William’s breath shortened as he lined up with the rest of his team. Rous had caught his tension and sidled and pranced. William reined him in, forward and back, holding in the stallion’s explosive power, waiting for the signal. Anticipation surged through his veins. He glanced at Guy, slightly to the right and in front of him. He held his stallion on a tight rein, the colourful plumes on top of his helm waving in the wind. William checked again to make sure he was in the right position. To his left he could hear Geoffrey humming softly under his breath.
William fretted Rous and levelled his lance. The shout went up and he gave the stallion his head. Rous lunged immediately into a ground-eating gallop. William felt the surge beneath him, the force and thrust of each stride. Elation washed over him as the lines clashed and his lance shattered on his opponent’s shield. He drew his baton from his belt and attacked side on with a series of well-aimed blows that forced the other man to back off and yield.
Filled with triumph and fire, William pushed forward, but found himself facing a seasoned military campaigner in Joanna’s cousin, Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk. The blow Bigod struck rocked William back in the saddle, and suddenly William was struggling. Roger Bigod was close to forty years old, vigorous and strong, and knew all the tricks. William had never come up against this level of opposition before; all the young knights against whom he had sparred in training had been within his range or just above it and he had been able to push himself while improving his technique and skill. But Bigod, his heraldry blazoned with the Marshal lion, was a different prospect. William had been fighting with the intensity of excitement and the confidence of youth, but Bigod had experience and mature skill. He pivoted his destrier into the killing zone at William’s back, and although William managed to turn and meet him, the angle skewed his arm, and instead of delivering all the blows, he was receiving them, and having to work hard to stay out of trouble.
He took a blow across his knuckles, and although he was wearing stout gloves, tingles shot up his arm to his elbow and he almost dropped his baton. He tried to retreat but he was blocked in, unable to go forward or back, and no room to swing his weapon. He spurred Rous forward, but Bigod manoeuvred to foil his efforts and struck at him relentlessly. William fought to protect himself with his shield, but many of the blows still connected. His arms were burning with effort and his stamina started to fail. He looked round frantically but his brothers were on another part of the field and they too were taking a battering from the opposition.
Seeing a gap, William made a dash for safety, striking out on either side, attempting a defensive escape, his efforts fuelled by desperation. But everyone crowded in on him, beating him from all sides. The armour that had weighed so lightly at the outset, glittering with prospect, now seemed fashioned of molten lead. He could barely lift his shield to repel the blows and, unable to retort, curled over and endured the pummelling while praying to avoid the ultimate humiliation of being dragged from his horse.
Through the roaring in his ears, he heard Roger Bigod bellow with commanding authority, ‘Come, come, enough! The lesson is well learned. Enough, I say, enough! Let him be!’
William was aware of his bridle being seized, and of being led out of the centre of the melee at a jerky trot. He swayed but gripped the reins and concentrated on staying in the saddle, determined that whatever happened he would not fall.
A knight of de Clare’s rode to the centre of the field and waved William’s helm plumes aloft as a sign of victory and the crowd roared their delight that the foreigner in their midst, the King’s privileged younger brother, had been given the drubbing he so thoroughly deserved. As William was led away to his tent, he could hear the sound of the melee continuing. He desperately wanted to go back and fight, but while his mind was bright with determination, his abused body refused to answer the summons.
He slid from Rous, and his legs almost buckled. The stallion was led away, head down, steaming with sweat. Elias hastened to help him out of his armour and Jacomin gave him a goblet of wine laced with sugar. William could scarcely hold the cup because his hands were shaking so badly.
‘This is not fear,’ he snapped to Jacomin, feeling furious and ashamed.
‘Indeed not, sire,’ Jacomin replied. ‘A fearful man would not act as you have done on the field. You are overset with the force of the fight, that is all. I could not have sustained such blows for as long as you did. I surely thought that they were going to kill you.’
William had surely thought it too. He managed to stand while Elias removed his armour and undertunic, and then, while Jacomin tipped pails of water into an oval bath tub, he slumped on a bench, because his legs truly had given out. He put his head in his hands and castigated himself for being outwitted, outflanked and outridden, and it had been over so soon he had not had the chance to regroup and seek revenge. Filled with shame, he dreaded facing Joanna when he had so desired to prove his valour to her. He had to face Henry too, after all the pressure he had put on him to hold the tourney in the first place.
He tried to straighten up but desisted with a gasp at the pain from the blows inflicted on him. His ribs were especially sore where he had taken a hard blow from Roger Bigod. Jacomin indicated the bath tub, fragrant with herbal steam. ‘It is ready, sire. It will help with the bruises.’ He held up a pot in his right hand. ‘And this is my mother’s marigold ointment – she swears by it. Always used it on us as nippers.’
William had not been expecting to bathe, but it would wash away the stink of battle and the ignominy of it all. Suppressing groans, he removed the rest of his garment with Elias’s help and gingerly stepped into the tub. Red patches flowered on his body denoting the path of the hardest blows. At least he had not broken any bones or chipped any teeth.
Jacomin clucked his tongue in sympathy. ‘My brother looked like that after a tavern brawl,’ he said. ‘Spent a week in bed he did. You did well, sire. It is not your fault they all piled on to you as a target.’ The servant applied himself practically to tending his master’s injuries, causing William to hiss with pain and clench his teeth. ‘You’ll defeat them next time round, sire,’ Jacomin said cheerfully.
‘Yes,’ William said, looking at his swollen knuckles. ‘I will indeed.’
Seeing William being led off the field by Roger Bigod, Joanna started to rise. The concentrated attack had filled her with fear and shock at so much antagonism. And those brothers of his, getting carried away with the fighting and not coming to his aid. At least the Bigods had been more watchful and protective of John.
Aliza caught her arm. ‘Calm yourself. He is still in the saddle and he will not thank you for making a fuss.’
‘What kind of wife would I be if I did not go to him?’ Joanna shook Aliza off. ‘You would go to John!’
‘Of course I would, but I would give him a moment’s respite. He will not want you to see him unmanned.’
Joanna swallowed and controlled herself, because if all the men were picking on William, then the ladies of the court must be feeding avidly off her distress. Aliza was right. She sat down and waited for a short while, watching and smiling, without seeing a thing. When she judged that enough time had passed, she turned again to Aliza. ‘I need to go to him,’ she said. ‘Whatever it costs. Do not try and stop me.’
Aliza nodded this time. ‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No. I will talk to you later.’
Her maid Nicola in tow, Joanna made her way to William’s pavilion, walking with dignity, wanting to run but aware that her every step was being watched and judged. Through the open tent flap, servants were carrying out pails of water followed by a bath tub. Joanna drew a deep breath and entered, dreading what she might find.
William was standing by his camp table dressed in a loose silk tunic, his curly hair damp and swept back. The beginnings of a black eye swelled like a ripening plum under his right eye. No longer able to maintain her façade, she ran to him and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Are you all right? Dear God! I thought you would be killed!’
William stiffened as her body struck his, and then he gingerly folded his arms around her. The feel of them, vital and strong, filled her with relief because she had convinced herself he had been badly wounded.
‘Let me see you. What have they done to you?’
He stepped back and spread his arms wide, managing not to grimace. ‘Look, I am unharmed. You will have a husband for the next thirty years at least!’
Joanna swallowed tears. ‘Not if you carry on like this!’
He glanced pointedly at the squires and servants still busy in the tent. ‘It is nothing to complain about. It won’t happen next time, I promise you.’
