A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  A PRIDE OF KINGS

  Juliet Dymoke

  THREE CASTLES MEDIA

  First published in Great Britain in 1978 by Nel Books

  This edition published in 2016 by Three Castles Media Ltd.

  Three Castles Media Ltd

  Copyright © 2016 Juliet Dymoke

  The moral right of Juliet Dymoke to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

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  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Jacket design by Fourteen Twentythree

  The main character in this book is a work of fiction and the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Other names, characters,

  businesses, organizations and places are based on actual historical events. In such cases, every effort has been made to make such information as accurate as possible.

  Three Castles Media Ltd hereby exclude all liability to the extent permitted by law for any errors or omissions in this book and for any loss, damage or expense (whether direct or indirect) suffered by a third party relying on any information contained in this book.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my cousin, Joyce Robertson

  CHAPTER ONE

  When he was six years old William stood in the midst of a group of hard-faced barons determined to see him hang. He was alone and very frightened, a hostage in the hands of his father’s enemies, and his head barely reached the mail-clad thighs of these men, their kite-shaped shields seeming to him a wall of steel between himself and freedom. Looking up at them with a swift fearful glance he saw the grim expressions, the fierce moustaches where visors had been raised, and no mercy, no pity from any one of them.

  But he must not show he was afraid, that much he had learned, and clasping his small hands behind his back he said. ‘If you are going to hang me for my father’s fault, messires, you had best do it now – for he will not yield to you.’

  Someone at the back of the crowd laughed at the bravado of these words, only the foremost barons remained unmoved and William lowered his gaze to the forest of legs planted about him. He had seen a man hang once, seen the blood-darkened face, the protruding tongue, the enlarged eyeballs, it was a man his father had caught, a spy who had tried to poison the castle water. William had not wanted to watch, but his father was a hard man and stood with his hand on the boy’s shoulder until the hanging figure ceased its jerking. Afterwards William had heard his mother protest, but she, gentle creature, had no power to sway her husband. William thought of her now and how she would weep if he did not come home. His hands tightened themselves into one hard knot as he waited, thinking of the rope and how it would feel, remembering that swaying, jerking man, the horror of that engorged face.

  And then suddenly there was a movement behind and a tall man shouldered them all aside and came to the centre to look down at the boy. He had a face of great beauty, only the eyes were tired, the mouth drooping, and William knew who he was – King Stephen of England, for there was a gold coronet about his helm.

  He looked sharply round the assembled barons. ‘What answer did John the Marshal make to our demands?’

  Roger, Earl of Clare stepped forward. ‘He said, sire, that he will not, despite his agreement, yield to your terms. He will hold the castle of Newbury in the name of the Empress and as for this hostage, he says he has the hammer and the anvil yet to make more sons.’

  A rare expression of anger crossed the King’s face. ‘Unnatural father! Has he no love for his own flesh?’ He went down on one knee. ‘Come here, boy.’

  William came to him. Despite the anger he was not afraid of this tall man, still so handsome even in his fifties. But tears had threatened him at the harsh words of his father and he put up one hand to scrub at his eyes.

  ‘Child,’ Stephen said, ‘you know that your father has betrayed me, and you too? He gave his promise to yield that castle to me, and you as a hostage for his word, and now he will not keep it. What must I do?’

  William looked over the King’s shoulder towards the grey walls, the raised drawbridge, the battlements alive with armed men secure behind their bastions. His father had supported the Empress Matilda, grand-daughter of William the Conqueror, in her struggle to win the throne from Stephen. Now that her son Henry, Duke of Normandy, was in England and winning where she had lost, John the Marshal thought he would better serve his own interests by holding out and waiting for the vigorous young Duke to relieve him – and if his own son was sacrificed in the attempt it did not seem to worry him unduly. William thought of his mother, and then of his elder brother John. Would John mind if he died? John was always so busy now, learning to be a squire, that he no longer had time for play. William found himself longing to be back in the busy courtyard, chasing the hens and ducks that wandered freely while waiting for the pot, talking to the men-at-arms, fed sweetmeats by the cook, and he yearned for all the familiar things of home instead of having to stand here while they talked of hanging him.

  Yet the King looked kind. William swallowed the tears and said, ‘Will you hang me, sire?’

  Surprisingly Stephen was smiling. ‘I don’t know, William. Do you think I should?’

  ‘No, my lord, for when I am grown I may serve you well.’

  The King laughed outright at that. ‘Why, so you may, and you have too good a wit for these knights to strangle it with a rope. Do you play at knucklebones, William?’

  Startled, the boy said that he did.

  ‘Then we will play together.’ Ignoring a half uttered protest from one of the mailed knights, he went on, ‘Come, sit down on the grass with me and tell me what else you like to do.’

  So on the slope below the unyielding castle they sat down together, the King removing his helm and sending his barons to attend to the recommencing of the siege. When one began, ‘My lord, this boy’s life is forfeit, John the Marshal –’

  ‘Is a fool,’ Stephen finished blandly, ‘not to know what a fine courageous lad he has here.’ He demanded that some knucklebones be found for them and the barons dispersed, but there were black looks and further mutterings. William cared nothing for these things while this kindly prince continued to smile at him. He did not after all, want to die on a bright June day when he was no more than six years old.

  This was all many years ago now, but on a gusty March morning in 1168 outside the walls of Boulogne it came briefly to his mind, for he was joined by Gilbert de Clare, Earl Roger’s son, and Gilbert was very like his father. William’s own father, for whom he had felt no love since that morning at Newbury, was dead these four years, his mother even before that, and his brother John was marshal of England in his place. The year after they had sat together on the grass Stephen died and Duke Henry had become King Henry II, William had been sent to his father’s cousin, William of Tancarville, following the custom that boys should be brought up in other homes than their own. Tancarville was Chamberlain of Normandy; a dry man sparing of speech, he had nevertheless done his duty well by the boy, and as William developed an ability far beyond average in the handling of every sort of weapon there also developed a somewhat inarticulate friendship between them. He saw his father no more than once after he was released, but of his captivity at King Stephen’s court he had
happier memories. Whatever they might say now of that ineffectual King, whose weakness brought such misery upon England that men said Christ and his Saints slept, he at least remembered Stephen with affection and paid for a mass to be said for his soul every year on the anniversary of the King’s death-day.

  When he was old enough he travelled Europe earning his bread by his sword and gaining experience both as a mercenary and as a combatant in any tournament he could find, living on the prizes he won and sold. These wild skirmishes had as yet few rules: it was not intended that men should die in them though there were often casualties, for a live captive brought the ransom that a corpse could not. William learned how to take the best advantage of the combats, how to measure his opponents, how to gain the best prizes. Men began to look for him when a tourney was announced, eager to test their skill against his.

  This last spring, however, he had returned to England at the request of his dead mother’s brother, Patrick Earl of Salisbury, a bluff plain man with a stomach blown out from overmuch fondness for ale. Salisbury was commanded by the King to lead an expedition to quell some rebels who were terrorising the country around Lusignan at the instigation of their Count, and he and his nephew had landed at Boulogne to find a tournament about to take place. It seemed that King Henry and his Queen were visiting the Count of Boulogne and that he had organised this entertainment for them, the range of the fighting strictly limited.

  William had paid his two marks to enter and stood now some distance from the walls. He could not afford a body servant but he had offered a lad a penny to carry his arms and look after them inside the enclosure. The boy, towheaded and unwashed, grinned up at him and handled his shield and helm with awe and William ruffled his hair – the incident at Newbury had caused him to be kind to children.

  It had rained a little in the night, enough to soften the earth, but now the sky was clear, the bright March sunshine surprisingly warm. Despite the early hour the enclosure was filling rapidly with young men eager to try their skill, seasoned knights preparing for the form of entertainment that they preferred above all else. Common folk were crowding the walls of the town for a spectacular view of their betters, clothed in chain mail, carrying brightly painted shields and armed with swords and lances, battering each other into a state of exhaustion, and if at the end of the day there were a few casualties so much the better. Some spilt blood added to the excitement.

  William nodded to Gilbert ‘I see there is a stand erected for the King – this is to be a more ceremonial affair than most I suppose.’

  Gilbert shrugged. He was a short wiry youth, with dark hair and a dark stubble on his chin. ‘For all the King won’t have jousting in England, or in Normandy, that’s not to say we don’t organise a few tourneys on the quiet. We may surprise him today.’

  ‘I doubt it – I imagine there is little that goes on that he is not aware of. Is your father here?’

  ‘Yes, I’m to attend him. I hope the day goes well for you, William.’

  ‘I hope so too. My purse is nearly empty – as usual.’ Gilbert gave him a broad grin. Well, it never stays that way for long. Do you remember the day at Liege? When we were so in debt we could hardly pay for our dinner? Those knights who attacked us during the dinner hour will remember their treachery, eh?’

  A smile flickered across William’s face. He too relished that memory when, surprised without their armour, he and his companions had had to beat off an attack and he had rushed into the fray to pull a nobleman off his horse and carry the man, armour and all, into the farmhouse where they were eating. The knight brought a high ransom and they were able to pay their debts and eat well for a fortnight.

  ‘I wonder who will oppose us today,’ he said. ‘I think I saw Sir John de Valence and Sir Robert Buckley over there. I have need of another horse, Gilbert. Did you notice who owns that chestnut percheron – do you see, towards the right of our foes for today? I could not see what arms his master bore.’

  Gilbert shaded his eyes from the sun and then burst out laughing. ‘By God’s feet you are confident. That horse belongs to my uncle, Richard Strongbow.’

  William was unperturbed. ‘Is he considered a great fighter? I have not heard.’

  ‘When you see him, you will think not. But he is no mean hand with a sword. And have you not thought you might lose this beast of yours?’

  ‘No,’ William said honestly. ‘I have not lost a horse yet – and what other way have I to make my living? A landless younger son must provide for himself. I am not the heir to vast lands and an earldom as you are.’

  Gilbert shrugged. ‘It will be many a day before I succeed to them – my father is a lusty man and keeps me short in the purse. I’d best go and find him or I will yet again get the rough edge of his tongue. I suppose you will win a horse today – my uncle’s or someone else’s?’

  ‘Will you wager on it?’

  ‘Not I,’ Gilbert retorted. ‘I know you too well, William.’ He glanced with something like envy at the tall figure beside him. William Marshal was to his mind everything a man should be – well-made and strong with a face not handsome but with even pleasing features and a skin turned brown from the outdoor life he lived and with eyes that were blue, steady and unflinching, and a mouth that could smile suddenly when one least expected it. William’s hair was brown and thick and a moustache covered his upper lip though his chin had been freshly shaved this morning. It seemed to Gilbert who was not inclined to think deeply about anything, that William had qualities beyond those men who were content merely to fight to eat and drink until they belched their way to beds seldom empty. William Marshal was different. He did not swagger about lording it over those beneath him, nor did he fawn on those above him. His manner was quiet and yet Gilbert had the feeling that it hid a sense of purpose, that an easy way of speech did not mean one could take liberties. He wished him good fortune, nodded to a tall youth who was strolling over to them and went off to look for his father.

  The youth came up to William and laid a hand on his horse’s neck. ‘I wish I could fight today, but my father says I may not.’

  William was checking girths and stirrup leathers. ‘Another year and perhaps he will. From what I have seen in the practice field you will be able to hold your own. Your height is your advantage, as it is mine. We will ride together then, Will.’

  Will FitzHenry nodded, his handsome young face grave. ‘Aye. A bastard must make his own way, and the world is full of bastards.’

  William leaned on his saddle, the leathers creaking. ‘But when you are King Henry’s bastard, what need to fear? He will not see you starve.’

  ‘Probably not,’ Will agreed, ‘but Geoffrey is his favourite. Poor Geoffrey! He is determined that my brother will be a clerk, maybe a bishop, and Geoffrey is equally determined he will not. He wishes to be a soldier.’

  ‘He can be both, I suppose,’ William commented dryly. He had seen little of the bastard brothers until recently but a friendship was developing between him and the younger of the two. They were sons of that ‘Fair Rosamonde’ who had so bewitched King Henry in his youth that he had set her up in a little house near the royal palace at Woodstock. Now she lived quietly in the nunnery at Godstow near Oxford, but the King’s devotion to his two sons by her was evidence of that past romantic love. The Queen, seeing Henry’s mistress was behind convent walls, was disposed to be kind to the boys and they had been brought up at court with her own children.

  ‘You will win a place with your sword at any rate,’ Will said, ‘and my father always has a rich ward or two in his gift – perhaps you will earn one to bring you fat acres.’

  ‘I doubt a talent for handling a sword is likely to commend me that far. Though my brother is marshal in England, we’ve no noble blood in us.’ He glanced across the field to the opposing side where more knights were gathering. ‘By the way, do you know Richard Strongbow, Gilbert’s uncle? I’ve a mind to his horse.’

  Will’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, I know the Earl of Pembroke.
He has been into Germany escorting the Princess Matilda to her marriage with the Duke of Saxony. He only came back last night – and I heard him say that percheron was a gift from the Duke. He’ll not want to lose it.’

  ‘Maybe not but it is every man for himself in the mêlée. Do you see him?’

  ‘Aye, there he is – see, walking towards that group of knights. He has not armed yet.’

  ‘What! That coxcomb?’ William looked with astonishment at a slender figure with long curling fair hair, effeminate features and a smooth silent way of walking that reminded him of a cat stalking along the top of a wall. Richard de Clare was already forty years old but he did not look it, and as he bowed to greet a friend his manners were those of an elegant young courtier. ‘That is Strongbow? I thought he lived up to his name. Gilbert said –’

  ‘Oh, he does,’ Will assured him, ‘on the field. I hear he is in straits again with the moneylenders. They say he spends too much on lavish living and on his back - and you know he lost most of his estates for supporting King Stephen.’

  That name stirred William and he looked with fresh interest at the man he meant to make his main opponent today. His brother John, carrying his marshal’s staff, came past, a worried frown on his face for the Count of Flanders was not yet here and would take offence if the tourney began without him. He gave William a brief nod. They had met only twice in the last ten years and were as strangers. ‘I hear you bear yourself well at these affairs,’ he said curtly, ‘but remember your place – you are not yet knighted.’

  He hurried on not waiting for an answer, and William gave his companion an amused look. ‘Do you suppose that was meant to wish me well or a hope that I might fall off my horse?’

  And then there was no more time for talk as to the sound of a horn the Count of Boulogne led his illustrious guests to a stand erected for them. When he reached his seat King Henry turned and paused for a moment. He was a strong heavily built man with a bullet-shaped head under his crown, and his keen eyes glanced alertly round the large space marked out for the tourney. By his side the Queen whom he had wrested from the French King turned also to look at the crowds, the field bright with fluttering pennons, the sun glinting on steel. Eleanor was still beautiful, her dark hair encased in a crespine, a circlet of gold set on it, her body, still slender after bearing him eight children, sheathed in blue velvet, white sleeves hanging down, a jewel fastening her purple mantle. She had brought her husband great wealth and all the vast domains of Aquitaine and she had given him four stalwart sons and three daughters, the first of these already gone at twelve years of age to her wedding in Germany. Eleanor reached out to take the hand of her youngest daughter, her namesake, as the child climbed the steps, while her other daughter Joanna followed with her brothers, the handsome frivolous Henry, the more sturdily made Richard who at eleven already seemed likely to have all the striking Plantagenet looks, with his crisp red-gold hair and vivid blue eyes, and Geoffrey, ten years old and with the promise of the same good looks. Only the baby John was not present for he was little more than a year old and still in the charge of his wet nurse. With this bevy of children was also Princess Margaret, daughter of the King of France and already joined in wedlock to Prince Henry, though they were too young to consummate the marriage as yet, and her sister Alice who was destined to be Richard’s bride.