It seemed Henry had ignored his oft-given advice, to wait before plunging into the mêlée until some of his opponents were weary. It was as if Henry had suddenly determined to assert himself, to prove after all he did not need the Marshal at his side, but he was being hard pressed. William could see the figure in the familiar armour and wearing the golden helm almost surrounded by French knights and in danger of becoming a prize himself. An assailant aimed a blow on the dazzling helm and the Young King reeled in the saddle.
William swore under his breath and setting spurs to his destrier galloped into the fight without waiting for his own helm. He was aware suddenly of sheer physical relief, that he could vent all his frustration, his bitterness, against unknown adversaries, and such was his fury that in a few moments he had carved his way to the Young King’s side. There he drove off two knights without difficulty, breaking his lance against the shield of another. Then as a rider bearing a well known blazon turned on him he leaned forward and seized him by the sword belt. With one heave, using all his strength, he threw Renault de Nevers bodily from his saddle and grabbing the bridle of the riderless horse flung it to Gilbert who had followed him into the fight. Then, turning his own destrier’s head he placed himself between Henry and the enemy and got him out of the fight to the safety of the lists.
There he dismounted and with grim satisfaction saw de Nevers struggling to his feet and limping off the field in the opposite direction. He waited, leaning on his saddle, while two squires helped their royal master from his war horse. Henry was dazed and as his helm was eased from his head it revealed a face drenched with sweat. The blue eyes were resentful – perhaps, contrarily, even more resentful than they would have been if he had been taken by the French champion, for his debt to William was only increased, his own behaviour proved even more base.
There was no word of thanks, no sign of gratitude, only silence, and without speaking William turned and left him.
For six months he heard no more. He rode to Cologne and laid his sword on the altar of the shrine of the Three Kings, beseeching the prayers of the Magi who had laid their own offering at the feet of Christ Himself. He confessed his sins, asking pardon for his unlawful love, and afterwards knelt with his hands clasped on the hilt of his sword, the point resting on the floor, bareheaded, his eyes fixed on the jewelled shrine. He prayed then for his young master – the end of years of friendship was bitter to him, as was the loss of the Old King’s trust – and he asked that he might be able to forgive in order to be forgiven himself. Jesu, he thought, was it hard to forgive Judas?
When he left the cathedral it was to return to his old life of winning his bread by his right arm, only now it all came easily enough. And such was his popularity that he could have taken service with any lord in Europe; even the great Frederick Barbarossa sent to him, offering him a place at his side.
Yet he refused them all. John d’Erleigh, very much in awe of his new master, asked, ‘Why do we not go to one of these great lords, master? You could live in greater comfort and become very rich,’ while Jehan, with more familiarity, said dryly, ‘You do not know us yet, boy. Our master is like a travelling minstrel, only he uses his sword instead of a string of foolish words.’
William was aware that he was waiting, and would wait longer. He could not believe that Henry had forgotten all the years of their friendship, that on reflection he would not see the baseness of the accusations, especially the last, the final insult. And surely if Henry knew anything about women he must know that his Queen loved him and no one else.
He was not blind and never had been to Henry’s faults, yet there was that in him that drew men to him, William most of all, and he listened with growing anxiety to the news that came from chapmen and merchants and travelling knights. In all the years since his imprisonment at Lusignan William had never been so far from this family to whom he had given his love and his allegiance and when a serious war flared up between them all he longed to be back by the Young King’s side. It seemed that Richard had defied his father, that the Old King had sent Henry and Geoffrey against him and then, inexplicably, had evened the odds by joining Richard himself. Now two warred against two, the Young King and Geoffrey holding Limoges against the forces of their father and brother. A miserable situation, and William heard that Geoffrey had unleashed all the natural violence that hid under so affable an exterior, terrorising the countryside around; that even his one-time master was raiding and plundering in a manner far exceeding what William felt a knight was entitled to do, even in war. He wished he was there to restrain Henry, to hold in check the barons like the Earl of Chester, whom he so distrusted. Yet without a summons he would not move.
It came at last. On a June evening when he was at Amiens, staying with a knight who had been pleased to offer hospitality to the famous champion, a dusty messenger rode in. He bore a ring from the Young King and a request – not a command – that Sir William Marshal would ride at once to Limoges to join him.
William stood up, the ring, always a token of love, lying in his palm. ‘I will come at once,’ he said and took leave of his host. It was as if a heaviness of heart, an invisible burden, had been lifted from him.
He obtained a safe conduct from King Philip of France who regarded him with a bland expression that hid, as William knew, a calculating mind. ‘You swear that you ride to aid my brother-in-law? Your quarrel is mended?’ And he added, ‘I never thought you guilty of any of the accusations.’
William did not like Philip, but the King’s consistent care for his sister Margaret made his vindication something to be desired, and he rode freely through France until he turned south-west towards Limoges. Some miles from the city he was told that King Henry and Duke Richard lay outside it but with insufficient men to blockade it entirely, and that the young King had evaded the siege and ridden out to meet the Count of Toulouse, hoping to persuade him to take his side in the argument. William took the road to Martel and there found his old gaoler, the Count of Lusignan, nursing a broken leg. ‘Damned horse threw me,’ he grumbled. ‘Well, William Marshal, I am glad you are come. It was I who told Henry to send for you.’
‘You?’ William queried in astonishment. He had met the Count at court several times in the last years but without much civility on either side. ‘In God’s name, why?’
The Count shifted uncomfortably. His leg had been set by the infirmarian from a nearby Priory whom he cursed for a clumsy oaf and it was hurting him excessively. The thought that he might never ride again did not improve his temper, ‘Aye,’ he said irritably. ‘Your master and Count Geoffrey are raiding the whole countryside – well, they must pay their routiers I suppose, bloody thieving scum – but they need better knights to do their business. It seemed to me that Henry had more need of you than any other.’
‘Why do you call him my master? It was by his own wish that I ceased to be that.’
‘The more fool him,’ the Count growled unexpectedly. ‘I little knew what sort of fellow I had in my tower all those years ago. Well, Henry is in a bad case. I like him, God knows why, but I swear the devil is uppermost in him now. He’ll not heed any of us, but he might listen to you.’
‘Where is he?’ William asked quietly.
‘He rode off for Rocamadour. Geoffrey had other fish to fry.’
A cold feeling of apprehension seized William. ‘Rocamadour? You cannot mean – he’ll not desecrate that place?’
The Count shrugged and caused himself to wince. ‘God knows – and if He does His anger will be terrible. Get you there, William Marshal, and do what you can.’
Without delay William left him and rode for the holy village housing the shrine of St Amadour and its greatest treasure, the sword once used by Roland at the famous pass of Roncesvalles. Holy Saints, he thought, what madness has seized him now that he must plunder such places?
Knowing the way well, he paused only once to rest the horses and at last, with John and Jehan beside him, breasted the rise above the village. The smell of
smoke had reached them before ever they looked down into the valley and now they saw several poor huts burning, thatched houses catching the flames while men-at-arms rode up and down the narrow street searching for plunder. Women were screaming, children running wildly – a scene William had viewed many times before in the necessity of war, but today a great horror filled him. This was more than a raid in a campaign that was like a game of chess, this was a holy place and the man who desecrated it offended God.
He drew his sword and rode down the stony track, leaving Jehan with the pack animal and taking only John with him, ‘Keep close to me,’ he said sharply, and within minutes they were in the village. Almost at once he had to draw his horse back on its haunches as a shrieking child ran from a burning house, the flames already at her dress. Before he could dismount, John was off his horse and had beaten at the fire but the girl fled from him in terror and a beam collapsed on her. A man with a bleeding stump where an arm had been ran out of an alley and screamed abuse at them. William leaned down and caught him by the collar of his rough wool tunic. ‘What devil’s work is this?’ he demanded, clinging to the hope that perhaps Geoffrey, always more vicious than his brother, might be here and not Henry after all. ‘Tell me, churl.’
‘It is the devil –’ the man began to blubber, tears running down his blackened face. ‘The devil of Anjou – they are all devils – what matter which one?’
William released him suddenly so that the man stumbled before turning to run from the horror of what had once been his home.
A black frown on his face, William rode on into the centre of the village. The church itself was not burning and it was there by the steps that William saw his old master.
Henry was surrounded by his knights and his mercenaries, all loaded with plunder, silver chalices and gold plate, jewels from the shrine of St Amadour, while the men and women of the village had been driven back, cowed and anguished. Some were struggling with buckets of water to save their homes, the women trying to salvage pathetic remnants from the ruins. Henry was flushed with excitement and by his side the Earl of Chester was gloating over the prizes they had seized, looking without mercy on the terrified priests huddled together by the church door. Sir Bertran de Born was there, a jeweled cross hanging from the pommel of his saddle, and Gilbert de Clare held a sword that was red with blood.
As William rode up they all turned and Henry urged his horse forward to meet him, his voice high-pitched with excitement. ‘Welcome, William, welcome!’ he cried with no trace of resentment in his voice. ‘You have come in a good hour – you see what we have seized? Now I shall be able to pay more routiers and we will beat my father – and Richard, damn his soul to hell.’
William looked round the grisly scene, familiar yet with a fearful difference this time. He searched the faces about the Young King’s and saw Gilbert’s streaked with dirt. Gilbert gave an expressive shrug and William turned back to the Young King. ‘I think, my lord, it is your soul that is in danger from this day’s work.’
‘Dear God,’ Bertran said, ‘it is all to be as before! You had best have stayed away, Sir William, if you come back only to preach to us.’
William swung round on him in a swift blaze of anger. ‘By Christ’s Wounds, Sir Bertran, if you do not hold your tongue it is you who will neither preach nor sing nor speak again!’ And such was his tone that for once the troubadour was silent.
‘William, it was necessary.’ Henry was too exhilarated to heed the exchange. ‘Look!’ he held up a sword encrusted with jewels, but ancient, ‘this is Roland’s sword! Isn’t it a fine prize? Bertran can make a song about this and my father will know that at last I am to be reckoned with.’
‘He will indeed,’ was William’s dry comment. ‘You can terrify a few villagers, pillage a shrine –’ he bit back the words. If this meeting was not to end in another quarrel he must stomach his revulsion, and already the sight of his lord was reviving all the old love he had for him more strongly than any other emotion. He dismounted and came to Henry’s side, taking his hand and setting his lips to it. ‘Sire, you see I wear your ring. I came as you bade me.’
Henry leaned down and put his arm about William’s shoulders. ‘Thank God you did. I need you, William. This time I must win my way or I think I shall go mad.’ His eyes glittered oddly, his face too brightly coloured as he looked down, eager, imploring. ‘Will you ride with me?’
The words stirred William, reminding him of another day when once before he had asked the same question. William’s answer could be no other than the same. He mounted and brought his horse to Henry’s side, ignoring the glowering looks of Randulph de Blundevill, but Gilbert reached out a hand, bidding him welcome. As they rode out of the wretched burning place he asked Gilbert in a low voice if Henry was well. ‘He does not look himself, and this – this –’ he flung out a hand to indicate the burning houses, a dead man sprawled across a doorstep, ‘is not his way.’
‘Maybe not.’ Gilbert edged his horse away from some smoking cinders, ‘But needs must be met. And it’s only the heat of the fire in his face.’
On the road north again Henry talked of Limoges and how clever he and Geoffrey had been to slip out from under his father’s very nose, leaving a garrison to hold that impregnable castle, how he had tried to tempt the old lion into a trap by promising a reconciliation and how nearly he had made him a prisoner.
‘Only Richard foiled my plan at the last moment,’ he said and boasted, ‘The next time I will take my father and then –’
‘Is there no love left between you?’ William interrupted: He had a swift mental picture of the Old King and the way in which he used to look at his eldest son, the softening of that hard countenance.
‘Oh, I mean him no harm,’ Henry assured him. ‘He is my father and I’ll not forget that, but this time I must and will have my rights.’
He could not be blamed for that assertion, William thought, but the grim sorrow of it, that it should come to this between them!
That night they slept at a farmhouse, the men lying in an orchard under the warm June sky, and when the Young King was ready for sleep in a corner of the one room the place boasted, he beckoned to William and took him by both arms. The blue eyes glistened with sudden tears. ‘William,’ he spoke in a low voice that the others might not hear, ‘William, do you forgive me? I was wrong – Margaret told me. And the other things – I was wrong there too.’
Seeing the flushed face, the old smile that could overcome all the vanity, the betrayals, the instability, William clasped him in return.
‘My dear lord –’ he began and could say no more. But after a moment he realised Henry’s hands were unusually hot. ‘You are feverish, sire. Do you feel ill?’
Henry laughed and threw himself down on the straw bed. ‘I am only intoxicated by what we have done today, that is all. And this silly peasant here has a great fire for a warm evening. Lie beside me, William, and tell me all you have been doing.’
William talked until Henry’s eyelids fell, but long after the Young King slept he lay awake, his eyes fixed on Roland’s sword, hanging from a hook in the wall. To have taken so precious a thing, robbed a hallowed shrine, seemed to him to be a great sin, and this reunion was clouded by it. He would try to persuade Henry to take that, at least, back to Rocamadour. But when he broached the matter in the morning Henry laughed and said, ‘When I am truly King and Duke I will build a new shrine and lay it there myself, but for the moment I will keep it by my side.’
William said no more. Henry’s colour had not faded and there was still that odd glitter in his eyes as they set out on the return journey. By noon he was sitting in the saddle, shaken by tremors that convulsed his body, his hands scarcely able to hold the reins. William, gravely anxious now, rode on one side of him and de Born on the other and when they came to Martel it was clear Henry could go no further. As if by common consent William slipped back into his old place, taking charge as he used to do, and it was he who lifted his master out of the saddle
, carrying him into the house of one Stephen, a blacksmith, which seemed to offer the most comfort. William laid him on the only bed in the place and covered him with his own cloak.
Henry was mumbling, burning with fever. Once he looked up and muttered, ‘William? I thought – you went to Cologne – are we there?’
‘No, my lord, we are at Martel. Try to drink this.’
He drank greedily from the cup set to his lips and then lay back, exhausted. ‘Oh God, I’ve the pains of hell in my guts.’
There was no surgeon to be had but the priest of the place came, saying he had some knowledge of medicine. He bled the sick man after which Henry seemed quieter, and left a potion of herbs to be fed to him. William watched by his side all night while the other slept in snatches. About dawn de Born came, all his impish humour gone.
‘I will watch now,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Get some rest, Sir William,’ and when William hesitated, he added, ‘I swear I will call you if he stirs.’
In the morning the Young King was worse, in the grip of dysentery; he asked constantly for water but the herb potion made him sick. The long day passed; the priest bled him again and glancing up at the anxious knights shook his head doubtfully.
William sat on a stool beside him. Was it all to end thus, twenty-seven years of life, all the golden promise of youth, the intense charm, the generosity, lost in pride and bitterness that had turned him into little better than a brigand? In one lucid moment Henry looked up at him and seeing the grief on William’s face, his household gathered about his mean bed, he said in a faint surprised voice, ‘Am I dying? Jesu, I did not think… William,’ his hand came out, burning to the touch, and felt for William’s, ‘send to my father. Bid him come – I would see him once more –’
‘At once, sire. I will send my own squire.’ William turned and caught John’s eye. A moment later they heard the clatter of hooves.
The smith and his wife, awed by so many great men in their house, brought food but few could eat much, though de Blundevill took a whole capon and devoured it hungrily.
A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1) Page 8
