A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Much later in the tent the young princes shared, Henry turned to William and tears of rage and frustration ran down his face. ‘I hate him!’ He could scarcely get the words out ‘Oh God, I hate him! He is a devil – a devil.’

  ‘My dear lord,’ William said, ‘it is not thus you should think of him. He is your father and he has been generous to us. We have our freedom.’

  Richard, who had been leaning silently against the tent pole, his arms folded, gave a sudden snort. ‘Do you not know, William, we are the children of Melusine? From the devil we came, so it is hardly surprising that the devil should strive with us.’

  It was the second time that day that William had remembered Lusignan, the seat of that legend of Melusine, and he turned now on the younger prince in rare annoyance. ‘That is small comfort to my lord, saving your grace’s pardon. The best must be made of a bad business.’ He poured wine and gave it into the Young King’s hand. ‘Drink this, my lord. Of one thing I am sure. Your father loves you dearly –’

  ‘A strange sort of love,’ Geoffrey retorted. ‘We are no better off than before – worse, for he will be even less willing to yield one acre of land to us.’

  Henry raised reddened eyes from the cup of wine. Then with his other hand he seized William’s arm. ‘I wish I understood why. But stay by me, William. He did not dismiss you, so don’t leave me.’

  William sat down beside him on the pallet. ‘As long as I have life in me, I will never leave you – unless you send me away. And when you are King indeed –’

  Richard precipitated himself from the tent pole, ‘When lions learn to fly!’ he retorted and stalked out of the tent.

  So the quarrel ended for the time being, but it soon flared up again. When King Louis died his son Philip began sowing further dissension among the devil’s brood, and there was seldom any lasting peace. At one moment Richard fought his father, angered at the permanent imprisonment of his mother, and Henry aided him; at another Henry fought Richard, siding with his father. Geoffrey defied the old King and nearly killed him with a quarrel fired from the walls of his castle at Rennes, and only John, growing into dark lanky boyhood, remained with the King. Richard was the most intransigent of all, the most obstinate.

  ‘Richard yea and nay,’ Bertran de Born sang mockingly. ‘Oh fairest Richard, we know you well, if you say yea, your word is given; if ’tis nay, ’tis very hell – you will not change your mind.’

  ‘Dear God,’ William said, ‘deliver us from poets!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Richard Strongbow was dead and his only daughter Isabel became a ward at King Henry’s court where, at Chinon in the Christmas of 1182, William saw her for the first time. She was nine years old and he came upon her the day after he and his master had ridden in for Christmas.

  She was sitting in the ladies’ bower when he came in with a message for Queen Margaret from her husband, and he was struck at once by the child’s likeness to her father. She had the same fair hair, the same eyes set slantwise, and her smile reminded him of Strongbow that day at Boulogne when he had lost his horse.

  Isabel answered his greeting shyly and he sat down beside her and talked to her for a little while. He had grieved for his friend, dying from a fever caught in the marshes of Ireland, and he was sorry for this lonely child whose mother had died in childbirth. She did not remember her father either, for she had been no more than three years old when he had succumbed to the fever, and William told her of their first meeting and how he had won Strongbow’s horse and given it back and how in the turmoil of the King’s arrival at Pembroke the debt had never been paid.

  Isabel listened rapt to the tale and when he had finished she said, ‘The best gift is the one we receive when we need it most, is it not, messire? My father must have thought it so even though you did not get your horse.’

  William glanced at her, surprised at her perception, and she added, her cheeks a deeper pink, ‘I must take the debt upon myself, messire.’

  He laughed and took her hand. ‘Child, I did not tell you the story for that reason. Your father’s friendship was enough return.’

  Over her head he looked at Margaret who was smiling too. ‘She is a good child,’ the Queen said, ‘and I am glad to have her with me.’ After a moment she added, ‘It is the first time we have all been together for Christmas for so long. Is it not good, William, that King Henry and his sons are reconciled at last?’

  ‘Very good, madame,’ he agreed and honesty compelled him to add, ‘I pray that it may last.’

  She gave a little sigh. ‘There are other things too that I pray for – that might bring even greater peace.’

  And I, he thought, but he understood what she meant. She was twenty-five years old now and had borne her husband only one child who had died at birth – young enough still to hope but it was nevertheless an abiding sorrow, colouring the last few years. These had been spent by William riding about Europe in his lord’s train and something subtle had entered into their relationship that disturbed him. But for the moment he was not thinking of that. As always when he was with Margaret his thoughts were all for her and he was glad Princess Alice was not in the room. Duke Richard still waited for his bride; Alice looked mockingly at him and slid away from him. The old King might think that no one knew of his liaison with her but the truth was that everyone down to the lowest scullion knew, and William was sorry for Margaret who must bear some part of her sister’s shame.

  His love for her had not changed in all the years but he was content now merely to serve her and he knew he had at least her warm affection. It was a small reward for all the self-repression he had had to exercise. Women there had been but only of the tavern or the brothel, taken as any man might for a brief hour of sensual pleasure. They meant nothing to him and were as quickly forgotten and, absorbed in his concern for Margaret’s comfort on their travels, he failed to notice his lord’s occasional quick frown. He had been with Henry so long that he did not think to question their relationship.

  Seeing the sadness in her face he said, ‘Your grace, I’m sure heaven will answer the prayers of one so good.’

  ‘Am I good?’ she queried, half humorously though the sadness lingered. ‘All I know is that I would bear my lord a son and that I have not done. Isabel, dear child, pray fetch me a fresh skein of silk, I have no more of this green.’

  The girl jumped up with a quick smile for the man who had been her father’s friend and when she had gone Margaret went on, ‘Tell me, William, do you think my lord has changed? Since you came back from Germany, he has seemed – I don’t know – as if some secret thing is eating at him. Or perhaps it is only the old trouble, that King Henry treats him as if he were a boy. He is twenty-six and is no nearer ruling his lands than ever he was.’

  William did not answer immediately. He looked at the embroidery in her hands and saw that she was stitching at a panel showing her husband’s favourite badge, an ermine in the centre supported by two sprigs of the planta genesta, the wild broom, the colours gold and white and green artistically blended.

  She was right, he thought, Henry had changed. The old friendship between them was still there on the surface but something new was creeping into it. Small incidents rankled, such as that awkward occasion not long ago in Flanders when the Queen was not with them. They were in a small town for a tourney and short of money as usual, the boxes of coin from England delayed, and Henry could not pay the Flemish innkeepers for all the food and drink consumed by his large household. As usual he had been generous, ordering only the best of everything for his friends, many of whom William considered mere spongers. The burgesses of the town had the gates closed and refused to let them leave until the debt should be paid, nor would they accept the Young King’s assurances. William had stepped in and pledged the money, promising to win enough and more at the joust the next day, and they accepted his word at once. A black frown settled on Henry’s face and Bertran de Born raised an amused eyebrow remarking, ‘What fellows they are, to take
a knight’s pledge before yours, my lord. But I suppose we should all bow to William – as King of the tourney!’ which remark did nothing to mollify Henry.

  Randulph de Blundevill, who had lately succeeded his father as Earl of Chester and had joined the Young King’s train, said, ‘God’s blood. I’d not tolerate their impertinence sire. Have one of the fellows whipped – the sight of flayed flesh will soon bring them to their senses.’

  ‘Foolish advice, my lord,’ William interrupted sharply, and saw the Earl’s face suffuse with angry colour. De Blundevill had not been long enough in Henry’s train to understand the particular place occupied by one whom he considered below him in rank, and he was furious at being thus reproved. Unperturbed, William went on, ‘Do you want our master’s name to be besmirched by such dealings?’

  Henry’s Seneschal, a knight with a proud and disdainful manner whom William had never liked, ranged himself on the new Earl’s side, adding with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, ‘You must understand, my lord of Chester, that Sir William considers himself the guardian of our knightly principles.’

  ‘Oh, have done,’ William said curtly. ‘I have said the money will be paid and there’s an end of it.’

  But it was not the end of the matter, for at the joust the next day the assembled lords and knights who had ridden in from considerable distances vied with each other to fight the Marshal, as they called him, though his brother still held that office in England. The Young King was almost ignored. He was a good horseman, though not brilliant. He had studied all William had taught him, how to use his heaume and lance, how to judge the best moment to strike, to keep his destrier under control, when to use the ball and spike spur he had adopted, but he did not excel as his brother Richard did, and he could not hope to emulate William.

  William won as usual and the townsfolk received their monies, but the affair rankled. And there were those in Henry’s train who were openly jealous. The Earl of Chester, in William’s opinion, indulged a cruel streak above average in their tough world, and he began to lead the Young King into wild excesses, taking pleasure in flouting William’s more sober advice. On one occasion, in a fit of fury at his lack of recognition and the miserable shortage of money, Henry allowed himself to be talked by de Blundevill into raiding an abbey just over the border into Normandy and seizing all the gold and silver they could lay their hands on to sell in the markets of Paris. And when William remonstrated Henry retorted that the fat monks owed him dues in any case, while de Bora told the Marshal he was becoming tiresomely moral.

  William said no more. It seemed to him that his very fame was bringing its price in the envy of other men. He was besieged by young sprigs wanting to squire him, by fathers willing to pay for their sons to be taught the knightly arts, and while he cared little for the opinion of such men as de Blundevill and de Born, if it should alienate the master he had now served so devotedly for twelve years he would willingly throw it all away. ‘Pay no heed to them,’ Gilbert de Clare advised. He had long been released from Falaise Castle. ‘You have more friends than enemies, William.’

  He hoped it was so, but it was Henry’s friendship that he cared for most. When, with King Philip of France, Henry took the Cross, determined to go to the Holy Land to fight against the Moslem leader Sallah-ed-din, at the same time failing to ask William to take it with him, he began to have his doubts.

  He hoped this Christmas gathering would heal the rift, settle the quarrels between the brothers and their father, but again he had his doubts. However there was always hope for there had not been such a meeting for many years. The Princess Matilda had come with her husband Duke Henry of Saxony, and their two small boys who ran wild in the great castle, encouraged by fourteen-year-old Prince John to get into mischief far beyond their years. They all hung about William, begging him to show them how to use sword and spear, and he thought privately that John, growing up with all the family good looks but the dark colouring of his mother, was showing signs of an unpleasantly vicious nature. He made sport with his dogs until they yelped with pain; once he had hung up a lymer hound by the leg until it died, because it had disobeyed a command. His pages often bore the weal of a whip on their cheeks and once it was whispered that he had forced one to hold a hand over the candle flame until it blistered because he had spilt a little wine on one of John’s rich pelisses. John attended to no one, except perhaps his brother Count Geoffrey, but in his father’s eyes he could do no wrong. Geoffrey’s wife was also there, Constance of the sharp tongue. It was the Princess Joanna, far away in Sicily with her husband, whose presence, William felt, would have done much to help the reconciliation, particularly as she exerted the most influence over the obstinate Richard.

  As far as Queen Eleanor was concerned the old King would not yield. He could forgive his sons over and over again, but not their mother, nor her fierce upholding of her adored Richard, and he could not, or would not, see that Richard would never be at peace with him until she was at liberty.

  One morning Richard had said abruptly, ‘Come out with me to the practice field, William Marshal, and let us try our skills together.’

  For a solid hour they battered at each other before agreeing to call a halt. Richard had phenomenal strength and whatever William might think of his behaviour off the field, he could not but admire the Duke’s handling of his weapons, his talent as a soldier and a leader of knights, and he said so.

  Richard’s rare smile came. ‘And I admire the love and loyalty I know you feel for my mother,’ he said frankly. That is why I asked you out here this morning – to tell you so. I will not forget that.’

  Was the Duke trying to bid for loyalty to his own cause too, William wondered? Yet Richard must know that he had one master whom he put first – but it was always there, the contention over Queen Eleanor. Henry too resented the continued absence of his mother and could scarcely bring himself to speak to Princess Alice.

  Now William gave a heavy sigh and in answer to Queen Margaret’s question he said, ‘Yes, lady, he has changed and I am sorry if it saddens you. But so much has changed.’

  ‘I know.’ She laid a hand briefly on his arm. ‘Dear William, we have never had in our household anyone as devoted as you and if my lord is out of temper you will forgive him – for my sake? I have my own sorrows.’

  ‘For your sake,’ William agreed and put her fingers to his lips. After all these years the desire to take her in his arms and comfort her rose once again so that he stood up abruptly, shaken by sudden emotion. And as he turned towards the door he saw Henry standing there, one hand on the curtain, an expression on the freckled handsome face that William had never before seen directed at him.

  Two days after the Christmas feast William’s enemies struck. He never knew how it came about but he was summoned to the Old King’s presence to find his master there, with the Earl of Chester, Sir Bertran de Born, and the Seneschal.

  The Old King, his red hair turning grey now, his skin mottled with tiny veins, was seated on the side of his great bed while his page pulled on his hunting boots. He looked up as William entered, waited until the boy had finished before dismissing him with a mild kick. Then he stood up.

  ‘Well, Sir William –’ his tone was harsher than usual, ‘– it seems you have exceeded the commission we gave you and in a manner unbecoming to one of your station.’

  William stood rooted in the doorway, utterly taken aback. It was the first time either King Henry or his son had ever reminded him of what he remained, a plain knight without possessions, and seeing the amusement on de Born’s face, the grim satisfaction in that of the Earl of Chester, the cold disdain of the Seneschal, he felt his colour rise but he answered as calmly as usual. ‘In what way, sire?’

  ‘I am told that because you excel in arms you put yourself above my son; that he, who should receive the highest attention on the field, takes second place to you, that your word is taken before his, that you seek your fame at the expense of his.’

  ‘Who accuses me of the
se things?’ William demanded. He glanced at his master but Henry was staring sulkily at the floor. William turned back to look directly at the King. ‘To answer the first, sire, it is not by my will that other knights clamour to challenge me, but if they do so I cannot turn my back on them.’

  ‘You’ve become so puffed up you look to be the hero of every joust,’ the Earl of Chester interposed. ‘As for the young fools who flock round you every time you enter the lists –’ he gave a coarse laugh but was silenced by one glance from the Old King.

  ‘It is not only Sir William who is puffed up, my lord of Chester. But there seems to be some truth in these accusations, William. I have heard tales that I cannot like, that I find hard to believe of you.’

  Henry raised his head at that, his blue eyes stormy, his mouth petulant. ‘You shamed me in Flanders! You were my tutor once but by Our Lady I am no yellowbeak now, and I will not be put out of countenance by a mere knight and a landless one at that.’

  His words astounded William. He braced himself and retorted, ‘I thought that business in Flanders rankled with you, but what was I to do? They would not let us go with our debts unpaid.’

  Henry’s face was scarlet ‘They would have heeded me – in time – if you hadn’t interfered.’

  ‘Interfered! Sire, may I remind you that I gave you, willingly, all my prizes to pay our score.’

  ‘No, you may not! It was your duty, your sworn duty to aid your lord.’

  If it had not been so grave a matter William could have laughed at the contradictoriness of this statement, but as it was he did not know how to answer. It seemed to him there was no real accusation to answer, that the charges were concocted by men whom he had long suspected of being jealous of his position, whom he knew now for his enemies in earnest. He addressed himself to the Old King. ‘Sire, surely you must see that I have done no more than serve your son as you bade me do so many years ago. If I have some skill in arms –’ he ignored a snort from de Blundevill ‘– am I not to use it? If I had the means to aid my master who was without money, should I not have done so? And, his determination to vindicate himself got the better of his judgement, ‘your son was without gold in his purse because he had not received his just dues as either King of England or Duke of Normandy.’