‘And I of you,’ she said, ‘and write to you the same.’
William was setting his foot in the stirrup when a messenger arrived at a hard canter and drew rein, dismounting almost before his horse had halted. ‘Sire,’ he said, and handed a letter to William. William looked at the wax figure imprinted on the seal and grimaced.
‘What is it?’ Joanna demanded.
‘I don’t know, it’s from Aymer.’
Joanna rolled her eyes.
William’s lips tightened as he read the letter. ‘There has been a brawl and a steward in the Bigod affinity has been killed. Aymer borrowed some of the men I left in London to help him out in the fighting.’
Joanna stared at him, her exasperation turning to horror as she took in the full implications. The last thing they needed was to become embroiled in a squabble that had led to a death that wasn’t their fight. Silently she cursed Aymer and his penchant for dragging William into scrapes.
‘I have to ride for London now.’ William stuffed the letter in his saddlebag and mounted his palfrey.
Joanna bit her lip. ‘Perhaps you should stay.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I have to go to Henry. This is going to be difficult to contain. I will write when I know more.’ He kicked the palfrey’s flank and departed at a rapid trot, splashing through the icy puddles.
*
William stood behind Henry’s chair in the great painted chamber in the Westminster complex. The sun had finally broken through the clouds, but the day was still chilly, and a fire blazed in the hearth. Bundled up in a fur-lined cloak, a clear drip hanging from the end of his nose, Henry had a cold, and his temper was foul.
Parliament had gathered to discuss the finances of the realm, but the day’s session had yet to begin and William felt decidedly uneasy. Learning of the murder of Geoffrey FitzRobert’s steward he had been furious with William and Aymer, demanding to know why they could not keep better control of their men. Why did it always come to violence? They had to take a share of the blame. In public court, he had dismissed the incident, saying he had bigger fish to fry and no time to deal with petty disputes that were always six of one and half a dozen of the other, which had not been well received – and it was not the only troublesome matter.
Three days ago, Henry had asked his barons for money that they had been reluctant to give. They had eventually promised to deliver him an answer today by the third hour after sunrise. It was that third hour now and thus far there had been an ominous silence.
Henry clucked his tongue impatiently, wiped the drip from his nose and ordered a servant to pour him a fresh cup of wine. But before the youth had reached the flagon they heard a series of loud crashes outside the doors, like the clash of weapons. William’s hand shot to the eating knife at his belt.
The hall doors slammed open on a group of barons and knights. They had deposited their swords in the anteroom, hence the cacophony, but all were wearing mail shirts with their heraldry emblazoned on their surcoats and the sound as they approached Henry on his dais chair was that of the battlefield. The ushers and doorkeepers were conspicuously missing, but then they were in the Marshal’s remit and the current Marshal was Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, who was the leading mailed figure striding up the hall with his brother Hugh at his side.
William gazed rapidly around the hall, seeking a means of escape should it become necessary, and prepared to defend Henry with his life. He hoped to God Edward was safe. John de Warenne, who was standing nearby, moved closer to Henry’s chair. Among the nobles confronting them, William saw Joanna’s half-brother wearing a sneer of enjoyment.
‘What is this?’ Henry demanded, a quaver in his voice.
Roger Bigod halted the men behind him, stepped forward and went down on one knee. His right fist clutched a sheet of vellum with numerous seals dangling on long tags. ‘Sire, my lord King, we have come as your humble and faithful servants,’ he said.
Henry’s eyes rounded in astonishment. ‘If that is the case then why are you armed in my presence? Am I your prisoner?’
‘Sire, of course you are not!’ Bigod looked thoroughly indignant at the notion. ‘We come to you in our armour to show that we are your loyal barons willing to serve on your behalf – we have left our swords in the vestibule.’
‘Well then.’ Henry leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you have an answer for me to the business we conducted at our last meeting? If you come in loyal service, what is it you would say to me?’
Roger Bigod fixed William with a steely look. ‘We have come to ask you to rid yourself of these wretched and intolerable Poitevans and other alien parasites that suck the life blood from this court. We have endured slights and insults from them for far too long. They have seized lands belonging to good English men and appropriated goods, wardships and heiresses to which they have no right. They are violent troublemakers and disturbers of the peace as they have recently yet again demonstrated, and we ask you to dismiss them from your presence on the instant.’
Rage boiled in William’s chest. ‘Alien parasites?’ He almost choked on the words. ‘Do I not see men older than me, aliens themselves, who have received great bounty from the King, and then been unfaithful to him? Hah! You would never find me marching to confront my sovereign clad in armour and making vile demands.’ His gaze fixed on Simon de Montfort, who stood close to the forefront of the gathered barons, but content to let Roger Bigod hold forth.
‘It is for the King to speak, not you, my lord,’ Bigod retorted. ‘You are too full and fond of giving answers for him when you have no right.’
‘I have as much right as any of you, indeed more, for I am not standing before my king in armour threatening him like a traitor.’ William shot a glance to the others and saw the avid gleam of hunters scenting a kill. While the sight of Simon de Montfort came as no surprise, de Clare was a worry, because he had considered him an ally, and his son was wed to William’s niece. But then de Clare had always pursued his personal interests with vigour and had several axes to grind – including, like de Montfort, disputes over Welsh Marcher lands.
‘I know why you are here.’ William directed his focus to de Montfort. ‘You, my lord of Leicester, want my lands in Wales and you collude with the Welsh themselves and let them raid to their heart’s content and let me stand the cost. You are a traitor and the son of a traitor.’
‘I am neither of what you say!’ de Montfort spluttered in fury. ‘In that, our fathers were nothing alike!’ He lunged at William, fist raised to strike, and Henry shot to his feet as though released from a spring and put himself between them.
‘Enough!’ His voice cracked with panic. ‘You forget yourselves in the presence of your king!’
‘No, I remember everything, sire,’ de Montfort snarled, but he took a step back, shoulders heaving. ‘I remember every moment, every insult, every missed payment on my wife’s dowry and her entitlement, both of which were promised by you in good faith. I remember every failed campaign, every sneer and posture and lie! This is how you are being served and this is how you are serving us and we are sick of it. There shall be reform!’
