The stables appeared empty. He assumed the grooms were cadging breakfast from the cooks, for few men had the fortitude to confine themselves to the traditional two meals a day. His own hunger was waking; not that it ever truly slept. As a squire, he’d earned the nickname of Scoff-food for his impressive appetite. Thinking about that now, he grinned; luckily, he was tall enough to eat his fill without fear of getting a paunch like his uncle Salisbury.
He’d unsaddled his stallion and was turning to fetch a bucket when he heard the voices. It sounded as if they were coming from the loft and he cocked his head, listening. He could make out no words, but the speakers sounded young and angry. As he emerged from the stall, hay rained down upon his head and he glanced up in time to see a youngster teetering on the edge of the loft. The boy made a grab for the ladder as he went over, managing to grasp one of the rungs. He dangled there for a hazardous moment, kicking in vain as he sought a foothold. But before he could panic, he heard a voice say with reassuring calm, “Easy, lad. If you think you can hold on for a few more breaths, I’ll come up to get you. If not, just let yourself drop and I’ll catch you.”
The boy squirmed to get a glimpse of the man below him and almost lost his grip. “I’m letting go,” he gasped and came plummeting down, feet first, showing an admirable confidence in Will’s ability to break his fall. The impact was more forceful than Will had expected and he staggered backward under the boy’s weight before setting him safely onto the floor. As he did, another head peered over the edge and he snapped, “Get down here now!” not wanting to have to make two rescues that morning.
He’d gotten his breath back by the time the second youngster obeyed. They both had reddish-gold hair dusted with straw, ruddy faces scattered with freckles and streaked with dirt. The boy Will had caught looked to be about twelve, but Will knew he was actually only ten and a half, the other one a year younger. A passerby might have taken them, as scruffy as they were, for two brawling stable lads, but Will knew better. They were the heirs to Aquitaine and Brittany.
He regarded them disapprovingly, but they bore up well under the scrutiny, theirs the confidence of young princes already knowing to whom they were accountable and to whom they were not. “I do not suppose,” he drawled, “that you want to tell me what you were squabbling about.”
Richard’s shoulders twitched. “I do not suppose so, either.”
Will would have let the matter lie if Richard hadn’t come so close to splattering himself all over the stable floor. Casting an accusatory eye upon Geoffrey, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to put the fear of God into the lad and said coolly, “Want to tell me how your brother fell? You would not have pushed him, by any chance?”
But putting the fear of God into Geoffrey was easier said than done. The boy glared right back at him. “Why should I listen to you? For all I know, you’re just one of the lowborn stable grooms!”
That insult rankled a bit with Will, for he was very proud of his new knighthood. Squatting down so that his eyes were level with Geoffrey’s defiant ones, he said, “Why should you listen to me? Well, I can think of two reasons, lad. As it happens, I am a knight in the Earl of Salisbury’s service. And in case it has escaped your notice, I am also much bigger than you. I’d wager I’d have no trouble at all dunking you in one of the horse troughs—accidentally, of course.”
He saw rage flash in Geoffrey’s narrowed blue eyes; he saw a sharp glimmer of intelligence, too. The boy might be spoiled, but he was no fool. His fury at being threatened was dampened by the realization that he did not want any more attention than they’d already attracted. “I do not believe you’re a knight,” he said scornfully, and content that he’d gotten the last word, he stalked away.
Will shook his head, glad that he wasn’t a Breton. Richard was still lingering, watching with alert interest as he returned to the stall and began to rub his stallion down. “Geoff has mush for brains,” he said after a few moments. “Who ever heard of a groom wearing a sword?”
“You’re welcome,” Will said dryly and the boy blinked. It did not take him long to figure it out, though.
“I suppose I was lucky you were here,” he said, sounding as if he were not sure whether it should be a challenge or an apology.
“I suppose you were,” Will agreed amiably, and when he reached for a brush, Richard stepped forward and handed it to him.
“Why not have a groom do that?”
“A man ought to take care of what’s his, or at least know how to,” Will said. “Want to help?”
Richard hesitated only a heartbeat. “I guess so.”
“Give me that towel over there, then,” Will directed, and this time the silence was companionable. “So . . . I take it you’re not going to tell on Brother Geoff? Admirable. But if it were me, I’d want to see him punished.”
Richard had his father’s smoky eyes, his gaze already more guarded than that of many men. “He will be,” he said, and Will bit back a smile.
“I see. So you’d rather dispense justice yourself.”
Richard hesitated again and then grinned. Will showed him how to inspect the stallion’s feet, looking for bruises to the sole or pebbles wedged between the frog and the bar, and when he finally left the stables, he’d acquired a second shadow.
Richard scuffed his feet, kicking at an occasional rock. “Are you going to Lusignan Castle with my mother and Earl Patrick?” Will confirmed that he was, and Richard shot him a sideways glance edged with envy. “They’ll not let me come,” he complained. “They said it was no reason to interrupt my studies.”
Will thought Richard’s safety might be a consideration, too, for it was less than two months since Henry had stormed Lusignan Castle and taken it from its rebellious owners. He was not about to say so, though, sure that would only make the journey all the more irresistible to Richard. By now they’d reached the great hall, and as they climbed the shallow steps, Will reminded Richard that Lusignan was less than twelve miles distant so it would entail only an overnight stay. That did not seem to give Richard much solace, and he soon abandoned Will in favor of pursuing his own interests.
For Will, nothing mattered but breakfast, and he elbowed his way toward the tables. As soon as he was recognized, he found himself fending off jests about his nocturnal hunting expedition and speculation about his quarry. Will took the teasing in stride and helped himself to sausages and fried bread. His uncle and the queen were seated at the high table and he watched them for a while, wondering if others noticed the coolness between them.
There were no overt signs of animosity, of course; Queen Eleanor would never be that obvious. But Will knew she’d been displeased by her husband’s decision not to name her as regent in his absence, instead placing her under the protection of his deputy, Salisbury. Will thought the king could hardly have done otherwise. Even though he’d quelled the January revolt with a heavy hand, some of the rebels remained on the loose. Will had heard so many stories about Henry Fitz Empress’s willful queen that he was unsurprised by Eleanor’s lack of feminine timidity. This was the same woman, after all, who’d coaxed the French king into taking her on crusade.
The king had departed Poitiers three days earlier for Pacy in Normandy, where he was to discuss peace terms with Louis. Will hoped he would not soon return, for he was thoroughly enjoying this time in the queen’s service and was in no hurry to see it end. One of the more observant knights had begun joking that he was smitten with the queen, warning him that King Henry might tolerate lovesick minstrels trailing after his lady, since that was the custom of the Courts of Love so popular with highborn women, but he’d take a much dimmer view of lovesick knights.
Will had deflected the gibes with his usual good humor, knowing it was actually much more complicated than that. He did not approve of Queen Eleanor. How could he, for she’d defied virtually every tenet of those conventions meant to govern female behavior. And yet he could not deny that she cast a potent spell.
He’d never imagined he could harbor lustful thought
s about a woman old enough to be his mother, but he did. For all that he knew the queen’s youth was long gone, he thought she was still one of the most desirable women he’d ever laid eyes upon. Her enemies whispered that she must practice the Black Arts to keep the years at bay. Will suspected her continuing beauty had more to do with the fact that God had been so generous with His gifts than with a Devil’s pact. Common sense told him, too, that a queen was bound to age more gracefully than a potter’s widow, for she had the best that their world could offer.
Not that he entertained any delusions about acting upon his wayward yearnings. He was far too practical and far too honorable. If he’d have gone to his grave before revealing the name of Magali, his Poitiers bedmate, he was not one to fantasize about seducing his queen. But he could admire her from a respectful distance, as he was doing this morning in Poitiers’s great hall. She was fashionably attired in a gown of forest green, her face framed by a veil and wimple whiter than snow, laughing at something her son was saying. Will had not noticed Richard’s approach until then. The boy straightened up and backed away, displaying his courtly manners. As he did, his gaze happened to wander toward Will, and he grinned suddenly, almost conspiratorially. It occurred to Will that he now had a friend in the royal household, and he grinned back at the boy.
ELEANOR TILTED HER FACE toward the sky, luxuriating in the warmth of the spring sun on her skin. The very air of Poitou had a different tang. English air was like inhaling fog. Misted mornings and drizzle and the pungent scent of the sea—that was what she’d most remember about the realm Harry’s father had called “that godforsaken isle.” The damp winters in Paris had saturated its air in moisture, too. Amazing that she’d survived so many years of exile without succumbing to consumption. Even the colors seemed brighter now that she was back in her own lands. She could taste nature’s bounty on the wind, hear the rhythm of life in the rustling of newly budding trees.
They were only a few miles from Lusignan by now and she hesitated when Salisbury proposed that they stop for a time, as her instinct was to push ahead. But as she glanced around at her traveling companions, she changed her mind. Renée was no horsewoman and she was casting wistful looks at the whispering grass and beckoning roadside shade. Several of Salisbury’s knights had the pinched pallor of men badly hungover. While neither Louis nor Henry was much of a drinker, Eleanor could not say the same for the men of her own family and this was an expression quite familiar to her. Even young Marshal was nodding sleepily in the saddle. Her resentment of Salisbury notwithstanding, she did not want to oppose his every suggestion from sheer contrariness, and she nodded her assent.
Three of the men at once sprawled in the grass, arms shielding their eyes. Renée set about unpacking a wicker basket, and soon had two young knights eager to be of assistance. Salisbury was seeking to ease a cramp in his leg, complaining jokingly to his nephew about his “elderly, aching bones.” Will was nodding sympathetically, but Eleanor knew he could not begin to comprehend the ailments of age. When she’d been one and twenty, she couldn’t have, either.
Jordan, her trusted clerk, was nursing a swollen ankle, but he’d insisted upon accompanying her. Now he limped toward her, proffering a flagon and cups from Renée’s basket. She let him pour for them both, then found a convenient tree stump to sit upon, spreading her skirts carefully to avoid splinters. She was more restless than usual today, for she’d slept poorly the night before, troubled by fragmented, dark dreams she could not recall upon awakening.
Will Marshal was looking after the horses, leading Eleanor’s mare over to graze in a patch of sweet spring grass. Eleanor watched him approvingly; he was never one to shirk duties or responsibilities. She knew full well that he was in the early stage of infatuation, but she felt sure he’d get through it without embarrassing either one of them. There was a faint satisfaction, too, in knowing this young knight did not think her charms had aged or her appeal withered. Because of his vulnerability, though, she’d taken care not to flirt with him. Her life was complicated enough without adding the hint of scandal. She stared down into the dark amber liquid in her cup, an ugly, unbidden thought surging to the surface: that Harry might like it if she gave him an excuse to pack her off to a nunnery in disgrace, for then he could bring his concubine to court, flaunt her for all the world to see.
“Madame . . .” Will had ventured closer, not sure whether he should intrude upon thoughts that did not seem very pleasant. She glanced up, blinking in the mellow sunlight as she banished her ghosts and her grievances, and then smiled.
“May I fetch you something else to drink?” he asked, gesturing toward the cup which had tilted and was spilling onto the ground at her feet.
“No, I am not thirsty. I thank you for the offer, though.” Will was one of the few men in their party who was wearing his hauberk; Salisbury and most of the others had shed their chain-mail as the sun rose higher in the sky, loading them onto one of the packhorses. Studying Will now, Eleanor asked, “Are you not hot in that armor? I never did understand how men could abide hauberks in the heat of the Holy Land.”
“They wore tabards over their hauberks to shield them from the worst of the sun.” No sooner had Will spoken than he cursed himself for a clumsy fool. Here he was, instructing the queen about crusading warfare when she’d been there to see it for herself, which was more than he could say. He would have loved to discuss her experiences with her, to hear her firsthand account of the disastrous Second Crusade, but a queen could not be prompted or, worse, interrogated. “These are not the most comfortable garments,” he admitted. “But I’ve gotten used to the weight by now and—”
He cut himself off so abruptly and oddly that Eleanor frowned. “Will? Is something amiss?”
“No . . . probably not.” He was still staring intently toward the horizon even as he gave her a sheepish smile. “It was just that I thought I saw something in that grove of trees up ahead, like the flash of sunlight hitting a hauberk or sword . . .” He shifted to get another look, and then drew an audible breath.
“Uncle!” Whirling, he shouted to Salisbury, “Men-at-arms in those woods!”
Salisbury trusted Will’s judgment enough to take the warning as gospel. Scrambling to his feet, he headed for the packhorse holding their armor. Eleanor had responded just as swiftly, and she had reason now to be thankful for Will Marshal’s coolness under fire. She was reaching for her mare’s reins when he shook his head.
“No, take my horse. You can ride faster astride.”
She at once saw the sense in that, for sidesaddles were not meant for flight. Within seconds, he’d assisted her up onto his stallion and was running toward Renée. Jordan had kept his head, too, and was already swinging up into the saddle. All around them, men were racing to reclaim their chain-mail or to mount their startled horses, cursing as the animals shied away. But by then their foes had realized their ambush had been discovered and they were spurring their stallions out onto the road.
“Madame, go! We’ll hold them here!” Salisbury paused only long enough to make sure Eleanor was heeding him before swinging back toward the plunging packhorse. Appalled that he’d let himself be taken unaware like this, as if he were a raw stripling, he was relieved to see the queen send her horse across the field at a dead run, with Jordan and Renée following behind. His nephew had caught the closest horse and leaped into the saddle, sword in hand. Their assailants were splitting into two bands, one group of horsemen peeling off in pursuit of Eleanor, the other intent upon eliminating her defenders as quickly as possible.
“After them, Will!” Salisbury roared a command that was not needed, for Will was already racing to intercept the queen’s pursuers. Christ, there were so many of them! Salisbury fumbled hastily for his hauberk, but even as he struggled to pull it over his head, he ran out of time. He was bitterly aware of how badly he’d failed his queen, but he never saw the weapon that claimed his life, a hunting spear flung with deadly accuracy, burying itself in the small of his back.
>
Will had sent his stallion crashing into the closest of the queen’s pursuers. As the man’s horse foundered, Will drove his sword into that unprotected area under the armpit, then pulled the blade free in a spray of crimson. To his left, he saw a familiar figure, one of his uncle’s knights, closing fast on a man astride a screaming bay stallion. Sir Roger swung a spiked mace in a lethal arc, smashing into bone and ripping away flesh. Will spurred his stallion after a knight wearing a kettle-shaped helmet without a nasal guard. Drawing alongside, he parried the other’s thrust, then used his shield to club the man from the saddle; there was no time for finesse, for any of the skillful swordplay he’d learned as a squire to the Chamberlain of Normandy. He glanced over his shoulder, could not find Sir Roger in the mêlée. That distracted moment was to cost him dearly, giving one of his foes the chance to kill his horse.
As the stallion stumbled, Will kicked his spurs free of the stirrups before it went down, and hit the ground rolling. Regaining his feet, he was almost trampled by a man on a lathered bay. He was hopelessly outnumbered by now, stranded in the midst of his enemies. Retreating toward a thorny hedgerow that would offer some protection to his back, he blinked sweat from his eyes, tasting his own blood on his tongue. Swords drawn, they feinted and dodged, cursing him freely. But they kept out of range of Will’s gory sword. By the time he realized what they were up to, it was too late. There was movement in the hedgerow behind him, a blade slashing through the branches. Pain seared up Will’s thigh. His strength draining away in a gush of blood, he wobbled and then sank to his knees, still clutching his sword even as they closed in.
HER ESCORT’S HEROIC EFFORTS had given Eleanor the time she needed to reach the woods. She checked the stallion just long enough for Jordan and Renée to catch up to her. If they were found, it would mean Jordan’s death, for she knew he’d never stand by helplessly and let her be taken, not even if she ordered him to yield. Renée would likely be ransomed—eventually—but she was far too pretty to be unmolested. As for her own fate, she knew how great a prize she’d be. The fools thought Harry would pawn Heaven and earth to secure her release. She preferred not to put his devotion to the test. Moreover, she could not be sure that she’d be luckier than Renée. Men desperate enough to capture a queen might well be careless of the conventions of warfare, the dictates of honor. And if her suspicions were right about the identity of her assailants, they could have taught the Devil himself about sin.
Time and Chance Page 45
