The Archbishop bowed and withdrew, a tired and frightened man, and Henry turned, tucking his arm in a familiar gesture through William’s. ‘Come, let us go out. I hate such annoyances and an hour at the chase will blow all this away. I am right, am I not William?’
‘I hope so, sir.’ But the affair was disquieting and William followed his young master down the stair, wondering why Thomas Becket had taken part in a reconciliation only to do the very thing he knew would anger his royal master. The threat of interdict lying over them all was not pleasant. Like Henry, William was devout; he believed in the Church’s care for souls. The holy chrism had been poured on Becket’s head, making him their spiritual lord, their father in God – and the dividing line between that authority on the one side and material kingship on the other had become fine indeed.
They rode out into the cold crisp air, accompanied by several other lords, a gathering of young men all eager to follow another young man. The trees were white with hoar frost, ice on the puddles, twigs snapping beneath the horses’ hooves. Henry had the ability to turn from one to the other with his quick smile, his anger forgotten in his love for the chase, and there was not a knight there who had not at one time or another received his generosity. He was lavish to his friends – William wore a short hunting mantle of green velvet trimmed with fur that the Young King had given him – and in a sudden rush of affection William felt only irritation that churchmen should make such a bother over what they called their rights.
The castle hall at Winchester was decorated with evergreen branches ready for the Christmas feast and the short December days passed quickly. Henry kept his court alive with his own merriment, playing the Lord of Misrule himself; he was a fair mimic and several high-born lords found themselves the butt of the company’s laughter. And then, while the festivities were still in full swing, on the last day of the year when the first flakes of snow were drifting down, a muddied messenger burst into the hall at the dinner hour, crying out that he must see the King.
Henry had been about to take his seat on the dais and he paused, one hand on which gleamed a large ruby resting on the back of his chair. ‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘Why do you come into our presence in such a state?’
‘Sire!’ The man threw himself on his knees. ‘The Archbishop is dead – murdered in his own cathedral at Canterbury!’
‘Dead? Murdered?’ Henry could scarcely get the words out. ‘In God’s name who could do such a thing?’
‘Four knights, my lord – your father’s knights – Fitzurse was one – they smashed his skull open, and men are saying that your father sent them –’
Years afterwards, looking back on that scene, William thought it was a turning point for them all. A few angry words, spoken by King Henry in a moment of exasperation against what seemed to be the treachery of a friend, had brought about that ghastly tragedy. Christendom was shocked, revolted by the deed. The blood and brains of the murdered Becket, spilt on the steps of the choir in so bestial a manner, became holy relics. People swarmed into the church, pulsating with horror, to dip their kerchiefs into the blood, to touch the place of martyrdom in a fervour that swept the nation.
Young Henry left the hall, the meal untouched, and in his chamber above wept for his one-time tutor, forgetting his recent annoyance and cursing his father for being the author of so terrible and sacrilegious a murder. King Henry swore he had never intended the knights to take him so literally and did public penance, even allowing himself to be flogged by the smug monks of Canterbury, but it did little good. Thomas Becket became a martyr and nothing was ever the same again.
Some eighteen months later in the spring of ’72 King Henry came to England and at Pembroke Castle the Earl of Clare entertained him. Young Henry was with his father and William, in his train as usual, renewed his acquaintance with Strongbow. He had ridden ahead to be sure all was in readiness and Strongbow greeted him as an old friend.
William took his outstretched hand. ‘We have been hearing great things of you, my lord. It seems you have all Ireland at your feet.’
Richard de Clare gave him a wry smile. ‘It is so indeed. I little thought when I wed King Dermot’s daughter that in two years he would be dead and Leinster under my hand, though we had a hard fight of it at Dublin. I think I have won too much.’
‘You may well say so,’ William commented dryly. ‘There is but one master after all, and he is not too pleased.’
‘He sent us to subdue a pack of wild Irish rebels thinking to keep us occupied with lesser affairs, and we won a kingdom. We know him too well to believe he would like that!’
‘Aye, he will not even allow his own sons to rule what he has given them. My young lord is very restless.’
‘Is he so? Well, the cubs must be kept in order, I suppose, and I shall have to submit all I have won to his grace’s pleasure. At least he restored my lands here, and it occurs to me, William, that I am in a position to repay a certain debt.’
‘A debt? To me?’
Strongbow smiled. ‘I seem to remember that I owe you a horse.’
‘I had forgotten that. We are both in better case than we were then.’
Strongbow nodded, his eyes wandering round his domain. ‘Thank God for it. This is a fine castle, is it not?’
They were standing in the doorway of the great keep, newly finished, the limestone fresh and gleaming in the evening sunshine. It was built on the highest ground within the inner ward so that from the roof there was a fine vantage point looking out towards the river and the busy quay and the way to the sea, or inland to keep watch on the marches. The outer court was large with massive walls to protect it housing a mass of wooden buildings, kitchens, storerooms, guest rooms, and tonight every available space would be crammed with the army King Henry was taking to Ireland. A magnificent place, William thought and wondered what it would be like to be lord of so great a holding with many manors and farms and tenants so that one might ride all day on one’s own land.
He turned back to his companion. ‘I’ve seen none better for defence. Are you expecting trouble from the Welsh princes?’
Strongbow gave him a grin that was distinctly boyish. ‘I took some of their leaders and many of their men with me to Ireland and let them garrison my castles there – that is my way of protecting the marches. I learned something about strategy in Ireland.’
‘And acquired a wife,’ William added, smiling. ‘Very politic, my lord.’
‘It was, but more than that now. My marriage has been happy, William. Did I tell you that I have a daughter? Isabel is six months old now and will have a fine dower with Leinster in her gift and my Norman lands beside – unless I should have a son in due time. Maybe I’ll give her to you for your bride!’
It was said in a humorous manner and William answered in the same tone. ‘By the time she is grown, I shall be a greybeard, my lord – to her at any rate.’
‘When did that ever make any difference to a marriage?’ Strongbow retorted. ‘And she will wed where I wish. But no doubt by then you will have captured an heiress anyway. I think you are on your way to higher favours yet, although,’ he paused, ‘you do not seem to want to win your way by the marriage bed.’
William shook his head, but he said nothing and Strongbow went on, ‘And there is not a man in Europe to compete with you in arms, yet you have not asked for knighthood. What do you care for, William? I’ve often wondered.’
William leaned against the heavy jamb of the door, his eyes on the sunset sky. He was silent for some time and Richard de Clare, who knew when to be patient, waited. At last William said, ‘Chivalry, perhaps. I care for knighthood, Richard; that is why I have waited. When I take the vows I shall mean them. They are sworn to God, yet knights can act as Fitzurse did and de Moreville and the others. Do you know Hugh de Moreville once had a Saxon squire boiled to death for a trumped-up crime? Such men should have their spurs struck off.’ He paused. It seemed to him that now, after two years, the unobtrusive reinstatement of the fou
r men guilty of Becket’s murder could be seen in two ways: perhaps the King felt a true sense of personal guilt and was not prepared to make the four scapegoats, or perhaps on the other hand, though he abhorred the actual deed he was glad that Becket was gone, that the quiet, amenable Abbot Richard of Dover should be Archbishop of Canterbury. William did not know, but the whole miserable affair had made him consider what chivalry should mean.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ Strongbow agreed. ‘Fitzurse has been fighting with my men in Ireland. He’s strong enough in battle yet his face has the look of a man who does not sleep easy at night.’
‘That does not surprise me,’ William said in his dry way. He smiled suddenly. ‘I care for friendship, Richard – my young master’s, yours, Gilbert’s, Will FitzHenry’s.’
‘I know, but it is good to have a wife, children –’
‘That will be as and when God pleases. For the present I have enough to do keeping my lord out of trouble.’
‘Trouble?’ Strongbow laughed. ‘King Henry’s brood were born to trouble and you will be in the thick of it.’
He was proved right only too soon. King Henry stayed in Ireland only long enough to ensure that Dublin and the Pale were well defended and that Richard Strongbow and other lords received their holdings as fiefs from the Crown, before returning across the channel, taking his eldest son with him.
Henry went reluctantly. He wanted to stay in England, to exercise his kingship, but with a brief ‘no’ from his father the country was left in the capable hands of the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, the chief Justiciar Ranulf de Glanville, and a council of noblemen. He sulked on the ship and when they rejoined Queen Eleanor he was seen to be spending much time in whispered converse with her and his brothers, converse that ceased suddenly when anyone else came into the room.
Will FitzHenry, playing chess with William on the first night of their return, pointed out a young knight who owned the modest castle of Hautfort in Aquitaine. ‘He is newly come to court,’ Will said in a low voice, ‘and one can’t help liking him. He is a great singer of songs and can write a new one every supper time, but they are always – I don’t know – more than they seem. Sometimes I think he means to fill men’s heads with what would better not be there.’
William glanced across the hall in the direction Will was indicating and saw a handsome young man, dressed in scarlet sendal, many rings on his fingers. He had gathered a group of other young men about him where he sat on the steps of the dais below Queen Eleanor and some of her ladies. For a moment William paused to listen. The song was catchy, the tune such that every page would be whistling it on the morrow, and the words a clever mixture of fairy tale and fact William, though he had little interest in music except for dancing which he had grown to enjoy – one moved about in the dance and he preferred that to merely listening to tedious readings or poems – nevertheless found himself startled by the words. Bertran de Born sang of the fair Land of Aquitaine and its fairer Duchess, of the love of her people for her as their own, that they had no need of strangers from other lands.
‘Is he a fool?’ William asked abruptly but Will shook his head.
‘No indeed. A subtle fellow, clever, and with such a pretty wit one can’t help wanting him to sing.’
During the next few weeks William made a point of talking with the knight and listening to his songs. Certainly Bertran was becoming renowned as a troubadour. Sometimes Prince Richard, who was also a good hand at composing, joined him and they entertained the court for many an evening.
Yet always there was an underlying note in Bertran’s songs, the odd barbed dart that found its home, the innuendo that men might read if they wished into seemingly innocent words. More than once, as he listened, King Henry’s brows drew together in a frown and there was little that he missed.
‘Why do you do it?’ William asked the minstrel one evening as he slid into a place at the table beside him. ‘You stir up feelings that are best left alone.’
The dark attractive face of de Born wore a smile of satisfaction. ‘Why, Messire?’ he countered. ‘Because where there is no conflict there are no great songs. Oh, I can write a verse for Queen Eleanor’s Court of Love, but so can a dozen others. I have a wit for sharper things, and what better than to see the cubs sharpening their claws to challenge the old lion? It benefits me for the princes of this world to be warring with each other.’
William looked at him with distaste. He did not share Will’s liking for this popinjay. ‘You make mischief, Sir Bertram.’
‘It is my trade,’ the knight answered, and taking a portion of roast fowl tore at it with sharp white teeth. ‘But the mischief was there before ever I put it into song.’
He was right, William thought. No one could fail to notice the uneasy atmosphere in the hall of late. This evening the usual rich dishes were served, the wine poured liberally, men and women at the lower tables talking loudly, and there were the usual bursts of laughter at some lewd joke or piece of titillating gossip. But it was observed that the King ate little, that occasionally he would rise and prowl about the hall listening to the talk, which died respectfully as he came past. The Queen sat with her eyelids lowered, Richard serious and silent by her side, Henry and Geoffrey with their heads together. Only the six-year-old John was at ease, laughing delightedly at the antics of the court jester and snatching his stick of bells to shake it furiously. ‘I think,’ William said at last, ‘your wit is ill-timed. Sir Bertram.’
The knight gave him a sly look. ‘Do you indeed, William Marshal? Pray that I do not some day turn it upon you.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Queen Margaret sat with her sister Alice, both of them busy with their embroidery for their mother had held the opinion that even princesses should not be idle, but Margaret’s mind was not on the intricate little scene she was weaving, a hunting party with ladies and gentlemen in elaborate dress and with hawks above and hounds at their feet ‘You are making that tree the wrong colour,’ her sister said. ‘I’ve not yet seen blue leaves.’
‘Oh.’ Margaret began to pull out the stitches. ‘I was wondering where my lord is.’
Alice gave a little shrug. ‘There is Messire Marshal passing the door. He will tell you – if you cannot beguile an hour with me without sighing for your bridegroom.’
Now that Margaret and Henry were of age they were living together as husband and wife, their happiness in their new state obvious to all, and her eyes were warm as she beckoned William into the room.
He came, bowing to the two princesses. Alice, he knew, was the cleverer of the two with a strong personality and a pair of hazel eyes that looked directly at a man with no hint of maidenly modesty, and he much preferred the quieter, gentler Margaret. ‘How may I serve you, lady?’ he asked, addressing his question to her.
‘Messire Marshal, have you seen my lord? He promised to play at chess with me – he is teaching me the game – but he has not come and I wondered –’
‘He is not in the hall, lady,’ William told her. ‘Perhaps he waits on his father.’
Alice said, ‘Sister, you presume too much on a man’s desire for women’s company, even on Henry’s for yours. Other occupations can soon wean them from us.’ She leaned back on the cushions where she sat, taking a sugar plum from a dish beside her and nibbling it, savouring its sweetness. ‘Is that not so, Messire William?’
He gave her a faint smile. ‘If I say yes I shall be ungallant, but if I am truthful –’
‘Oh do not be truthful,’ Alice retorted lazily. The last thing we women want is plain truth. Margaret will find that it is so.’
The Young Queen shook her head. ‘You are too devious for me. And Messire Marshal is in my lord’s confidence.’
‘I will look for him,’ William told her. ‘You have but to command me, your grace.’
He looked down at her, at the soft brown eyes, hiding now a trace of anxiety, and he wished that Princess Alice had held her tongue. What need to disturb this lovely girl’s p
resent happiness? He lifted her hand to his lips and held it there a moment longer than was necessary, before he went out and along the passage that led to the royal apartments. He was twenty-six now, of an age when many young men had taken wives and held lands of their own, begetting heirs to succeed them, but his path seemed to be set in royal service and, as he had said to Strongbow, he had not thought of marriage nor did he wish to. Of all the maidens he had danced with or talked to at the dinner table, only Queen Margaret seemed to him to be the perfection of all that womanhood should be, and those last words he had spoken to her were far more than a formal answer.
When he reached the entrance to the royal apartments he heard raised voices, the tone leaving no doubt as to the nature of the conversation, and he made at once as if to withdraw. His young master, however, was standing with one hand on the drawn-back arras and seeing him, commanded him to come in.
‘William will bear me out,’ he said imperiously. ‘Since we came back I have had no money, not one silver penny from my realm and I am King of England. William, is it not true?’
Embarrassed, William stood in the doorway, hesitating to speak even in the face of such a demand, for the King, his highly coloured cheeks bright with anger, the grey eyes stormy, was prowling up and down the arched chamber. The Queen sat in her chair, her lips tightly pressed together, her eyes fixed on her favourite child, Richard, where he sat on a stool, his hands clasped between his knees, his mouth drawn down. Geoffrey leaned against the wall by the window, arms folded; his dandified clothes and easy manner a contrast to Richard’s gravity, but he too had reason for discontent.
A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1) Page 4
