William raised his brows. ‘I do not always see eye to eye with your eldest half-brother, but I do not understand why he should so take against us.’
‘It riles him to see you and your brothers being given privileges when others receive no such preferment. He has always dwelt outside the golden court circle. Perhaps he is jealous of me because of my closeness to you. I call you brother and am more filial with you than I am with my own flesh and blood. He thinks you have too much power and influence. Roger is not easily led, but he is susceptible to a sustained campaign.’
‘Hah, by the Queen and de Montfort,’ Aymer said contemptuously. ‘They both hate us.’
William shot him a warning look. ‘The Queen has been very unwell and in deep mourning. She almost died after losing her daughter. Grief does strange things to people. We should take that into account.’
‘Perhaps,’ Aymer said, ‘but I do not think it strange that she is cultivating an alliance with the de Montforts. To me, it smacks of political manoeuvring.’
Knuckles rapped on the door and Emma went to answer, humming a tune. William anticipated Jacomin’s return with the pies, and his stomach rumbled. Then Emma screamed. William launched to his feet and shot downstairs. She stood at the door, her fists to her mouth. Albricht the pie shop owner and his son stood outside, with Jacomin’s lifeless, bloody body on a hurdle.
William stared, taking in the scene but not believing his eyes.
Blood smeared Albricht’s working apron and his hands, the fingernails dark-rimmed. ‘A mob set upon him in the street, sire. He put up a hard fight, but there were too many of them. I could not leave him lying there like a dog – I had only served him a moment since.’
William stepped aside and gestured for them to bear Jacomin up to the chamber. Emma continued to sob.
‘Who did this?’ William demanded in kindling fury. ‘Tell me what happened!’
Albricht spread his red hands. ‘They came out of the Mermaid bathhouse, sire, and started picking on him, accusing him of working for Poitevan scum – beg your pardon, sire. When Jaco replied he was as English as they were, they said it was even worse in that case and set on him. And then the knives came out and there was nothing we could do.’
‘How many?’ John asked, grimly.
‘About seven or eight. They recognised the badge on his sleeve and started taunting him about you, and when he answered in your defence, they set on him.’
William stared at the body of his manservant. Faithful, loyal Jacomin. Hostility had been increasing as the harvests failed and people sought to place the blame, especially given the costs incurred by the Welsh war, and Henry’s foreign policies. Even if William made a point of employing English knights and servants, they still perceived him as a foreigner when others chose to whip up hatred for their own ends. And now Jacomin had paid the price.
He knelt and set his hands over Jacomin’s, which were slashed to the bone where he had tried to defend himself. ‘I will find out who did this,’ he vowed. ‘I will find out and they will pay.’
John quietly thanked the pie seller and his man for bringing Jacomin to them, handed them silver for their trouble, and sent them home with an armed escort.
Aymer had Jacomin brought to his personal chapel. Emma, who had rallied, fetched a bowl of rose water and a cloth to wash the body and prepare it for a shroud. As the vigil candles were lit, William battled his grief, desolation and fury. He wanted to take his sword, find the culprits and kill them, but they were long gone by now. An investigation would be useless, for no one would cooperate, although he would insist. They would close ranks and claim to know nothing.
‘He deserved better than this,’ he said, and swallowed. ‘He was a faithful, loyal servant.’
Watching the people dining on watery pottage and salt fish at the far end of the great hall, Joanna worried about how much longer she could keep them fed. Even though it was almost April, snow remained on the ground and the bitter wind owed more to January than spring. Crops should have been planted by now but the soil was too hard to sow the seeds and it had snowed again this morning. At least they had supplies of stockfish, even if it tasted vile, but the grain had almost gone and providing bread and ale was a constant worry. The famine had started to bite hard following last year’s ruined harvests, and this year’s weather was as bad. She could not remember another time like this and she feared that God had turned his face away from mankind.
She had attended court at Christmas and the King had welcomed her warmly, although fresh lines of care had engraved his features and there had been little evidence of the vibrant, benign sovereign of her early years at court. She could see the shadows in him now, although he had done his utmost to celebrate the season and the feast of his beloved St Edward.
The Queen too had changed. All the weeping, hysteria and grieving over the death of her daughter had scoured her being, and only bare, sharp steel remained. Her hostility towards William had not abated and Joanna would have found life at court unbearable had it not been for the subtle support of Edward’s young wife Leonora. Joanna often sat in her company and they spoke together of literature, music, hawking and estate management. Leonora was keen to nurture and increase her acquisitions, and often sought Joanna’s advice on the subject.
William, for his part, had an excellent rapport with Edward. Many nobles strove to enter Edward’s golden circle, but William was woven into it as an integral part, although Edward, these days, was completely his own man. William might be his uncle but the young prince did not regard him as senior in any way. He listened to William’s advice, and filtered it through his own desires, but he tended to pay more attention to William than he did to his mother and her kin. Less pleasingly, he took interest in what Simon de Montfort had to say, and Joanna was well aware of the push for influence emanating from that area. Edward shared none of William’s antipathy towards de Montfort.
She was chewing her way through a hard sliver of cod when a messenger arrived – one of William’s harbingers with the news that his lord and retinue would be here before compline.
Joanna thanked him calmly while silently panicking. How was she to feed so many more mouths? It would take for ever to boil up more stockfish and she had intended the evening meal to be a simple collation of bread and cheese with some wizened apples and nuts from the store. ‘How many?’ she asked.
‘My lord with his knights and household,’ he said.
Joanna’s heart sank further. Fifteen knights, their attendants and squires. Two chaplains, a groom, various valets and scullions. What in God’s name was William doing in Hertford when he could be warm and fed at court? It was hardly the weather for travelling, with snow still covering the ground and the potholes and ruts filled with mud and slush. What if there had been another contretemps in the royal household? Then she felt guilty for her exasperation. The court was more volatile than usual just now, and William was still brooding over Jacomin’s terrible demise. No one had been apprehended for his murder even though Henry had summoned a full investigation involving the civic officials, but there had been little interest in Jacomin’s death; indeed, there had even been a nuance of gloating satisfaction in some quarters.
Joanna finished her meal and made the excited children do the same. She sent an alert to Robert her cook, who cast his gaze heavenwards, and then she put the servants to preparing bedchambers and stuffing pallets with clean straw. For the rest, they would have to make do.
Hertford’s gates opened to admit William’s troop and several baggage carts covered in heavy sacking. As William dismounted from his palfrey, Agnes dashed up to him, her brown plaits flying. He picked her up and swung her round, and kissed her, doing the same to Margaret. For Iohan there was a back slap and a hair tousle.
Joanna stood at the door holding baby William in her arms, and looked at him askance. ‘What is all this?’
‘Wheat.’ He kissed her and then the infant. ‘The King’s brother has sent several grain ships to London and this is part of our share to feed us and our people until harvest time. I have escorted the carts myself because the roads are unsafe and grain is more precious than gold just now – sixteen shillings a bushel.’
