“No, he did not.” Robert tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, his brows lowered.
“While you are beneath my roof, brother, you will refrain from playing politics. Our friends from Toulouse are doubtless wearied by such talk—they came here for enjoyment and diversions, and our arguments make for poor entertainment.”
Stephen’s face twisted with spite. “If it’s entertainment they crave, I’m sure I could tell them several amusing stories about your crusading exploits.”
The Frenchmen once again looked embarrassed and began to talk amongst themselves, their southern dialect altogether impossible for William to understand. Robert’s hands clenched into fists, and William wondered exactly what had happened in the Holy Land for his lord to react in such a way to Stephen’s jibes.
Baron Albi attempted to smooth matters. “I heard you saved a princess of the Comneni from a street gang.”
“She wasn’t a princess but a companion to the princess.” Robert gave his guest a disarming smile. “The part about the gang is true, though. Unfortunately Constantinople is overrun with violence. After dark the streets aren’t safe for decent citizens.”
“And for indecent citizens?” Stephen asked archly. “You spent a long time in Constantinople, brother. A city full of sin and temptation as well as violence.”
William frowned. Surely Stephen wasn’t accusing Sir Robert of immorality? A man had needs. It was quite natural for him to slake his lust with any willing female, whether she was a camp follower or a princess of the Comneni. Robert was a widower, after all, and though he had several times in the past expressed an interest in joining the Templars, he had not yet taken any vows that would require him to be chaste.
Robert resumed his meal, spearing a slice of meat with his knife. “Constantinople is also a city of great beauty with many learned men willing to share their knowledge.”
“Yes,” Stephen said airily, “I heard you grew quite fond of certain Greek practices.”
William’s mouth dropped open. Though he didn’t entirely understand the nature of the insult, he knew it was serious from Robert’s suddenly blank expression. The knife in his lord’s hand glittered, and for a moment William thought Robert would plunge the blade into his brother’s chest.
Eager to avert a scene, William jumped to his feet. His cup toppled, causing a clatter and a splash as ale spilled across the table, and then all eyes were upon him. Even the minstrels ceased their playing, lutes and tambours falling silent. He looked around the hall then bowed to the French nobles and to Sir Robert. “My lords,” he began, casting about for some reason to explain his interruption, “I bid you welcome to Kent.”
The Viscomte de Murat and Baron Albi seemed bemused, and their knights and men-at-arms shifted on their seats. Sir Robert stared at William, his expression intense.
Feeling a blush climbing to his face, William dropped his gaze to the knife in his lord’s hand and had an idea. “My lords, here in England we may lack the polish of the French courts, but we are fighting men who serve the sword, not poetry. Our manners may seem uncouth, but we have no need to apologise for that. Our weapons speak for us. We can make our blades sing sweeter than any troubadour. So to bid you welcome, I propose a friendly contest—a wager—between English and French.”
“Gambling? Disgraceful!” Stephen squawked.
Baron Albi sat forward, a gleam in his eyes. “A wager! What sort of contest are you suggesting?”
William glanced at Robert, gauging his reaction. “A knife fight, my lord. To the first blood, in this room.”
Robert nodded, and the baron clapped his hands. “A fine plan! There is space enough between the tables. I accept the challenge. Viscomte, do you have a champion amongst your men, or shall I nominate one of my fellows?”
The viscomte flapped a languid hand. “Do as you please, Raymond. Your men seem more ferocious than mine.”
“Excellent!” Baron Albi gestured to a tall, thick-set man seated at a neighbouring table. “Pierre, you are unmatched in close-quarter combat. Teach these Englishmen a thing or two about fighting.”
Sir Robert looked amused. “Who shall be my champion?” He rose to his feet and surveyed his men, toying idly with his knife. “Surely not you, William Raven, for you have been off your stroke these past few days…”
Laughter echoed around the hall, and William forced himself to smile. He hadn’t been at his best recently, being too aware of his attempts to impress, but to have it remarked upon in public was embarrassing. The slow fire of pride burned inside him, but he remained on his feet, his head held high.
After a long moment, Robert smiled at him. “Since you are the architect of this entertainment, William, I give you leave to prove yourself. If you lose, your shame will be known to all—but if you win, you will be well rewarded.”
“Thank you, sir.” William stepped forward and took Sir Robert’s knife, then cleaned the blade on his thigh.
The Frenchman strode into the middle of the room opposite him. William noticed the way the man’s weight rested on the pads of his feet, doubtlessly to lunge at him in a heartbeat. He was wary of the man, watching him closely, still aware of every sound in the room. The yawn of a dog near the fire, a cup set down on the table, the gurgle of poured ale. And his lord was watching him again.
William estimated that Pierre was older than he was, likely by a good five years. A healed broken nose stood at a strange angle to one side, but that only meant he hadn’t evaded a fist fast enough once. It didn’t mean he was a better fighter.
William held the knife firmly but kept his wrist, arm, shoulders relaxed, the other hand reaching a little forward to obstruct a block or push an attack to the side. He was sized up in turn, the Frenchman’s light eyes alert under a mop of curly black hair, showing anticipation and real pleasure as they circled each other, both careful, neither betraying any fear or reluctance, instead measuring defences, each ready to block or attack.
William was not a man to wait until he was attacked. Before anybody could mock him for his lack of courage, he lunged forward, finding that Pierre met his attack by surging forward, too. Their knives suddenly locked and, before William could free the blade, change the angle and stab for him, the Frenchman’s open hand grabbed his face and pushed him back, fingers digging into his nose and lips. William stumbled away, just barely evading a wide swing aiming for his belly.
God’s teeth, but Pierre was fast. William managed to save himself with a jump to the side, very nearly falling over the legs of one of the other Frenchmen and cursing himself for getting too close there. Pierre grinned at him, motioning him closer with a free hand.
William thought he could hear the groan from his instructor. “Raven,” Ulric would say with a sigh, “heart of a warrior, balance of a pig.”
He shook his head, gritting his teeth. Unwounded. The fight wasn’t over. He moved away from the French table and found himself facing Robert, who had steepled his fingers and was watching him intently with that quicksilver gaze.
If the Frenchman had been one of the squires, they would have been trading insults by now, but Pierre was still a guest, and serving a French noble wasn’t out of the question for his own future. That might change if he insulted anybody.
He kept circling, turning his back to lords, then suddenly Pierre was on top of him, forcing him against the table, and from far away William heard Stephen bleat in annoyance about spilled wine and ruined clothes, but he was too busy escaping the stranglehold of the heavier man whose knife was again locked with his. Pierre leaned into him with all his weight, forcing the edge of the blade closer to William’s chest.
The snarl could have been mistaken for a wild grin, and William found himself utterly taken over by the fight, the blood singing in his veins as they wrestled, he from below, the Frenchman from above. When he didn’t relent, the Frenchman changed his stance to get a better angle to bring his weight to bear. That allowed William to get both feet between them. He kicked Pierre double-fo
oted in the chest, making him stumble back. William rolled away, spilling more wine to the laughter of the nobles, and got back to his feet.
“Enough puppy play,” he said to the Frenchman, rolling his shoulders.
Likely convinced that William was nearly done, Pierre lunged again, and this time William ducked underneath the attack and slipped to the other side, laughing now, completely enjoying himself. It was a thrill having an opponent he hadn’t faced a hundred times in training. Unlike the practice sessions, when he was invariably matched with John, William had no idea what the Frenchman would do next, and he loved it.
He changed the grip on the knife, then inched slowly closer, feinting attacks but never concluding them, always moving back before Pierre could force him again to commit to an attack—or, worse, a defence.
I can do this. Suddenly calm settled like a layer of snow over the excitement of the fight.
When the Frenchman lunged into another attack, William’s response was pure instinct. The knife went across the striking hand while he twisted his body to the side. Pierre paused, half-incredulous, then raised his hand. Blood ran from his palm down toward his wrist.
William stepped back, scarce believing his eyes. He’d felt the blade bite true, had known he’d drawn blood, but the sight of the stunned Frenchman holding up his injured hand made William want to whoop in delight.
For a moment the crowd was silent, then came a burst of cheering from the squires and English knights, and a chorus of groans from the French. A grin spread across William’s face as he turned, savouring the acclamation of his fellows. Coins clinked and flashed in the firelight as they changed hands, and men shouted for more ale and wine to toast William’s victory or drown their sorrows.
Pierre rubbed at his misshapen nose then cursed as he smeared blood over his face. He slid his knife back into its sheath and came forward to grip William’s hand. “You got lucky,” he said, his accent thick. “But that was a good move. You fight well. Drink with us later.”
William nodded, pleased at the gruff respect in the Frenchman’s eyes. He slapped Pierre on the shoulder and strode across the hall to the dais where the nobles sat. The viscomte and the baron applauded, accepting the defeat of their champion with good grace. Stephen seemed more interested in the contents of his wine cup than in anything happening around him. William cared little for the responses of the three men. Instead he fixed his gaze on Sir Robert.
Robert stood and approached him. They looked at one another, and William fancied he saw approval in his lord’s expression. He wiped the knife again, cleaning it of the drops of French blood, and offered it hilt-first to Robert. “My lord.”
“Keep it, young lion,” Robert said, without looking at the blade. “You have earned it.”
Surprised, William glanced down, examining the knife for the first time. During the fight he’d been aware only of its capacity as a weapon, the weight of it in his hand, the reach it gave him. Now he examined the wave-patterned blade, recognizing it as costly Damascus steel set in a pear-wood handle, the grip embellished with a dark metallic wire he realised must be tarnished silver. Though it was a simple table knife for a nobleman, it represented much more to William. Conscious of the honour of being given Sir Robert’s personal blade, he attempted to hand it back, murmuring, “My lord, this is too good for me.”
Robert raised an eyebrow. “Nonsense. Don’t sell yourself so cheaply.”
“I did not mean to offend…”
“You didn’t.” A faint smile played on Robert’s lips. “You are very much like someone I used to know, William. Very much like him indeed.”
Feeling bold, William asked, “Someone in Constantinople, sir?”
Robert looked at him sharply, a strange expression in his eyes. “Constantinople? No. Not at all. You remind me of myself at your age. All that pride. All that hunger. All that—”
He turned away abruptly, took a few steps toward Baron Albi, then swung back, raising his voice above the renewed noise of chatter and music. “Clean yourself up, William. You too, Pierre. Then come and be feted by your comrades. No doubt the drinking will go on until dawn.”
* * *
William hummed a bawdy tune as he finished his bath. Water pooled on the stone-flagged floor of the buttery, and more splashed over the low sides of the small wooden tub he’d managed to fill from the copper kettle in the kitchen hearth. There’d been barely any hot water left, and what there was he’d had to share with the Frenchman. He’d topped up the tub with cold water from the well and had retired to the buttery as the only private place within the castle keep where he could take his bath in peace.
He grinned as he thought of what Pierre must be enduring. In the aftermath of the fight, the big Frenchman had been tended by the cook, who’d offered to press a red-hot poker against the injury to seal the wound. The offer and Pierre’s reaction had caused great hilarity amongst English and French alike. The Frenchman had been led off to the kitchen, surrounded by a gaggle of maids who hung on his every word.
William’s grin became a chuckle as he wondered why women always preferred the loser of a fight to the victor. Certainly Pierre had seemed to enjoy the attention, and William didn’t begrudge the Frenchman his romantic triumph. Not when William had won the knife fight in front of three noble lords and a bishop’s commissary.
He clambered from the shallow tub and dried himself on his tunic. Outside the buttery, he heard the bustle of servants passing and snatches of rowdy singing from the great hall every time the doors opened. He dressed in clean clothing, combed his fingers through his damp hair, then bundled up his old garments for the maids to launder next washday.
He stepped out into an empty corridor. The torches guttered, trailing black smoke. William stood for a moment, strangely reluctant to return to the great hall. He’d thought he’d want to celebrate his victory, no matter how small it had been, with as many of his fellows as possible, but instead he wished for just one. He wanted to relive the excitement of the fight with his lord.
William shook his head at his foolishness. Sir Robert had better things to do with his time than sup ale and listen to the impassioned chatter of one of his squires—and he’d be better off joining his fellows before that glutton John drank the barrels dry.
As he made his way back to the great hall, William heard a sound. He stopped, listening, filtering out the shouts and music from the hall and the hum of noise from the kitchens. At length the strange sound came again, and this time he identified it as two men speaking in urgent whispers. Curious as to who had slipped out of the hall or kitchen for a conversation, William followed the whispers around the dark walls.
The corridor narrowed and made a dog-leg, then opened out again near the central light well that ran for the full height of the keep. On each floor two windows overlooked the light well, which provided illumination and fresh air to what would otherwise be the darkest, stuffiest rooms in the castle. Now William understood why the voices sounded so strange—they were distorted by an echo.
William approached the window that opened into the light well, keeping to the shadows so he wouldn’t be seen by the whisperers. He angled himself against the recess of the window and peered up, wondering if the voices came from Sir Robert’s private chambers or the guest rooms above.
Another low murmur, and William drew back. The men were standing directly opposite him on the other side of the light well. From the direction of their voices, the whisperers must be standing in the lower part of the chapel, the section reserved for the household servants. It was as good a place as any for a clandestine meeting, and he wondered who they were and what they were doing. Perhaps two forbidden lovers trysting in secret—or perhaps it was Stephen badgering Father Andrew, the castle chaplain, for not showing sufficient knowledge of the Gospels.
Either way, now he’d satisfied his curiosity, it was none of his business. William turned away, only to be brought up short when one of the whisperers raised his voice, his words cutting clear
across the light well. “Robert must not know—must not even suspect!”
William felt his heart stop. He spun and pressed against the wall, holding his breath as he edged closer to the window. Inside the chapel, the other whisperer hushed the first, their voices lowered and jumbled as if they were both speaking at once, perhaps arguing over something. William strained to hear without revealing his presence, and from the morass of whispers he caught oddments of phrases.
“…Robert…”
“…kill him…”
“…gratitude and reward…”
The murdering bastards wanted to kill Sir Robert!
Anger burned a sour trail to William’s stomach. It was an effort for him to stay silent. The idea that anyone would dare harbour disloyal thoughts toward Sir Robert beneath his very roof made William grit his teeth. He dug his fingers into the cold stone and realised his hands were shaking. Forcing himself to relax, he took a calming breath and inched closer to the window.
The traitorous scum were discussing when would be the best time to carry out their plans. William listened closely, committing each word to memory.
“The day after tomorrow, during the hunt,” one of the men murmured, and William detected the lilt of a southern French accent. “I trust you to know when it will be best.”
The other man fell silent for a heartbeat. When he spoke again, he sounded uncertain, almost plaintive. “Is this really necessary? Robert has been good to me.”
The Frenchman chuckled. “I will be good to you, too, my friend. Come, it is a fine plan. Accidents happen. An angry boar, a tired or lame horse, a stray arrow—these things are a natural part of the hunt. Who would question an accident? It would be seen as God’s will.”
“If it must be done…”
The Frenchman’s voice turned to steel. “It must. Believe me. My master is never wrong.” There was a pause, and then the Frenchman continued, softer this time, “Then we are agreed?”
The Lion of Kent Page 3
