William took a cup of wine from the squire, but was hesitant to join the others for he was afraid that they would see how Eleanor quickened him, and laugh at his gaucheness. Instead, he wandered into the antechamber which was populated by a few stray courtiers and ladies of the chamber. Two minstrels leaned over their instruments—harp and lute—playing practice rills of notes. A nursemaid was jiggling a crotchety infant, trying without success to shush him. The child had a quiff of dark hair and bright hazel eyes, their amber hue intensified by the redness of his face as he bawled.
“He’s always crying.”
William glanced down at one of the boys he had met that afternoon and whom he now knew to be Prince Henry, the King’s eldest son. The lad was almost thirteen years old and well proportioned. His hair was the same deep brown as William’s own and his eyes the blue-grey of woodsmoke.
“He’s my brother.” The curl of the youth’s lip informed William that the Prince was not enthralled by the relationship. “His name’s John.”
“I too have a brother called John,” William said, “and one called Henry.”
The boy studied him with a frown while he decided if William was teasing him or speaking the truth. “Do you have one called Richard?” If there had been a grimace for John, there was a telling hostility in the way the boy said “Richard” and flicked his glance towards the main room where his flame-haired brother was sitting at their mother’s feet.
“No, just Ancel. I had two other brothers who died, but they were Walter and Gilbert.”
“One of my brothers died,” the boy said. “His name was William. He would have been my father’s heir if he had lived. Are you your father’s heir?”
William shook his head. “I have no lands to call my own, which is why I am in service to my uncle of Salisbury.”
“John has no lands either.” Prince Henry jutted his chin at the red-faced baby whose roars were beginning to make folk in the antechamber wince. He raised his voice. “I’m to have England and Normandy, Richard’s to have Aquitaine, and my father says Geoffrey’s going to get Brittany.”
The instinct was to move away from the source of the racket, but William gestured to the nurse, who was beginning to look as flustered as her wriggling charge, and plucked young John out of her arms. The noise ceased in mid-bawl, the wriggles stopped, and in a silence almost as loud as the din that had preceded it, the infant stared at William with eyes stretched in shock. William laughed, tossed the baby in the air, caught him, and tossed him again. A squeal erupted, this time of utter delight.
“He likes you,” Henry said, surprised. “John doesn’t usually like anyone.”
“Babies are just babies,” William replied. “My father used to do this to us…except in a wilder fashion, and my mother would be frantic at him.” He chuckled at the memory, although he must have been older than this, and it was probably his youngest brother Ancel he could recall being tossed and caught like a ball.
“If you are not careful, he will repay you by being sick all over your fine tunic,” said Queen Eleanor, her voice husky with amusement.
It was a good thing that William was not in the throw part of the game, or he might have missed his catch and dropped the youngest royal on his head. He spun round, John in his arms. “It doesn’t matter, madam,” he said, and thought how foolish the words sounded.
Her laughter caused his stomach to wallow. “I am sure that it does,” she replied, “unless you are like the King and do not care about appearance.”
“A tunic can be cleaned, madam,” William responded, seeking a diplomatic path through the dilemma she had created—whether to admit to being vain or slovenly, of which he was neither. “I was more concerned with comforting the Princeling.”
“He is a young man of many talents, madam,” chuckled Salisbury, standing by her shoulder. “Even I did not know he had this particular one, but I’m sure it will come in most useful.”
Eleanor pursed her lips. “Indeed,” she said softly, looking William up and down. “I am sure it will.”
Later in the evening there was singing and dancing and as the candles burned down, they were replaced by new ones. The Queen had no intention of retiring early and seemed determined to prove that although she was a decade older than her husband, her energy was more than a match for his. She flirted with the men both young and old, but was careful never to step outside the bounds of propriety, sharing her favours in equal measure, never lingering with a particular man unless he was old enough to be her grandfather. Twice she danced with William and her hand, cool at first touch but warm beneath, pressed to his damp one as she moved lightly to left and right.
“Not only a skilled horseman and nursemaid, but a fine dancer too,” she complimented him with a smile. “What other talents do you hide I wonder?”
“None that you would find worthy, madam,” William said, trying not to sound callow.
“And how do you know what I would find worthy?”
He hoped the question was rhetorical, for he did not have an answer. Their hands met and parted on the diagonal: right to right, left to left.
“Perhaps in Poitou we’ll find out.”
She moved on to the next man in the line in a swirl of heavy woollen skirts, a flash of gold, and a smile over her shoulder, leaving William bemused, his senses reeling. If the musicians hadn’t been playing their instruments, his swallow would have been audible. Since the dance was progressive, he found himself partnering a plump, pale-faced child, chestnut-haired, brown-eyed, gowned in a dress that was lavishly embroidered with tiny silver daisies. Princess Marguerite was Prince Henry’s nine-year-old wife and daughter of King Louis of France by Constance, his second queen. The children had been married since infancy, a papal dispensation having been granted to permit the nuptials. William could remember his father laughing about the event at the time and admiring the way King Henry had manipulated the Church and outmanoeuvred Louis, who had handed his daughter to the keeping of Henry’s court expecting many years of betrothal. Instead there had been a rapid marriage, thus enabling Henry legally to appropriate little Marguerite’s dower lands on the Franco-Norman border.
William solemnly danced with the child and bowed formally to her when she moved on, treating her as he would one of the grown women. Marguerite too cast a glance over her shoulder as the Queen had done, but her eyes and her smile were as innocent as the flower for which she was named. Her look, her broad, toothy grin, relaxed William’s tension and enabled him to recover his equilibrium. By the time he had danced with Eleanor’s small daughters, their nurses, and then a couple of Eleanor’s ladies, he felt much more at home in the company.
Between the dances, there was singing, a pastime that William loved. He might not be able to read or write, but he had an excellent memory for tunes and lyrics, and his voice was clear, strong, and wide-ranging. Modest in the exalted company, he let the other knights and ladies take their turn, but when Salisbury clapped him on the shoulder and pressed him forward, he took up the challenge, choosing a lay written by the Queen’s famous and infamous poet grandsire Guillaume, Count of Poitou: a song of springtime after winter and the frustration and pain of unrequited love. Lest folk think him too bold, he sang then of the virtues of the Virgin Mary and finally a child’s ditty for Marguerite and the little ones, which involved hand-clapping at certain parts. Throughout the singing, he was aware of Eleanor’s eyes on him, watching, assessing, peeling back the layers until he felt as exposed and vulnerable as a newborn infant.
“No talents that I would find worthy indeed!” she said to William, teasing laughter in her eyes as she finally chose to retire and bade goodnight to her guests. “Either you do not realise your own skills, or you are a shameless liar.”
William’s face burned. “Madam, I have never been called upon to sing in such exalted company before. I would not presume to know what you deem worthy, but if I have entertained you, that is the most I can hope.”
