With much laughing and chatter the royal party seated themselves in the stand beneath a banner showing the lions of England and Normandy, a symbol of the greatness of Henry, King of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of Maine and Anjou, and the greatest thorn in the side of Louis of France – Henry Plantagenet, the begetter of a new line, the men who would bear the planta genesta, the sprig of broom. He sat now sprawled in his chair, a man of immense energy, clever, ambitious, autocratic, born to dominate, demanding obedience and unquestioning loyalty, and when he got it, inclined to be generous. He made a joke about his eldest son’s eagerness to fight, bidding him watch well and learn. On his other side sat the Archbishop of York, on a brief visit from England and high in the King’s favour since that disastrous quarrel with the Archbishop of Canterbury now in exile. Henry did not want to think about Becket, that one-time boon companion and friend who had so inexplicably turned against him, thrown all his gifts in his face, and who now lived among the monks at Sens, gaining sanctity in the eyes of the world, encouraging the picture of outraged virtue and gaining the friendship of Pope Alexander in a manner which made Henry grind his teeth with rage. But he had a scheme in his head – it was seldom that he had not – to make Thomas Becket stir himself, and for a moment his alert eyes rested on the figure of his heir.
Two groups of knights began the contest, riding hard at each other with lances couched, and it became a wild struggle with mounted men controlling their horses with their knees. If a man fell and could not remount he fought on foot, but if a knight could seize the reins and drag the horse clear it became a prize. An even greater prize was to take a captive but most of the contestants avoided this. The air was filled with the clash of metal against metal as they battered at each other, and in the pauses between bouts the ladies clapped and received chaplets from their favourite knights. It was a great deal more orderly than the tourneys William was used to in Germany, but he waited a little while before entering, reserving his strength until he saw Strongbow mount, bearing the red cross of the Clares on his shield.
William mounted himself, took his shield from the boy, settled his helm on his head and held out his other hand for his lance.
‘Good fortune,’ Will said, ‘and God send you are not brought back lying on your shield.’
He rose into the mêlée using his lance to some effect and when it shivered drew his great sword, his favourite weapon.
He drove off a knight who swayed violently in the saddle but without falling, kicked out at a man on foot who tried to wrench at his reins and pull his horse down, the familiar excitement seizing him; he could feel the heat in his face, the strength in his arm, and with it the knowledge that he was as skilled as any man there.
The Earl of Salisbury, nursing a bruised shoulder, made his way to stand beside the Chamberlain of Tancarville. ‘You’ve taught my nephew well,’ he remarked. ‘I’ll wager you never had a keener pupil.’
‘Aye, and I’ll tell you this,’ Tancarville answered in his clipped voice, ‘I’ve not in all my years seen a fighter like him. Mark me it will matter nothing that he has no lands – he will win all by his sword. And I tell you another thing, my lord Patrick, he may be ambitious – indeed he is – but he is neither greedy nor grasping. I wish I had more squires like him.’ He hitched his gown about him, wishing that the pain in his joints that was insidiously taking possession of them these days would cease, that his own time with the sword and the lance was not over. His lean, hard features lit with a rare light, ‘By God’s bones, that was well done. He has broken Strongbow’s lance. Turn, William, again! You have him!’
‘Holy Saints!’ Earl Patrick exclaimed. ‘We will all have to look to ourselves when he enters the lists.’
In the field William, though he had not heard his tutor’s words, was pressing home his advantage. Pursuing the Earl of Pembroke on the edge of the mêlée, he raised his shield to ward off a wild blow, there was a roar from the crowd as he rocked momentarily in his saddle, and then it was he who caught Strongbow on the shoulder, sending the Earl slithering sideways and out of the saddle. For one moment his foot caught in the stirrup and then he was free and rolling away on the ground, out of reach of the plunging hooves. William leaned forward and seized the reins of the percheron, dragging it clear of the fighting. Then he was cantering away with it to the edge of the field where, to an even louder roar from the watchers, he gave his prize into the care of Will FitzHenry before returning to the fight.
At last towards noon the heralds called a halt. Many knights, blown or horseless, had sought refuge in the wicker pens on the edge of the ground and William found he was among the few still left in the thick of it. While the judges conferred he stood leaning on his sword, aware of a certain pleasant weariness, an ache in his right arm that he would not have exchanged for all the luxury in the world. He was only half listening to Will’s excited praise of his efforts when the Earl of Pembroke came over to him.
Richard Strongbow had walked from the field, little more than bruised by his fall, but there was a rueful expression on his face. ‘Well, Messire Marshal, you have done well today. I’m not often unhorsed.’
‘I must admit, my lord, that I’d set my mind on your percheron.’
‘And you won him fairly, though it has put me in difficulties – I’ve to ride for the coast tomorrow and my purse is too lean for a mount of that quality.’
William’s slow smile came. ‘My lord, I can’t credit that.’
‘You may not credit it, but I have creditors enough to prove it,’ Strongbow answered humorously. ‘Well, he’s yours and I’ll have to hire me a mule to bear me to Calais.’
William hesitated, but only for a moment, aware of a sudden liking for this man. Then he said, ‘Keep your horse, my lord. I will claim the debt another day for I see we are in like straits now.’
The Earl’s eyebrows went up. ‘You are singularly generous, William Marshal, and I thank you for it. A loan it is and here is my hand on it – for I must get to England. Will you drink a pot with me later?’
The horns sounded again and when there was at least partial silence the marshal announced in a resounding voice that his brother was the winner of the particular laurels for the day.
‘Holy Cross!’ Strongbow said, ‘I am not shamed to have lost to the day’s champion.’
William went forward, not without a certain surge of pride, and as he passed his brother, the marshal said in a low voice, ‘Conceit will not commend you, brother, so show a proper reverence. And keep guard on your purse when you have it. Do not look to me to furnish your enlarged ideas.’
William suppressed the desire to laugh, and not answering his brother went up the step to the King’s chair.
Henry leaned forward, the sun glinting on his close-cropped red hair, his rather protruding grey eyes fixed on the winner. His bands, which held the purse, were rough and reddened, but they glinted with jewels, while his doublet and short Angevin mantle were of the richest velvet, though their fit left something to be desired for this energetic man drove his tailor to distraction by refusing to stand still for more than a few seconds at a time. He held out the prize to William and his smile showed large uneven teeth.
‘Well done, Messire Marshal. We shall have to find some place about us for you. Will you serve me?’
‘In any way your grace desires,’ William answered and bent the knee. Was this at last what he had hoped for – the landless man whose only chance to rise in the world lay in catching the eye of the King? He received his purse and became aware of the warm, dark eyes of Queen Eleanor upon him.
‘Who better to teach our sons the use of arms?’ she suggested, and unfastening the brooch from her mantle, she held it out to him. ‘Take this gift from me, Messire Marshal. You have given us good entertainment today.’
William cradled it in his hand. It was of amethysts fashioned in the shape of a sprig of broom and set in a circle of silver, and the thought came to him that however hard pressed he mi
ght be he would never part with this, a Queen’s gift.
Henry rose from his seat. ‘You are marching out with your uncle of Salisbury to deal with the rebels at Lusignan, are you not? Then come to me when you return. I’ll not forget what we have said. The care of our sons is most vital to us.’ He gave his eldest son a quick smile of surprising sweetness, and offering the Queen his arm led her away out of the stand.
William had stood aside, bowing low, but the moment they were gone he was besieged by the young princes all talking at once, and it was Henry who turned fiercely on the others crying out, ‘I am the eldest – Messire Marshal shall teach me first and I shall beat you both.
‘Messire –’ he turned eager blue eyes on the victor, ‘Messire, you will not forget? You will come back?’
There was something about the boy that was immensely appealing and William answered without hesitation. ‘I will not forget, my lord – even if your father had not commanded it, I would come back.’
Late that evening, with Richard Strongbow and his nephew Gilbert, and young Will FitzHenry, William went into the town that clustered around the slopes of the castle and to an inn where they stayed drinking until long after curfew, relaxing in pleasant company, talking over the events of the day, Gilbert repeating a somewhat scurrilous tale about Archbishop Roger of York that sent them all into shouts of laughter. At length Will slid under the table, overcome by cheap Rhône wine, and Strongbow offered to haul him back to the castle as he himself must be away by first light.
‘I forgot,’ William said in a slightly muddled voice. ‘You are going back to England – on some mission for the King, my lord?’
Strongbow gave a low laugh. ‘I hardly know, but his grace has given me permission to aid King Dermot of Leinster to regain his kingdom. Perhaps if I succeed in Ireland, King Henry may restore my English lands to me. I would like to end my days as lord of Pembroke castle instead of wearing an empty title.’ He paused, one arm about Will who was displaying a tendency to giggle and blinking owlishly in the light of the guttering candles. The tavern was empty now save for themselves, and the landlord, wiping his hands on a grimy apron, was clearly hoping they would all go home. Strongbow added, ‘You were generous to me today, William Marshal. If I have good fortune, I will be generous to you – maybe I will need a castellan at Pembroke, or perhaps you would prefer to see some fighting in Ireland?’ But it was a rhetorical question and the corners of his mouth turned upwards as he held out his other hand.
William took it in a strong grasp. There was an odd moment of silence. The question was one that he could not answer now, but somewhere at the back of his mind it seemed to him that he would remember the words of Richard Strongbow.
When they had gone Gilbert hiccupped and said with his slight stammer that became pronounced when he was in his cups, ‘My uncle must n-needs mend his fortune, and he will, b-by God – he’s a C-Clare! Well, I’m for a night’s wenching. C-come, let’s see what sport we can find.’
An hour or so later William lay on a straw pallet in a house where a certain creaking sign hung over the street, and listened to the even breathing of the girl at his side.
He was satiated with success, with the day’s triumph, with promises for the future beyond what he had dreamed of, with wine and now with the body of this girl lying close to him. He had a rich purse, several prizes, including Strongbow’s saddle which he would sell for his keep, a Queen’s jewel which would never leave his possession, and in the flush of youth though he might be, he was aware that he cared little for the moments of passion. It was what he had achieved today that filled his mind.
The girl stirred and turned towards him, sliding her arm around his strong muscled body, murmuring that he was a fine fellow, but he pushed her away, cool now that passion was satisfied, and slipping from the bed he pulled on his clothes. Then, leaving a coin on the stool beside her he went out into the night, and ignoring the curfew walked up the street to the lodgings he shared with his uncle.
To be tutor in arms to the heir to the throne of England – ah, that would be something and it was that thought that occupied him in the darkness under the brilliant starlit sky. A cat, scavenging on a midden, yowled at him as he disturbed her. William kicked some unsavoury rubbish at her and walked on, a faint smile on his face. The day had been a turning point, he was sure of it, and he flexed his muscles in anticipation, with no desire for sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
But he was not yet destined to achieve his ambition. A month later he was struggling back to painful consciousness to find himself lying on an evil-smelling pallet in a cell into which only a little daylight filtered through a narrow slit in the circular walls. As memory came back he put out a hand to feel the wound in his thigh and brought it away wet with blood, his hose sticking round the oozing hole. If this bleeding was not staunched he might lie here until he died, and he twisted his head towards the solid wooden door. There was a small grill in it but he could see no one outside; he was desperately thirsty and he called out, but there was only silence.
He tried then to remember clearly what had happened since the fight. He and his uncle with their men had been on the way to Lusignan and halting at a poor village found insufficient meat for their supper. They had gone hunting and were just returning when a party of Count Guy’s men ambushed them. His uncle Patrick had no time even to arm and an enemy spear had buried itself deep in his chest so that he was dead before he reached the ground. There was a wild skirmish and William, already dismounted, could do no more than stand over his uncle’s body and defend himself. There was a hedge of tangled briars and elder behind him and he had backed against this as the Count’s men rode at him. He struck out, driving his sword into one horse’s neck, catching another in the belly so that they and their riders came down in a kicking, heaving confusion. Somewhere he sensed some of his men still fighting, but the others must have run for in an incredibly short time he seemed to be standing alone. The end came suddenly. An enemy horseman riding round behind him jumped the hedge and plunged his spear downwards with great accuracy. William felt it drive into the fleshy part of his thigh and, panting with exertion, dizzy with the pain, his knees gave way and a dozen hands seized him.
Now he lay on this dirty pallet, bleeding, aware of waves of nausea and that he would have given all he possessed for a drink of water. How long he lay there he did not know and he wondered why, if they wanted him to die, they had bothered to bring him back – he had a vague memory of sprawling across a saddle, of hooves on a drawbridge, and it seemed to him he must lie in the Count’s own castle.
At last when the light began to fade the door opened and a guard admitted a scrawny kitchen girl with a jug of water and a platter of unappetising gobbets of meat. From under her coif straggling dark hair hung down and smears of dirt hid the pallor of her face, but her eyes, frightened at first, showed a swift gleam of pity as she looked down at him. The smell of the stew added to his nausea and he reached out for the jug, drinking eagerly, the water running down his chin.
‘Messire,’ she whispered, ‘your leg is still bleeding – can you not bind it?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing –’ but before he could finish the sentence the guard, a thickset bully of a man, came in and taking the girl by the shoulder twisted her away from the prisoner so that she gave a little cry of pain. ‘Slut!’ he said, showing blackened teeth, ‘be about your business,’ and a moment later the bolts shot into place behind them both.
William drank the rest of the water and tried to eat some of the meat. It was tough and with no seasoning but the warmth of it in his empty stomach gave him a little strength. He twisted his head and found it rested on his rolled up mantle, and struggling on to one elbow as a thought came to him he fumbled in its folds. To his astonishment his fingers came to rest on something hard, and he realised that by some miracle the men who had brought him in had not found his brooch, the Queen’s gift. Perhaps they had bundled the mantle to support him on his horse and
the clasp had been hidden in its folds. In any case he had it and freeing it from the mantle, he tucked it inside his stained gambeson where it would be even safer.
Then, exhausted, he fell asleep, but awoke in the dark hours to find his leg burning, and shoots of pain kept him awake for the rest of the night.
For another day he was left there alone. He could hear sounds of daily life, voices and tramping feet, horses’ hooves and the jangling of accoutrements, but no one came to him, not even the kitchen girl, until evening when once more the door opened and Count Guy himself entered.
A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1) Page 2
