A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  At this unwise speech, the Old King reared his head. ‘You dare to bring me to book? God’s bones, William Marshal, you go too far. I see now why my son’s attendants complain of you. Would you rule us all – you, without one virgate of land to call your own?’

  Stiffly William bowed. ‘Your pardon, sire. Perhaps I should not have said what I did. The truth is often unpalatable.’

  There was a slight gasp from de Born who glanced at the Old King to see what he would say next, for his temper was rising.

  ‘And you think that because it is the truth you may say what you will to me?’ The King gave a hard laugh. ‘You put me in mind of Thomas Becket in his most infuriating mood. I tell you, you will know who is King and who is not while I live.’

  ‘I set my hands between yours before ever I set them between your son’s, sire. That gave my allegiance to you both and now I am in straits to please you both.’

  Sir Bertran made the King a courtly bow. ‘Your grace. Sir William would have us believe his motives are of the most noble and therefore the masters he serves must be of less noble mind to call him to account. But this cannot be. I think I shall write a sirventes on the subject of overweening pride.’

  ‘This is no joking matter,’ the Young King’s Seneschal said in his thin sharp voice, but he received only a mocking glance from de Born.

  ‘Do you think I’m not in earnest? Pride is one of the deadly sins – or so the churchmen tell us.’

  ‘In God’s name!’ William broke in. ‘My honour has been impugned and you make play with it. Sire, give me leave to challenge any or all of these knights to single combat and defend my honour with my body.’

  At that de Born broke into open laughter. ‘Oh easy, easy! You know you can beat us all in the field. And if you carry a lady’s colours –’ he broke off, as if he said too much, but the words were deliberate.

  ‘What are you saying?’ William demanded. ‘I have not the least idea of what you mean.’

  ‘You have, you have, and so have I!’ The Young King who had been standing, legs straddled, before the fire set deep in a hearth in the castle wall, strode forward to stand beside his father, seizing hold of one of the bed posts. ‘Do you think I don’t know that you look with desire at my lady? Do you think I have not seen you linger over her hand, seek her company more than is needful – we all have. My lord,’ he looked down at his father, still seated on the bed, ‘ask Sir Bertran, ask Randulph, ask the Seneschal of my household, who pays most attention to the Queen – more than is proper. They will tell you –’

  William had stepped backwards involuntarily. The utter unexpectedness of this last attack stunned him. After all the years of repression, of hiding his love, doing no more than serve the Young Queen with perhaps more concern than some for her daily welfare, to be accused of lusting after her brought a dark flush of bitter resentment to his face. And the cruelty, the injustice of it, brought out not only before the King, but in the face of these other men, lesser men at least in years of loyal service, galled him beyond measure. In that instant he saw how blind he had been not to see that Henry was jealous.

  ‘You lie, sir,’ he said at last, ‘and you must know it.’

  ‘I do not,’ Henry retorted, too angry now to retreat. ‘And you dare to call your lord a liar! I want no more of you.’

  ‘One moment my son.’ The Old King rose and stood in silence, looking at the tall rigid figure in a plain soldier’s mantle, the amethyst brooch fastening it – and though he had not thought of it for years a sudden memory came to him, the memory of how and where William had received that clasp. It was as if now it was flaunted before him, as if the treasured gift spoke of yet another loyalty, to an imprisoned Queen whom he thought of as the initial cause of all his troubles. It turned his judgement finally against William.

  ‘Well,’ he barked. ‘I will have the truth of this at least. Have you dared to love Queen Margaret, have you lusted after her? If so, you are the most loathsome of servants, one who would cuckold his master.’

  William thought of the Princess Alice and this angry man slipping secretly along the corridors to her bedchamber, cuckolding his own son. But this time caution prevailed; if he valued his life he must not allude to that. Yet neither could he wholly deny his love. Quietly and with dignity, he said, ‘If I have thought of the Queen with love it has been as one who serves. I have done no more than care for her comfort, no more than –’

  ‘Oh!’ The Young King clenched his hands. ‘I have seen you –’

  ‘You have seen me do nothing dishonourable,’ William retorted and suddenly his calmness deserted him and the pent-up anger, the desire for justification, blazed up against the base accusations, the ingratitude of this young man who had been his friend, to whom he had given unstintingly twelve years of service. How could he believe what he was saying? ‘You all accuse me,’ he said hotly, ‘yet you will not allow me to defend myself as knighthood permits. I deny every charge, the last most of all. What more can I do?’

  ‘God’s Bones, you have done enough,’ the Old King said with finality. ‘When my daughter-in-law’s name is brought into it, it is time to end the matter. I am going out with my hawks now; I do not expect to find you here when I return, Sir William.’

  William gave one last look at the fiery, petulant and oddly defiant face of his master, but Henry stared back unrelentingly. Master he was no more and William, hurt, bewildered and bitterly angry, turned and left the room.

  He went out of the royal apartments down the stair into the hall. Men were gathered there ready for the hunt, women sitting in groups with their sewing or playing with the younger children, dogs lay by the fire or scuffed in the rushes. There was all the usual noise and busyness but William strode through it, ignoring a call from one friend, a casual remark from another. Out in the courtyard he stood, drawing deep breaths of fresh cold air, his head reeling, still unable to believe that he, William Marshal, champion of Europe, friend of the Young King, had been dismissed on the word of a few envious men. And who had first sown the seeds of doubt? The face of de Born came before him and he ground his teeth in rare fury, his pride in shreds. Bertran had always desired his place in the younger Henry’s affections, he knew that, but he had never thought of him as a rival. Now de Born and the others had won and he wished he had them facing him in the field.

  But he must go, get away from this place – only where should he go? And suddenly it seemed to him that because he had loved where he had no right to love he had in that at least been at fault. Before he went back to the old life of tourneys and living by his sword he would go on pilgrimage – somewhere, anywhere – to ease his conscience. The memory of the last half-hour’s humiliation must be erased somehow, and if he offered his penance to God perhaps some good might in the end come out of it all.

  He wished that Will FitzHenry was here so that he might talk to him, for of all his friends Will was the most sensitive to the needs of others. The knights he spent his time with were tough, hard-riding men who lived in the saddle and had little time for the niceties of life and there was no one in whom he could confide. But Will was in England with his brother Geoffrey, now King Henry’s Chancellor. Only Will perhaps would have understood why he wanted to go on this pilgrimage.

  And he could not even take farewell of his mistress, for Henry in his present mood would make sure William had no access to the Queen’s apartments. His face burned again; the injustice of it was a hurt that would not easily heal. He wanted one more sight of Margaret’s face but perhaps it was as well that he could not have it for he might not have been able to command himself under this burden of misunderstanding.

  Aware once more of a deep loneliness, of Richard Strongbow’s words of long ago, he went heavily to his chamber to order the stolid Jehan to pack his possessions into saddle bags, but when he got there he found a stern-looking young clerk awaiting him and a lad of about fifteen, a dark youth with a slightly twisted mouth and thin hands clasped tightly together. If William
had not been so torn by the wretchedness of the scene he had just endured he might have seen the nervous eagerness, the anxiety in the boy’s face. As it was he was in no mood for importunate strangers and asked curtly what they wanted.

  The clerk said stiffly, ‘I ask your pardon if we have come at an inconvenient moment, Sir William. I am Hubert Walter, chaplain to my uncle Sir Ranulf de Glanville and –’

  ‘To Sir Ranulf?’ William interrupted, momentarily deflected from his own affairs. Then you can tell me: Queen Eleanor, is she well treated? I had heard so, but –’

  ‘It is true,’ the clerk answered in precise tones. ‘My uncle is her gaoler and watches over her most carefully, but she has pleasant quarters and much freedom for her household. This lad here has been her page.’

  William turned to look at the boy for the first time. ‘Why have you left her service, then?’ And his voice was harsher than he realised so that the lad flushed.

  ‘She says that now I am fifteen I must be a squire and she sent me to you. She said you would remember her kindly.’ William’s annoyance died, the emotions of the last hour simmering still but below the surface. How should he not remember Eleanor of Aquitaine kindly? ‘I owe that lady more than I can ever repay,’ he said at last. ‘My life perhaps. I would do anything she asked of me but I am leaving Caen at once, so you had best seek another master.’

  If Hubert Walter was surprised he did not show it ‘The Queen told him to seek no other. Will you not take him, Sir William?’

  ‘I cannot offer explanations at the moment but the fact is that I am no longer in a position to do so. I am going to Flanders, to Germany perhaps, but out of King Henry’s realm, and I must dismiss the squires I have, not take another.’

  This time Hubert Walter expressed his astonishment. ‘I grieve to hear this. I thought – but it is not my affair. Only I wish you your place again. As for this lad –’

  ‘Oh, please, messire,’ the boy broke in, ‘let me come with you. I’ll do anything you wish – you will need a body servant –’

  ‘I have one,’ William said with finality and put up a hand to unfasten his mantle. His fingers touched the amethyst clasp and he thought of Eleanor as she had been that day at Boulogne, beautiful, gracious, and he wondered how the years of imprisonment had dealt with her. She had saved him from a worse fate, ‘What is your name, boy?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘John d’Erleigh, messire.’

  ‘Then, John d’Erleigh, get your gear if you wish to come with me for I’ll waste no more time. I can’t promise you much, only enough to eat and what skills I can teach you.’

  The lad’s face was alight and even the solemn Hubert Walter added an austere expression of gratitude.

  An hour later, attended only by his new squire and Jehan leading a pack mule, he rode under the barbican and out of the castle. He did not see Isabel at a high window wave her hand to him, nor Queen Margaret standing behind, her eyes full of tears.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gilbert de Clare had married a wife, one of the heiresses of the late Earl of Gloucester, and having got her with child within two months of their wedding, considered himself free for the moment to follow his own pursuits. He left her at Clare in Suffolk in the charge of his mother and returned to Normandy to rejoin the Young King where he was horrified to hear what had happened in his absence. He spoke his mind in no uncertain terms and it was perhaps owing to this that he was on a particular mission on a cold day in January. He arrived at nightfall, making his way through softly falling snow to an inn, the only inn at Noyon, where he was told he would find the man he was seeking.

  William was eating his supper with his squire, mopping up the juices of the meat with pieces of manchet bread. Glancing up, he was astonished to see Gilbert making his way round a noisy table of young men. He sprang up.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing here? I thought you at home with your bride – are you tired already of the marriage bed?’

  Gilbert gave him a swift grin. ‘Amicia is with child. She complains that she feels unwell and my mother fusses over her. I have done my share of the business for the moment and hope I’ve got a boy under her kirtle.’

  ‘Lusty fellow,’ William said. He poured a cup of wine for Gilbert and sent John d’Erleigh to order more food and take his own plate elsewhere. ‘But you have not said what brings you to this out-of-the-way place.’

  ‘You,’ Gilbert answered cryptically. He threw off his mantle and sat down, his tunic slit to the knees as he spread his legs wide towards the fire. He took the cup and drank, his close-set eyes surveying his friend.

  Sudden hope flared in William but was as quickly repressed, none of it betrayed in his face. ‘You must have heard what happened at the Christmas feast, even though you were not there at the time.’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘It was none of my doing. The accusations were false.’

  ‘I know that. We’ve not been friends these many years for me not to know that.’

  William’s mouth tightened and he pushed his plate away with no desire now to finish the meal. ‘It seems others did not who should have done so.’

  Gilbert for his part was eating busily, being a man who put first things first, and he was cold and hungry. Presently he said. There was a rare hornet’s nest there when I did arrive – the day after you left.’

  ‘Oh? I did not think –’

  Gilbert gave him another grin, showing small sharp teeth, two missing from an unfortunate encounter with a lance.

  ‘Not about your affairs. The cubs were at it again’. He stuffed the last gobbet of meat into his mouth and gave a satisfied belch. ‘Did you not think they would be? The Old King wanted to make peace, but by Jesu he should know now how not to do it. He would have Richard do homage to our master which Richard would not, so he left for Aquitaine in a rare temper; then Geoffrey marched out because he is not to be allowed a free hand in Brittany for all he’s wed at last to the lady Constance, and he had to wait long enough for that. As for John – did you know he’s to marry my wife’s sister?’

  ‘No – I’d not heard that.’

  ‘Well, It seems the Old King wants John Lackland to lose the nickname he gave him. He’s to have Gloucester in Avice’s right, and Nottingham and all of Cornwall as well, beside being lord of Ireland.’

  ‘Henry won’t like that. He has always thought lands in England should be his gift, but when England has two kings –’, William gave an expressive shrug.

  Gilbert rubbed his chin dubiously. ‘It’s a great match for Avice, but whether she’ll like it I can’t say – not that that has anything to do with it, and the wedding won’t take place yet in any case. Oh, we had a fine Twelfth Night of it, I can assure you, with the King glowering at us all, and the Princess Matilda in tears because Richard and Geoffrey had gone, and John playing the fool while de Born sang a song beseeching us to weep for “the poor prisoner” and even the thickheads could not fail to know who that was meant to be. You were well out of it, William.’ He shouted to the innkeeper for more wine and then went on, ‘The Old King gave John several castles in Normandy as well – as if that would not stir the pot – and our master took a cool leave of his father, I can tell you.’

  He paused for breath and then suddenly asked his companion if he knew there was to be a tournament at Gournai.

  ‘Yes, but I’m on my way to Cologne and I don’t want to go back even to win a purse or two,’ William answered in surprise at the change of topic. He had been listening as one who listens to a familiar tale. ‘Why? Are you to fight there?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s neither here nor there. Our master –’

  ‘He is no longer mine – by his own will. Unless,’ William looked up sharply, trying to read his companion’s face in the light of a flickering rush dip set in a sconce behind them, ‘You have a message from him?’

  ‘I have, but not one you will like. He is to fight at Gournai tomorrow but he has no knights with him likely to be a match for the
French champion who is to be on the other side.’

  ‘Renault de Nevers? He has great skill.’

  ‘So we all know. Henry sent me to bid you join him tomorrow. He says your duty binds you to do so.’

  ‘And – ?’

  ‘That is all. God’s teeth, this wine is poor stuff,’ Gilbert wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve, the jug nevertheless empty.

  There was a silence. William stared unseeingly over Gilbert’s head at the busy room, the rushlight flickering on faces warmed by wine and hot food, merchants talking business, knights and squires, burgesses and apprentices, all seeking an evening’s entertainment out of the cold streets. At last he said, ‘No word of friendship?’

  ‘None. I told him they lied – all of them – but he is still angry, William.’

  ‘Without cause.’

  ‘Will you go?’

  Again William hesitated. Then he said, ‘I am not bound by my word, since he dismissed me. But I will go tomorrow. After that – no more until he sends in better terms.’

  In the morning he rode back with Gilbert along the road he had taken yesterday, but by the time they reached Gournai the tourney had already begun. The field was alive with mounted men, the wicker lists set up, crowds of people watching, the pennons flying in the icy January wind. William was already wearing his mail and he pulled the hood over his head, taking shield and lance from his squire. But before he bent to have his helm buckled on his eyes raked the field, and he drew a deep breath, pursing his lips.