‘There are ways and means of regulating one’s family though,’ Aliza said. ‘The Queen has two sons and two daughters, but I have noticed the wool she keeps hidden in that pot at the bedside for when the King visits.’
Joanna stared at Aliza. ‘You know about that?’
‘Lady Sybil mentioned it in so many words when I was preparing to wed. Did she say the same to you? You soak the wool in wine or vinegar and put it inside yourself ?’
Joanna glanced round, but no one was within earshot. ‘Yes, among many other things,’ she said quietly. ‘It is not a lore that men need to know about though, and it doesn’t always work.’
‘I wonder if men would use it if they were the ones bearing babies. I think they would!’ Aliza gave a throaty laugh, hastily suppressed as their husbands arrived from the council chamber.
Joanna was immediately alert, for William was flushed and tight-lipped and John was scowling. However, neither man would be drawn, and the women had to let the matter drop. But later, in their chamber, William made love to Joanna with possessive assertion. She enjoyed the vigour of his attentions, and met his need with her own, remembering Cecily’s advice, but when they were regaining their breath, she leaned up on an elbow to look at him.
‘What happened today?’ she asked.
He sat up and folded his arms around his knees. ‘Complaints to the King about how he constantly shows foreigners favour above loyal English subjects,’ he said, scowling. ‘Comments about how the King has disparaged good English heirs and heiresses by giving them to foreign parasites. Insinuations that my union with you has been against the interests of the country, and the same with John and Aliza. That the King should never have given our marriages. They demanded that Henry swear he would never do the like again.’
‘That is outrageous! It is for the King to say and for the parties concerned to refuse if they so deem.’
‘I said the same thing, that you could be summoned to say if you were dissatisfied with your marriage, but of course they would have none of that.’ He looked at her, his hair tumbling over his brow. ‘I came to make a life here and serve my brother, but many lords and prelates resent our connection. They had no right to speak as they did.’
‘There are always those who will stir the pot out of envy for others,’ she said, and kissed him. ‘You must remain focused and make allies wherever possible – although it is easier said than done.’
‘My wise Joanna.’ His tone was mocking but tender. He let out a hard breath to release the least of his annoyance and took her hand. ‘One piece of good news though: the King has finally agreed to let us hold a tourney, at Newbury on Ash Wednesday.’
Given what he had just told her about the council meeting, Joanna was dismayed, but knew she would more easily shift a mountain with a spoon than persuade William out of it. Perhaps better over and done with than always on the horizon as a lingering energy.
‘It will be all right,’ he said. ‘I promise you.’
The morning of the tourney at Newbury dawned bright and cold. Barons and knights had assembled from every corner of England to take part.
Surrounding the tourney field, the pastures bloomed with brightly coloured pavilions. Pennants fluttered from the tops, and shields planted on staves outside the tents marked the devices of the lords taking part. Bigod and Clare; Ferrers, de Warenne, Lusignan and Valence.
Armed up and ready to go to his horse, William paused inside his blue and white pavilion with Geoffrey and Guy for a final moment. Anticipation churned inside him; he had been working towards this moment since childhood. To take part in a proper tournament. To couch his lance and face a real opponent across the field instead of his tutor. To not have to pull his blows but to strike hard and true.
‘Watch de Clare and Bigod,’ Guy warned. ‘They are experienced, older and more powerful. They will be looking to take you and John.’ He cast a glance towards their new brother-in-law. ‘I know you think you can look after yourselves, but be on your guard. Even if this tourney is to celebrate your knighthood, make no mistake, there will be some heavy play. Many will seek to seize you for ransom and trample your pride.’
Geoffrey nodded in agreement, and their superiority irritated William. They themselves were hardly so accustomed to competing in tourneys as to be doling out advice. They were just throwing their weight around because they were older.
‘Mayhap we will take theirs,’ he said, jutting his jaw.
‘I hope so, little brother.’ From old habit Guy tousled William’s hair despite William being taller than him these days. ‘But it does no harm to take advice.’
William jerked away, and Guy laughed with good-natured scorn.
The young men trooped out to the horse lines where their mounts had been harnessed by the grooms. William had been schooling his new destrier Rous since October, and they had come to know each other well in the four months since then. He was a powerful ruby-chestnut with an arched neck and high-stepping gait. He wore a quilted coat for protection, covered by a surcoat of blue and white stripes embroidered with the red swifts of Valence. As he snorted and pawed, ready for the event, William’s heart swelled with pride at his magnificence.
Wooden stands had been erected at the side of the main field for the spectators and William sought Joanna, and found her sitting with Aliza not far from the King’s empty seat. The feeling in William’s gut became a sunburst. He so wanted to acquit himself well and prove to Joanna that her worry was ill-founded.
John had mounted his destrier – a dark bay trapped out in the chequered blue and gold of de Warenne. On the opposing team, John’s half-brother Roger Bigod rode not in his usual colours of the Earl of Norfolk, but in green and yellow, emblazoned with the scarlet lion that his grandsire the Marshal had made famous throughout England and Normandy as the greatest tourney champion of his age.
Refusing to be intimidated by such a visceral challenge, William checked his weapons and received his lance from Elias, determined to concentrate on his own business.
A fanfare sounded as the King arrived and took his seat on the cushioned great chair at the centre of the lodges. Wrapped in a thick fur cloak, Henry looked pinched and tight with cold – a man attending as a matter of duty, pushed into a corner and eager for the contest to end even before it started.
The tourney commenced with individual bouts between eager young knights burning with excitement. William rode against one of Roger Bigod’s young protégés and performed well, breaking his lance on the other’s shield and almost unseating him. Turning Rous, exhilaration coursed through him. He was born for this, and the truth of it glowed inside him like fire. He cheered on his companions as they took their turns to warm up against individual opponents while the older men looked on, leaning against their mounts, passing asides and comments. John de Warenne unseated his opponent, sending him backwards over the saddle, to loud applause from his Bigod half-brothers.
The next hour continued similarly. William rode again and shattered another lance and his confidence increased. He took part in sword fights and wrestling contests on the ground and won the prize for the latter – a bronze aquamanile and bowl in the shape of a swan, presented to him by the King, who was even smiling a little by now.
Once everyone had refreshed themselves and regrouped, the grand melee was announced.
