With the next breath, however, he cursed and strode out of the armoury, continuing on his way to the wine cellar. He had never, in all his life, apologized to a wench and he had no intentions of doing so now. He might be dead by nightfall if he did not, but at least he would have the dubious honour of being run through by the greatest knight and champion of all time.
CHAPTER FIVE
William the Marshal, despite the three score and six years he had already put behind him, was still a handsome man, immensely strong, with limbs as stout as the abutments of a bridge. He bore a full mane of long, thick hair, the black less evident than it once had been, the gray streaking down into the neatly trimmed, luxuriant beard. His voice could quiet a battlefield and his eyes, bright blue, sharp as daggers, could turn a man’s courage to water on a single glance.
He had been knighted by the old king, Henry Secund, and had spent most of his younger years in fierce and loyal service to his liege. He had been devastated by his mentor’s death and sickened by the way all three of the king’s surviving sons had conspired to break their father’s spirit and drive him into an early grave.
When Richard had succeeded to the throne, he had considered himself a champion in all things to do with battle and combat. He had harboured an intense dislike for William since the age of eighteen when he had been unhorsed by the seasoned veteran and publicly humiliated in a tournament. But the Lionheart also had a keen eye for valour and had not only retained William in his service upon being crowned, but had invested him as Marshal of England and rewarded the reluctant bachelor with a marriage to the wealthiest and most sought-after heiress in the kingdom: Isabella of Pembroke.
Eduard FitzRandwulf had good reason to fear the earl’s umbrage. At last reckoning, William the Marshal had championed over five hundred tournaments and single-combat bouts —an impressive feat that most likely would never be surpassed. His closest rival for trophies and honours was Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, who could count slightly more than half that number of victories in forfeited pennants and prizes. But Randwulf had also retired from the tournament circuits over a decade ago and had no intention of picking up a lance again for the sake of amusement.
The two men had become friends over the years—a respectful friendship between two old warriors, both of whom had been men of action and honesty all their lives and who found it hard to tolerate ineptness or deceit, especially from their king.
“Give me a sword and show me an enemy to fight,” the Wolf remarked dryly, “and I would gladly do so seven days of the week rather than have to debate a point of law for a single hour.”
The earl shook his head ruefully. “The king’s right to manipulate marriages is not even a law; more of a habit the crown has assumed in order to suit political needs. I myself had no choice in my bride, but …”
“But yours was a reward, not a punishment?” the Wolf suggested gently.
“I loved Isabella the moment I saw her,” the marshal admitted. “If she was a reward, I cannot think what I must have done to deserve her.”
“Possibly saved Henry’s life a time or two; surely saved the throne for Richard.”
The marshal chuckled. “Then ’tis no wonder John dislikes me so. Yet I had thought my family to be relatively safe from his interferences, especially now, when his mind should be occupied with other, far more pressing matters. I should have known better. When he is in one of his fevered moods of accomplishment, he can think on ten different subjects at the one time, giving each an equal amount of importance in his mind.”
William of Pembroke had come into the great hall just after sunset, refreshed by his bath and nap, his dusty travel garb changed for clean, richly embossed velvets and leathers. He had assured the Lady Servanne he was in no hurry to dine and would welcome a few moments of quiet conversation with her husband before he had to don the smiling face of a guest.
“I should also have known, or at least anticipated, that he would not pay off his valued mercenaries in gold—which he does not have—but in lands and titles and bribes of respectability. In this case, he is merely returning an unprofitable estate he had confiscated from the family during his time as prince regent.”
“Shall we assume your niece objects to being traded off as a reward?”
“She made use of the swiftest ship and fastest horses to bring me her opinion of the king’s meddling.”
“She crossed the Channel on her own?” Randwulf asked, mildly amused.
“Not entirely,” William said, casting an acerbic eye at the fourth man who was seated in the alcove with himself, Lord Randwulf, and Alaric FitzAthelstan. Henry de Clare reddened somewhat and fidgeted under his uncle’s fixed stare. “My nephew is as neatly and completely wrapped around his sister’s finger as a length of twine, although I have no doubt she would have found a boat and rowed it across herself if she had to. She is … a little headstrong. My own fault, I suppose, for coddling her the way I have all these years. I should have taken the flat of a sword to her rump a few times, as Isabella suggested, and perhaps she would have already been safely wed and out of the reach of an avaricious king.”
“Do we dare ask the identity of the prospective groom?”
William seemed to hesitate a moment before answering— “Reginald de Braose”—and even longer before meeting the Wolf’s eye.
Lord Randwulf and Alaric both reacted visibly to the name, leaving only Henry to glance from one rigid face to the next and wonder what ghastly secret he had not been privy to.
“Reginald de Braose,” the Wolf said with a deathlike intensity. “I have not heard that name in a long while, although it should come as no surprise to hear he is still in the king’s favour.”
“More so the father than the son,” William explained. “A routier who bears mine own name: William. He was in command of the king’s garrison in Rouen, although he and his wife Maude have both been in England these past two months, gleefully settling back into their newly restored estates at Radnor.”
“And planning the wedding of his son to the House of Pembroke?” Alaric whistled softly. “The king gives generous rewards to those who lick his spittle.”
“I warrant De Braose did a good deal more than that,” William declared. “He is a misfit brute who shares Lackland’s tastes for blood and pain. I am told he was put in charge of the knights who were captured along with Arthur at Mirebeau, and how he did make them suffer for their misguided loyalties!”
“Twenty-four of the bravest knights in Brittany,” Lord Randwulf said, staring down into his wine goblet. “I knew most of them by sight and reputation; a few have been welcomed guests at Amboise. We heard they had been transported back to England to stand trial for treason. Had I known that to be their fate, I would never have handed them over to John’s guard, but paroled them on their own honour. Have you had any news of them? Have they been released yet, or has the king decided to keep them on royal display a while longer?”
William looked shocked. “You have not heard? No. No, of course not, how could you? You have been guarding the king’s back at Blois.” He paused and gripped his own goblet tighter. “You had best brace yourself, old friend, for the knights you speak of are all dead.”
“Dead?” the Wolf gasped. “How? When?”
There was no easy way to say it, and the words came out like small gritty pellets. “They were taken to Gorfe in chains and rags, there to be thrown into cells and left to starve to death. And although they were given neither a morsel of food nor a dram of water, I am told some took upwards of sixteen days to die.”
The Wolf’s breath laboured harshly in and out of his chest. His eyes turned black as coal and began to burn with a fury that spread to the grinding hardness of his jaw.
“They were nobles” he hissed. “They were knights! Most of them were my neighbours and friends. Brave … brave men, to a one. Fighting for what they believed was right and just. Christ Almighty, had it not been by mine own command, my son might have been among them. I might h
ave been among them, by God, had they struck in any other direction but Mirebeau. And now dead? All of them?”
“All,” William nodded. “To England’s shame.”
The Wolf pushed out of his chair, unmindful of the wound in his thigh. He turned away from the three men and slammed the palms of his hands against the stone wall in frustration. He slammed them a second time, then a third, then leaned his weight on his arms and hung his head between his massive shoulders.
“Stupid, stupid boy! I had thought his grandmother would have raised him with more sense. If only he had not joined forces with Philip. If only he had bided his time …”
“Arthur came by his rashness honestly,” William pointed out. “His father Geoffrey was never wont to conceal his dealings with the French king. And they have both paid the highest price for their lack of judgement.”
Lord Randwulf stiffened and faced the earl again, but the chill in his spine answered his question before it was asked. “Have the rumours of Arthur’s death been confirmed then?”
“He has not been seen alive since the king left Rouen for Cherbourg more than two months ago.”
“He promised his queen mother he would let the boy live.”
“John has as little love for his promises as he has for Eleanor, although I suspect something about the deed has left him with a taste of guilt. When I last saw our noble king, his neck was hung with so many holy relics, he could barely stand upright under the burden.”
“Would that I had his neck under my boot this instant,” the Wolf snarled, “I warrant he would never stand again.”
Movement out of the corner of Randwulf’s eye caused him to glance over the marshal’s shoulder and to acknowledge Eduard’s arrival in the alcove. Because his expression so closely mirrored his father’s, it was obvious Eduard had overheard most of their conversation. It was also obvious, by the steadfast way the Wolf and his cub were staring at each other, they were reliving some private argument they had had at the outset of the young duke’s ill-fated quest to claim the throne away from John.
“You did try to warn him,” Randwulf said evenly. “You warned Arthur he would risk losing everything if he attacked Mirebeau. I warned you of the same thing and can only thank God you heeded me.”
Eduard drew a deep breath. “It did not … does not change my belief that the Duke of Brittany was the rightful heir to the throne of England. Or that our present king is nothing but a greedy usurper—now a murderer—who would stop at nothing to keep the crown seated firmly on his head.”
The Wolf sighed and eased himself painfully back into his chair. He noted the marshal’s concerned frown, for King John’s spies were everywhere, but he offered a smile that contained no sign of apology. “You have, I believe, met my son Eduard? He tends to be a little … headstrong … himself, at times.”
The earl stood, his barrel chest glittering with the blazon of the Pembroke device—a black shield with bars of green and a lion rampant, embossed in gold. He thrust out a hand the size of a large slab of beef, and clasped FitzRandwulf’s arm warmly.
“Aye, we have met. But it has been five … six years at the least, has it not?”
“More like eight, my lord,” Eduard replied stiffly. “You were present when I won my spurs, and it was as much an honour to be in your presence then as it is now.”
“We shall share the honours, shall we? I have been hearing how your reputation grows as a champion in the lists. Another year or two of seasoning and mayhap I will have to take you on myself.”
Eduard’s grace was a little strained despite the immeasurable weight of the compliment. He had bathed and changed his clothes and come quickly to the great hall in the hopes of finding the earl and offering his deep-felt apologies along with what he hoped was an amusing explanation of the misunderstanding with his niece. Now he was being flattered and asked about his successes on the tourny circuits.
“My triumphs are nowhere near as outstanding as your own, sir, and extremely modest compared to my father’s.”
“Nevertheless, you buckled on your spurs when you were seventeen; an admirable achievement by any measure.” The marshal paused and glanced beside him. “I do not believe you have made the acquaintance of my nephew, Henry de Glare. Henry … bare a hand to the only man I might be inclined to bet against you in a match.”
Henry moved forward and extended a greeting, noting the steady eye that met his.
“FitzRandwulf,” he murmured amiably. “I confess my uncle’s reservation intrigues me. Perhaps when there is more time for such things, we could put his faith—or lack of it—to the test?”
Eduard smiled tightly. An uncle and a brother to appease. Lord Henry’s hair was not the same fierce red as his sister’s, it was more of a brassy gold, but there was a distinct resemblance in the general character of the face—most notably in the stubborn cut of the jaw. Shoulders almost as broad as his own bespoke a comfortable strength, as did the fighter’s eye for instinctively gauging an opponent’s potential at first glance. De Glare would be no easy conquest in the lists or in hand combat, nor did he appear any more likely than his famous uncle to see humour in a case of misdirected insults against his sister.
The two knights eased the intensity of their handclasp, but not their mutual wariness of each other.
A disturbance further along the hall ended any further speculations. Servanne d’Amboise had returned from seeing the children tucked safely abed and her arrival was the signal for the cooks and servers to begin the final preparations for laying on the banquet. She had donned a gown of blue baudekin, a cloth from faraway Syria which combined azure silk and gold thread so that the folds shimmered and glowed with each step as though the copper rays of the sun had been caught and imprisoned in it. A girdle sparkling with jewels encircled her waist, and around her neck, a chain studded with sapphires and diamonds. Her long blonde hair had been divided into two gleaming plaits and bound within a woven crespine, over which she wore a thin, plain circlet of hammered gold.
Walking by her side, their arms linked, was Alaric’s wife, Lady Gillian FitzAthelstan, very obviously heavy with child and descending the stairs with the slow, careful steps of a woman unused to such imbalance. Her skin wore a healthy tan, attesting to her preference for remaining out-of-doors in all weathers. It also camouflaged the faintly visible initial that had been branded into her cheek. The mark of a thief was so faded by the years as to be hardly noticeable—indeed, Alaric, Randwulf, and Servanne had grown so accustomed to seeing it, they would not even have acknowledged it by description if pressed. Nor, for that matter, would any of the knights or men-at-arms in residence at Amboise. They had far too much respect for the beauty of Gil’s bow arm, for most of them had been trained to shoot both the longbow and the crossbow under her expert tutelage.
“Ahh,” said William the Marshal. “And there walks the bane of my life; the curse of my old age; the true test of mettle the likes of which I was never forced to meet in battle.”
His remarks, delivered with a heartfelt sigh, were directed toward the young woman who followed closely behind Gil and Servanne. At first glance she looked demure and complacent enough to suit the exalted company. Her tunic was a muted nutmeg brown, drawn tight at the neck and wrists with bands of green braiding. Her hair, that glorious abundance of fire tamed by little else, was confined within the folds of a modest linen wimple, its colour only hinted at in the glint of thick auburn lashes that framed her eyes.
Those eyes, as green as the emerald clasp she wore at her throat, roved from one end of the great hall to the other, clearly awed by the rich trappings and barely able to conceal her excitement at being there.
The small party consisting of Lady Ariel, her brother, Lord Sedrick, and Dafydd ap Iorwerth, had left Pembroke and sailed on board one of her uncle’s ships to the tiny port town of Fecamp, on the coast of Normandy. They had ridden quickly and without mishap directly to Rouen, only to find they had missed the lord marshal by a fortnight. He had gone, at the
king’s behest, to meet with King Philip in Paris, ostensibly to negotiate terms for peace. But since the French king’s only term was the safe return of Arthur to France—which John already knew could not be complied with—William’s quest had been a useless waste of time and diplomacy.
Hoping to intercept him on his return (and not wanting to linger in Rouen where the king’s spies might apprise him of their presence) the De Glares had set off in pursuit of the marshal’s caravan.
Returning to his pavilion one night to find his niece and nephew appeared from nowhere … suffice it to say, it was one of the few times Ariel could recall her uncle threatening her with physical harm—and meaning it. Neither tears nor tempers nor pleas for understanding had any effect. He roared and shouted and went back two generations to draw upon a slack-witted ancestor who happened to have the same shade of red hair as Ariel, and whose adventures had seen her into an early grave at a similar age.
Henry had fared little better. He was railed from one end of the pavilion to the other for agreeing to bring Ariel to Normandy in the first place, then to setting out across the country without a proper, heavy escort. Moreover, when the earl heard of the pact they had made with the Welsh prince— to kidnap the king’s messenger and hold him to ransom— William’s wrath knew no bounds.
To Henry’s credit, he had remained rigidly silent during most of the earl’s tirade. The blame for everything could easily have been settled on Ariel’s shoulders, as indeed it should have been, but he bore the weight of the plottings with Rhys ap Iorwerth himself, with only a stony glare directed at his sister now and then to warn her of the huge debt she would owe when the ashes had settled.
The third one to bear the brunt of the marshal’s anger was Sedrick of Grantham. He too let wrath descend unchecked, waiting until the earl had run dry of invectives and spittle. Then, to everyone’s surprise, the gruff and normally reserved knight corroborated Henry’s version of the events, assuring the earl they had not had the luxury of time or precedence to make any other decision. Enlisting the help of the Welshman in waylaying the courier seemed like a convenient means of buying a few weeks’ time—long enough to apprise the lord marshal of the situation so that he might take steps to act upon it. Bringing Lady Ariel to Normandy had, in all likelihood, forestalled her from doing something even more foolhardy (and here he too had casually added his own reservations concerning Ariel’s heritage) when there would have been no one around with the strength or wit to stop her.
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 54
