William was lost for words, a man swimming in a fast flowing river, out of his depth and aware that he might, in the next few minutes, begin to drown. She sensed this uncertainty and gently took the glass of wine from him and set it down, retaining her grip upon his hand. Then she drew his hand towards her and placed it upon her breast. ‘For God’s sake William, show me some pity for I am nothing.’
William drew back his hand. She sighed and said, ‘see here,’ and turned her head so that the light from the single flare fell on the right side of her face hitherto in shadow. He saw the bruises and the cut ear, encrusted with a scab.
‘His ring…?’
‘And his rage. There is more. Here,’ she touched her right-hand ribs, ‘and here,’ she touched her left rib-cage.
‘Madam…’
‘Marguerite…’
William shook his head. ‘I cannot,’ he said unhappily.
The Queen seemed to choke, then rose, compelling William to leap to his feet. ‘No! Sit!’ she said as she refilled both glasses and handed his back to William. ‘Then you must talk. I command it and you shall not gainsay me! Tell me, was it you who dissuaded my husband from his crusade?’
The question astonished William. ‘God’s bones! From whence did that notion arise?’
She shrugged. ‘It is common gossip that I took for common knowledge.’
‘The thought never entered my head…’ The warnings of Robert de Salignac swam into William’s mind.
‘You would swear to that upon the bones of saints?’
‘Upon my very life, Madam, did I not hold it cheap for my Lord King’s service?’
Perhaps it was the wine but the Queen seemed more resolute now, holding herself as she ought as she reseated herself, half turned towards William, but regally upright. ‘And you have ambition for yourself?’
‘What ambition should I have, Madam? I lack land and am the King’s servant in all things…’
‘But not mine,’ she said as a matter of fact, suddenly flirtatious.
‘Madam, you toy with me…’
‘Would that I did, FitzMarshal, would that I discovered where it is you keep your tail, in your breeches behind you or….’ She lowered a hand and, with her fingers, drummed it upon his thigh, ‘or here, in front.’ Then she withdrew her hand and gave a half giggle before turning serious again. ‘When he does not ignore me he treats me worse than one of his hounds. He loves his hawks more…’ She trailed off as her voice cracked with bitterness, dropping her eyes. He sat, not drinking but unmoving; not daring to compromise himself in any way; eager to leave yet flattered into staying. Without looking up and in a voice so quiet he could barely hear she asked, ‘could you not love me, FitzMarshal? Even a little, the little that one night might encompass?’
‘Such love might encompass more than this night,’ he responded, suddenly moved by her plight and reaching out a hand to hers. ‘You to a nunnery and I to a flogging and then some death that would forever dishonour me…’
‘You are thinking of Walter de Fontanes and his love for Isabelle de Vermandois?’
‘I am thinking of the vengeance taken by Phillippe of Flanders for the cuckold’s horns De Fontanes placed upon his brow, and how the Count had him ducked in a sewer until he drowned,’ replied William pragmatically. ‘Was the Lady Isabelle’s brief consolation worth that end for her lover?’
‘Count Philippe was covered in shame for his act,’ she said, ‘and went for his penance to the Holy Land.’
‘Aye, Madam,’ William riposted, ‘and De Fontanes was covered in shit and went to Hell for his mortal sin.’ He began to recover himself and although still holding her hand, went on: ‘Let them not say you plucked me from my prayers to bed me in the heat of lust the instant your husband was absent. Let them not say that William Marshal lacked both lands and honour. Do they who come from the northlands not say that you may take my sheep, my arms, my gold and all my goods and chattels, but leave me my reputation?’
Again she sighed and William drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘In that I am the King’s servant, Marguerite, I am yours,’ he said with quiet sincerity. ‘To that I am pledged by solemn oath. I am sorry for your plight and if he persists in using you ill you may, I think, retire to your brother’s Court and seek a separation. More than my counsel I cannot in all conscience give you.’
She looked at him, her eyes full of tears and squeezing his hand detached her own. Still regarding him she nodded and then put out her hand and touched his cheek. ‘You have given me great comfort, and I thank you for your courtesy.’
Slowly he stood up and stepped away from the couch, unable to throw off her steady gaze. For a long moment it seemed as though both might throw caution to the winds and bow to the imperative of lust but the chapel bell rang for Compline and, with a sharp intake of breath William made his obeisance and withdrew.
The empty ante-chamber made him shiver; something was awry. The two glasses indicated premeditation and the absence of any attendant would not go unnoticed, if only by those who had been dismissed from that duty. He thought again of the warnings of De Salignac. William swore and stood stock still. Jesu Christ, but he had been such a fool! No sound came from the Queen’s chamber and it struck him that the silence hanging over Evreux was preternatural. But this, he thought to himself as he pulled his wits together, was but a reaction to the noise and bustle of the last weeks. Then he heard the rising chant of the priests in the castle chapel and went to the door to pass from the ante-chamber and so to his own quarters.
To his relief no one waited outside, though at the very least a page should have been in attendance. Should he summon someone? He did not have to pretend a concern for the Queen’s safety, but to do so would reveal his knowledge of her exposed situation. Then the problem was solved for him, for out of the shadows came the man he knew as Eustace.
‘You are not on duty here,’ William said, unconsciously giving voice to the fact that Eustace was of De Coulonces mesnie, not a member of the garrison.
‘No, my Lord Marshal, I was merely passing…’
‘Where is the Queen’s guard?’ he asked. Eustace shrugged. ‘Do you inform the Constable that he is in dereliction of his duty and the King shall hear of it unless he rights the matter without delay.’
‘Aye, my Lord Marshal’.
*
Ranulf FitzStephen rode into Evreux the following afternoon and brought with him the bow-men of Coulonces. ‘I found them encamped not half a day’s march from here, William,’ FitzStephen told him after expressing his astonishment at finding William almost alone at Evreux and saw the look of puzzlement that crossed the Marshall’s face.
‘Make yourself comfortable, Ranulf. Shall you be fit to march on the morrow. I have orders to rejoin the King at Alençon and there is little time for delay.’
‘Aye William, we shall be ready.’
William went in search of Eustace to inform him of the arrival of his bow-men and to quiz him as to their presence so close to Evreux. But Eustace was nowhere to be found and when asked, the sergeant of the watch the previous night told William that he had been bullied into opening the bailey gate to allow an armed knight and his squire leave with a message for the King. On further enquiry the town watch confirmed that the gate on the road to Alençon and Le Mans had been opened to allow a knight and a man-at-arms to pass ‘with despatches for the King from my Lord Marshal.’
‘And at what time?’ William had pressed, his heart thumping in his breast.
‘Perhaps an hour after Compline,’ came the reply.
*
William slept but fitfully that night and when he did it was to dream of an encirclement of serpents. At dawn Adalbert, sticky with sleep, found his master dressed and pacing his chamber. Despite leaving orders for an early start, William let FitzStephen depart without him, promising that he would catch up, since FitzStephen would be slowed by the archers. As soon as it was decent to do so, William sent for the Queen’s Confessor. When the pri
est arrived William scrutinised him carefully, trying to seek out any sign that the man knew anything disreputable or suggested he felt awkward in the presence of the Marshal.
‘Before my departure I would have audience with Her Grace, Father,’ he asked. ‘Would you be kind enough to pass this request?’
While he waited for permission to attend Marguerite, William continued to pace his chamber, his head hot from lack of sleep. When at last he was in the Queen’s presence he made his obeisance and loudly asked if she was content that he follow her husband. As he did so the priest withdrew, and as soon as he was out of the room, William fell onto one knee.
‘Madam,’ he said, his voice low, tense and urgent in its tone. ‘I beseech your forgiveness for my impropriety, but did anyone suggest that you sought my help last night?’
She looked as astonished as he had done when she had asked if it was him that diverted her husband from his avowed crusade. ‘No!’
‘Then I fear there may be evil consequences from our brief intimacy. You may rely upon my discretion,’ he added rising, ‘and forgive me that I must follow after His Grace directly, but to delay further would compound what mischief others have already made.’
‘Why, what is amiss?’
‘I was seen leaving your chamber…’ It was clear that she was shocked. ‘But, Madam, the two glasses, the absence of any page, guard, or lady-in-waiting…you purposed our… encounter.’
‘I sought you out in the chapel, having observed it to be your habit on occasion to pray. I had been waiting the opportunity for some time…’
William nodded, then shook his head. ‘I fear…’ he broke off.
‘The sewer?’ she asked, half smiling, as if she welcomed the incipient scandal, if only to wound her husband.
‘God’s blood, no! I should not let them do that to me, but you…’
She shrugged. ‘I am Louis Capet’s daughter and sister to the King of France, William Marshal,’ she said, drawing herself up so that he might, just then, have fallen at her feet. ‘Please go,’ she said her tone suddenly haughty, so that he was chastened, whipped like a cur. But before he left the chamber, she called him back. ‘Go, William,’ she said in a softer voice, ‘and with my blessing.’
Five minutes later he was on the road to Alençon with his small retinue, hard on the heels of Ranulf FitzStephen and the archers of Thomas de Coulonces.
*
Marching on foot, De Coulonces’ archers delayed the column led by William and FitzStephen so that it was at Alençon itself that they caught-up with the Young King. The first man of note to greet them was Baldwin de Béthune, who drew William aside, his face anxious.
‘We have heard strange rumours, William. De Salignac is beside himself, suspecting treachery… Pray God he is right, but the King is in a strange mood and we do not know whether we shall continue the campaign…’
‘I am half-expecting this…’ William began, interrupting his friend, but here De Béthune stopped him. ‘I do not think the King will see you.’
‘What? He must!’
‘See Robert de Salignac, William, he stands loudest in your defence.’
‘And who are my accusers?’
‘D’Yquebeuf…’
‘And De Coulonces.’ William finished the sentence.
‘Those are chief among them, yes…’ but Baldwin de Béthune got no further for a bellow rang out across the yard, announcing the presence of the Young King who, hearing of the arrival of FitzStephen and William Marshal, had come out to prove De Béthune wrong.
‘FitzMarshal,’ cried the Young Henry, ‘attend me!’
‘If you love me, my Lord Baldwin,’ William said, handing the reins of his horse to his friend, ‘see my horse fed and watered, this may take some time.’
Once within the castle the King cleared the great hall and led into a chamber, slamming shut the door behind William before turning upon him. William had expected rage, red and dangerous, but there was something worse in about the cold fury in Henry’s blue eyes.
‘You have cuckolded me! Made a fool of me the instant my back was turned! You! You of all people! You that I loved better than any brother and favoured better than any other knight! You William Marshal, spawn of the Devil and bastard of an English whore…’
‘My Lord King…’
‘Do not seek to…’
‘My Lord King, whatever I am, and I am no adulterer, my mother was not a whore nor am I bastard, nor Devil’s spawn. You have been misinformed…’
‘No, sirrah! I have not! You spent an hour in my Lady’s private chamber; you dismissed the guards, her ladies…’
‘I spent an hour in Her Grace’s chamber at her own request. She dismissed her attendants and I am the victim of a conspiracy by those who seek to harm both you and me. Our enemies have waited a long time to use such circumstances as presented themselves at Evreux.’
‘And what in God’s name did my Lady want with you if it was not…’ the King could not quite bring himself to say it, did not want to say what was being said throughout the war-host, throughout Evreux, Alençon and would soon ring throughout Christendom.
‘My Lady, The Queen, was in distress, Sire,’ William said in a low voice. ‘She showed me the cut about her ear and told he there was more.
‘And you consoled her,’ sneered Henry, taken aback. ‘and then fell for her and fucked…’
‘I did nothing more than take her hand, Henry,’ William replied, possessed now by a cold anger to match the Young King’s.
‘How dare you. That is lese majestie! That is treason, like bedding my wife.’
‘Since your accusations make us equals as regards your wife, my Lord…’
‘You are not my equal…’
‘No, Sire, I am not, and I should not presume to take the place in my Lady Marguerite’s bed that is yours either, but since you consider me capable of such an act I must act as an equal to get justice. Come, Sire, I am content to lay the matter before Almighty God and engage in single combat: lance against lance; sword against sword and body against body! That or seek the answer from Her Grace the Queen herself.’ William paused a moment. There was something so uncharacteristic about the King’s lack of tempestuous passion that he half-divined it: Henry had no wish to believe what he had been told, but he had uttered the accusation and William would rather hazard his flesh than have his honour compromised. What else had he to lose? Sensing Henry vacillated, William plunged on. ‘And my Lord King if you should not wish to engage me yourself – for I am not your equal and your own honour is as sacred to you as is mine to me – appoint one of my accusers as your champion. Who are they? Adam de’Yquebeuf? Thomas de Coulonces? Jean de Laon? Jealous men who have plotted against me and would have me detached from your mesnie that they might bask in your esteem as they encompass my ruin.’
The Young King had opened his mouth to speak but the three names stopped him and he turned aside to fill a goblet with a shaking hand. As he again confronted William he found the Marshal in his knees.
‘My Lord King, I swear on the Holy Body and Blood of Christ I did no dishonour to Your Grace.’
He could see the conflict plainly in Henry’s eyes now. ‘But the world thinks you did and the world will listen to that which best appeals to its low appetites…’ Henry sighed, extended his right hand and allowed William to kiss his ring. ‘I must banish you, send you into exile if only to signal my disapproval and your disgrace.’
‘I understand, my Liege,’ replied William rising.
‘You cannot remain under my roof but must be gone tomorrow.’
William thought fast. The majority of his mesnie were rested, having arrived with the Young King. There was nothing beyond his own fatigue to keep him in Alençon. ‘I will depart within the hour, Sire.’
The King nodded and turned away. ‘I will make way in my mesnie for yours. They are men sworn to me through yourself.’
Silently William made his obeisance and left the presence chamber, a hand of cold i
ce about his heart.
As soon as he had seen to the stabling of William’s palfrey, Baldwin de Béthune had passed word to Robert de Salignac that William had been called to conference with the Young King. And presciently De Salignac had called the knights of William’s mesnie to a meet in the inn stables he had taken over in the Marshal’s name, quartering the men in the adjacent pension. Thereafter De Salignac had awaited William’s emergence from his audience and met his friend with a single interrogative.
‘Well?’
‘I did not bed the Queen, Robert, you have my word on that, but I am banished that the King may be seen to disapprove of me.’
‘ ’Tis the work of D’Yquebeuf and…’
‘I know, I know…’
‘Shall you challenge them?’
‘Not now. Where are…?’
But De Salignac forestalled William, ‘I have your mesnie assembled in the stables, come…’
They were all there, wearing long faces in the gloom, for the place was barely lit by the sunlight of late afternoon. At the appearance of William and his friend they fell silent after a brief gasp of astonishment that William remained at liberty, and the only noise was the snickering of their horses in the stalls.
‘My Lords and gentlemen you have heard of the conduct imputed to me and the treason which I am supposed to have committed. Think you that I should have done such a thing out of lust? Think you that I should have done such a thing to so dishonour my name? Think you that I should have done such a thing as to wreck my fortune? No. But to preserve the honour of our Lord the King I am banished…’
The news was met by a rising clamour of incredulity. Raising his hand William waited until this had subsided.
‘I thank you for your service to me. You are at perfect liberty to go where you will and His Grace the King reminds you that as sworn to him through me, you are but a part of his own mesnie where you will find welcome. I ride out before sunset.’
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 25
