Palace of Westminster, October 1247
A sparkle of light on the cuff of his new mail shirt caught William’s eye – a glint from God, he thought, and it seemed to him that everywhere was alive with His glory. His senses were heightened – every sound, every touch. The smell of incense and stone and sanctity. The feel of the cold flagstones beneath his knees as he knelt with John de Warenne and a group of other young men to receive the formal accolade of knighthood from the King before an enormous crowd of clergy and nobility present for the celebration feast of King Edward the Confessor. There had been a great procession and then a mass to accompany the presentation of the vial of Christ’s holy blood to the abbey church. Sheltered under a magnificent silk palanquin, Henry had worn a plain brown robe to bear the precious object from Westminster Palace to the abbey. Now, back at the palace, he had changed into a tunic of cloth of gold, with a jewelled crown binding his hair.
William had spent the previous night in prayer before Westminster’s high altar, kneeling in vigil, taking neither food nor drink and reflecting on what it meant to be a knight and serve God and the King. To strive to be just and fair and honourable in all his dealings. He was tired and very thirsty now, but exalted too. To receive a knighthood on such an auspicious day in front of so many of his peers was as far above his dreams as the stars. Although daunted, he felt grounded and solid too, for this day he had become a man.
Beside him, John de Warenne jutted a resolute jaw, forested by a newly grown, short dark beard – he said it made him feel older. He had married Aliza three days ago in the cathedral of St Paul and he and William had become brothers in marriage, as they were now about to become brothers in arms, knighted on the same day, kneeling shoulder to shoulder as friends and comrades.
Henry descended the steps from his throne solemnly. An attendant stood to one side, holding an enamelled blue and gold belt, scabbard and sheathed sword. Henry took the items and girded the sword around William’s waist, exhorting him to be the chivalrous defender of the weak and the Church and to be honourable in all his dealings and duties. William made his pledge and Henry struck him on the shoulder with his clenched fist to remind him of his oath, before giving him the kiss of peace and hugging him fiercely. The same ritual followed for John de Warenne and the other young men as Henry moved along the line, conferring upon each young man the alchemic honour of knighthood. William was exalted and euphoric. He was a knight and a grown man, acknowledged in the sight of God, and honoured by the King before the entire court.
‘I am so proud of you,’ Joanna said with brimming eyes. Her blue and white gown matched his surcoat, making them two halves of one whole – William and Joanna de Valence, the lord and lady of Pembroke.
The celebration feast in the great main hall of Westminster commenced with speeches and toasts. There were delicious meats and pastries, piquant sauces, Gascon wines bright as rubies, and effervescent golden ones from France. Musicians and singers performed on lute and harp and pipe. William’s shield, made new for the ceremony, adorned the wall in pride of place beside the royal arms of England. William had his own board at the banquet and Henry presented him with a gift of silver tableware, embellished with the martel blazon William would carry into battle for the rest of his life.
Between the numerous courses there was time to socialise, and Joanna’s red-haired cousin Richard de Clare, flushed and bright-eyed with an excess of wine, approached William to congratulate him. When in his cups, as now, de Clare rode the line between loud good humour and belligerence. Clapping William on the shoulder, he signalled across the table to Guy and Geoffrey. ‘As we agreed yesterday, gentlemen, shall we approach the King?’
Joanna looked from one to the other with concern. ‘William, what is this?’
‘Don’t worry.’ He kissed her cheek and stood up. ‘It is just something we wish to ask the King. I’ll return in a moment.’
Joanna bit her lip, feeling anxious nonetheless as he turned from her.
Henry had been conversing with the Queen, her uncles and a couple of bishops, but stopped as the deputation approached.
‘Sire,’ William said, bowing deeply, ‘I crave a boon of you for my day of knighting.’
Smiling, Henry spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. ‘Name it and it is yours.’
William cleared his throat and looked round at the others. ‘I beg your permission to hold a tourney to celebrate prowess in arms and to prove valour.’
Henry’s smile diminished. ‘A tourney?’ The second word fell like a stone.
‘It would set the seal upon my knighting,’ William said eagerly. ‘It would be well received, I am sure.’
‘Tourneying is a dangerous sport.’ Henry shook his head. ‘I would not have you risk yourself when I am only just coming to know you.’
‘But it is a rite of passage,’ William argued. ‘It will be properly organised, I swear it. How else can we train for battle?’ He looked round at his companions, who all made sounds of vigorous agreement.
‘I hope you will not have to fight in battle at so tender an age.’ By now Henry had ceased to smile.
‘Hope will not keep me safe whereas practice will,’ William persisted. ‘Look at my wife’s grandsire. He partook in the tourneys for more than ten years and lived to a ripe age and died in his bed. We shall all have an opportunity to demonstrate how well we are able to protect you.’
Sighing, Henry regarded William with troubled eyes. ‘I have never understood why young men are so mad for the tourneys.’ He shot a glance at Edward, who was leaning forward from his place further down the board, his expression avid. ‘Even my own son has the passion and he is but eight years old!’
De Clare cleared his throat. ‘I would captain the opposing team, sire, and I would see that the tourney was well ordered. The Marshal was my grandsire too.’ He touched his chest for emphasis. ‘It would be an honour and an opportunity for these young men you have knighted today to prove their worth. They will have much more to offer as they grow, but this is their contribution now and I say with all due respect, it should not be dismissed.’
Henry rubbed his chin, and finally exhaled and opened his hands. ‘What can I do against the persuasion of youth? Very well, I grant you permission to hold a tourney, but I want to see and approve the plans in detail beforehand.’
‘Thank you, sire, thank you!’ Kneeling, William kissed Henry’s hand. The others knelt too, but Henry waved them away with an exasperated smile and a frown between his brows, decidedly less joyful than his supplicants, or his eldest son, who was squirming with glee.
William sat before the fire in his chamber. Heavy rain had forced the court to indoor pursuits. No hunting or hawking today, and the grooms had been handed the task of exercising the horses. William had eschewed the delights of socialising with his peers, and was deeply engrossed in the book John de Warenne had lent to him on the history of Joanna’s grandsire the great William Marshal, regent of England during the King’s minority.
William’s mother had occasionally mentioned the Marshal, but without warmth since he was one of the reasons she had left England; there had been no room for a dowager queen in the power play following King John’s death. However, William was much more interested in the Marshal’s legendary career in the tourneys as a young man. The numerous enthralling details and anecdotes in the book made him want to rush out and perform great deeds.
Joanna entered the chamber and crossed the room to wrap her arms around his neck from behind. ‘You haven’t had your nose out of that book for two days,’ she said. ‘It is time for dinner.’
‘Your grandsire was a great man.’ Folding the book inside its protective cloth, he put it down. ‘He took the ransoms of five hundred knights during his tourney career. And those are only the ones noted by a clerk. I wonder how many he took altogether.’
‘My mother told me stories about him, but she was only a child when he died, so most of the tales came from her older brothers and sisters.’ If she never heard another word about tourneys it would be too soon. If William wasn’t reading about them, then he was training, planning tactics, and organising the event, set to be held in Northampton a fortnight hence at Martinmas. Her cousin John was no better. Neither she nor Aliza could talk sense into their besotted husbands, especially when they were being aided and abetted by William’s brothers who were keen to display their military prowess. Joanna was hoping that, like a hot fever, it would run its course and then they might actually return to reason and proportion.
