordered his wife to stay in her chamber—not that there was much chance of her emerging of her own accord. Unlike his brother’s Countess, she didn’t have that kind of backbone.

The Prince paced along the wall walk to the next merlon and leaned against it. “Richard’s dead,” he said. “My mother refuses to believe it because he’s always been her favourite, but she’s old and deluded.”

“It is not true that he’s in prison in Germany?”

The Prince snorted. “That’s a tale concocted by Walter de Coutances and the justiciars because they want to keep their power. Richard may have arrived in Germany, but he’ll never leave. You are my sworn vassal and you’ve been my man for what, ten years now?”

“Ten years this midsummer,” John confirmed.

“Your loyalty will be rewarded.” The Prince tugged a ring off his finger and presented it to his castellan. “Wear this. Send it if you have need.”

“Sire.” John felt a flush of importance and pride. If John were made King, he wondered what those rewards might be. Greater than William’s perhaps? At his darkest core nested a secret hope that William might find his fortunes reversed and have to eat humble pie for a change.

“Where will I find you, sire?”

The Prince gave a sardonic grin. “Worried that I’m going to eat you out of supplies or take a notion to that boney little wife of yours?”

John coloured. He hated the Prince’s cruel sense of humour, but was not of the nature to fence with him or let it roll off his back. All he could do was grit his teeth and wait for it to run its course.

“These men are bound for my keeps at Wallingford and Windsor and the lady Aline has nothing with which to tempt me. Your brother’s wife, though…” The Prince’s grin broadened. “Not that I’m foolish enough to try.” He raised his hand to blow eloquently on his fingertips. “Let him handle her. There are plenty of sweet apples in the orchard without resorting to that one.” He glanced sidelong at his castellan. “Don’t look so purse-mouthed or I’ll begin to think that self-righteousness is a Marshal trait.”

John Marshal stared at his feet, enduring, unable to force a smile. He heard the Prince give an elaborate sigh. On the sward below the tower, one of the canvasses caught a gust of wind and flapped across the grass like a huge wounded bird, several bare-legged mercenaries in pursuit. “Speaking of Marshal traits,” the Prince said thoughtfully, “how likely is. it that your brother could be persuaded to bolster my cause…if you were to have a word with him?”

John made a face. William’s lands and confirmed military ability made his support a very attractive proposition to the Prince, but John Marshal had no intention of giving William a chance to usurp his own position at the Prince’s side. “He won’t listen to me,” he said brusquely. “He’s always gone his own way. If he is anyone’s man, he is your mother’s…” He didn’t need to add that Eleanor would be the last person in England to give up hope on her eldest son’s life and that William would sustain her to the end of that belief.

The younger man’s mouth tightened. “We’ll see about that,” he said and moved along the wall walk to the tower stairs.

***

“Christ’s bones, you’ve heard nothing from Germany. Face up to the fact. Richard is dead!” Prince John snarled at the justiciars who had convened in Westminster’s Great Hall to hear what he had to say. They were still in a state of agitation over the fact that he had managed to sneak around behind them, recruit mercenaries, and bolster not only Wallingford and Windsor, but Tickhill, Nottingham, and Marlborough.

“Sire, whose word do we have—save your own, which is scarcely unbiased—that King Richard is dead?” asked Walter de Coutances, his voice one of frozen courtesy. “We need more proof than hearsay.”

“God’s blood, it’s no more than hearsay that he’s alive!” John snapped. “When are you all going to wake up? I demand that you hand over the realm to me and order all men to swear allegiance.”

“You are the dreamer, John,” said Eleanor, who had so far listened in silence to her youngest son’s diatribe. Her expression was one of weary contempt. “Your brother lives. We have proof and more will come. You are commanded to disband your troops on both sides of the Narrow Sea and help us seek a way to free Richard from prison.”

“Why, when I have an inheritance to win from those who will not accept the truth?” John glared at them all. “If you will not give me what is mine by right, then by God, I will take it by fire and sword.”

Eleanor raised one eyebrow. “You haven’t had much success this far,” she said scornfully. “Three days ago my Kentish fyrd caught two shiploads of your Flemish mercenaries trying to land. I understand that a handful of survivors are in fetters. The remainder are fish food. The country holds for Richard, and so do the barons.”

“Not all of them,” John’s eyes glittered dangerously. He flicked a glance towards William, who returned it impassively.

“The men who matter,” his mother retorted.

John stared at his mother and the justiciars, at the hovering clerks and squires and attendants, their expressions studiously blank. “Is that your last word?”

“Of course not,” Eleanor said, her voice still level and calm. “I am willing to talk for as long as you wish…my son.”

John had gone beyond flushed and was now as pale as a winding sheet. “I am done with talking, Mother. From now on, I’ll let my sword speak for me. Richard is dead; let him rot in hell.” He turned on his heel and strode from the room.

Pale and shaking, Eleanor finally relaxed and sat down on a cushioned bench. “Do you believe I am deluded?” she asked the men seated around the trestle.

“No, madam, and I do not believe that your son believes it either,” William said. “But perhaps he hopes that others do. If a lie is spoken often enough and with sufficient conviction, it can appear more convincing than the truth—as I have had cause to know.” Rising to his feet, he brought her a cup of hot wine from the jug that had been warming by the hearth and knelt like a squire to present it. She accepted it with a wan half-smile.

“We must make the truth shout louder,” William said. “And if talking is over and done, and it must be with swords, then so be it.”

Eleanor looked at him. “Your brother holds Marlborough. Will he yield it to us if you were to speak with him?”

William rubbed his neck. “I can try,” he said doubtfully.

“Do so,” she said. The wine and a moment to compose herself had done their work and her voice was firm again, even if her hand still trembled on the cup. “If we are to lay siege to Windsor, we will need men and supplies. William, you are well placed in the Marches to recruit them. My son may have stripped Glamorgan, but you have access to Gwent and the Striguil lands.”