“Oh yes,” Eleanor murmured. “I have been most diverted, and who knows what hope might bring you, Messire Marshal.”
With a parting smile, she moved away to bid farewell to the next guest. William bowed, straightened, and then bowed again as Princess Marguerite held out her hand for him to kiss.
“I’m glad you came,” she said, “and I liked your songs. Will you sing again tomorrow?”
“If you command it, my lady.” He brushed his lips against the back of her small, soft hand, playing the role of courtier to the hilt for her amusement.
Returning to the great hall, William lay down on his pallet, his head light with wine and his thoughts whirling. The restless stirrings of the other sleepers in the hall, the coughs and snores, the wandering of dogs, the drunks lumbering for a piss in the corner, prevented him from falling immediately into slumber even though he was tired. The image of the Queen of England lingered in his mind’s eye. Behind his lids, he pictured her turning from the barred door, gesturing to servants, dismissing the children into the care of their nurses. He envisioned her maids removing her veil, unbraiding her hair, and combing it down around her shoulders in a heavy dark waterfall.
He did not for one moment believe that Eleanor had singled him out for special attention. She had spoken to her other guests in similar wise; she had laid her hand on his uncle Patrick’s sleeve and smiled at him as if he were the only man in the room. William knew there was a difference between play and pragmatic reality. Queen Eleanor was inhabiting the role of the lady worthy of courtly love for her own diversion and amusement, and the men she attracted, himself included, were her victims, albeit willing ones.
His imagination took him to her bed. How big it was for one person, and how small she looked inside the shadows of the wool brocade hangings. She was lying on her side, facing towards him, her elbow bent, her head propped on her hand, a beguiling smile on her lips. He swallowed, his throat dry and his heart pounding. His body was light except for the area of his groin which was beating like a lead drum. Eleanor continued to smile, but she beckoned him no closer and he was aware of a reluctance to go forward. It was as if a line were drawn on the floor, and he knew that if he crossed it and approached the bed, he would be destroyed.
William twisted restlessly on his pallet and opened his eyes, trying to banish the image. He was met by the sight of the man beside him copulating with one of the castle whores. They were rolled in the knight’s cloak; there was little to see, but the stealthy sounds they made and the increasingly rapid movements told their own tale. William turned over and clenched his jaw. There was always a lack of privacy for hearth knights and servants and at a great gathering like this where even breathing space was at a premium, the sight of couples furtively swiving was commonplace. Everyone knew it happened and if close to the activity, pretended that it didn’t—except for those who gained salacious pleasure from watching.
The woman made a different sound, almost a yelp, and the knight’s breath caught, held, and then shuddered out of him. There was silence, then a long sigh. Coins clinked softly together and the woman left, an anonymous dark shape picking her way between the pallets of the sleeping men until moments later she stooped by one of them and lifted his blankets. Muffled by a greater distance, the sounds began again, while beside William, the knight began to snore.
Thinking of the transaction that had just taken place and the new one in progress, William realised what that line on the Queen’s bedchamber floor had symbolised, why he wouldn’t cross it, and why she would never invite him to do so. The realisation relaxed his thoughts and he closed his eyes. The tension in his groin remained though—a dull, persistent surge that was not eased by the moans emanating from further down the line of pallets. Priests advocated will power and prayer to battle the lusts of the flesh. The Sire de Tancarville, of a more worldly and practical mind, had provided whores for his men, like the one going about her business now. For the soldiers lacking funds or fastidious like William, he had baldly suggested the common remedy. William resorted to this now, quickly and quietly. He was young and aroused and it took no time. There was guilt after the swift pangs of pleasure, but not as much as there might have been given other circumstances, and there was relief too. Soon he was as soundly asleep as his companions, and since his dreams had arrived early and troubled his waking mind, they did not disturb his slumber.
Five
Lusignan, Poitou, March 1168
Eleanor’s three sons had been riding their ponies all morning, practising at the quintain with blunted lances fashioned to their size and playing at jousts with the sons of the knights and lords billeted at Lusignan. The quintain post had been lowered to take account of the stature of the children and their mounts. Richard was proving more adept than Henry, although both lads possessed natural ability. There was intense rivalry between them. Resenting being younger than Henry, Richard had set out to prove that age was no indicator of skill. Henry was enraged at being defeated by Richard because it undermined his natal superiority and made him look less glorious in the eyes of the other children and their nurses who were watching from the sidelines.
“That’s twelve to me and nine to you,” Richard declared, returning to the start of the quintain run, his teeth bared in a triumphant grin, a withy ring decorating the end of his lance. His pony was sweating hard, its sides working like bellows.
“Ten.” Henry thrust out his lower lip. “I hooked the last one.”
“Yes, but it dropped off, so it doesn’t count.”
“Yes it does.”
“I’m still winning,” Richard scoffed. “I bet I could beat you at swordplay too. William Marshal says I’m good,” he added, as if that clinched the matter.
Henry glared at Richard. Praise from William Marshal was an accolade sought by Eleanor’s sons—not the courtly sort provided by William’s ready smile, but the approbation that sometimes showed in his eyes when one or all of them had been particularly good during battle practice. Not that William was their tutor or involved in any aspect of their training, but Henry, Richard, and Geoffrey often contrived to be around when William was honing his skills. They became his shadows; they tried to emulate, and sometimes, if he had the time and his mood was right, he would give them an impromptu lesson. “He says I’m good too,” Henry declared haughtily. He didn’t particularly want to fight Richard. His brother’s pure aggression made him a difficult opponent. Henry had the advantage of two years’ growth and a longer reach, but he preferred things that came easily; that did not have to be fought for quite so hard. Richard had been a lot worse since the skirmishing in Poitou and kept talking about becoming Duke of Aquitaine and riding to war himself instead of following in the army’s tail. Henry couldn’t wait until he was King of England, Duke of Normandy, and Count of Anjou, but that was different.
“Not as good as me.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “He didn’t say that.”
“No, I did.” Leaping from his pony, Richard drew his practice sword from his belt. It was made of whalebone and the grip was bound just like a true knight’s with overlapping layers of buckskin. “Come on—or are you afraid?”
The words goaded Henry. He always swore that he would not rise to Richard’s bait, but he always did. Giving his pony to a groom, he drew his own whalebone sword and prepared to do battle. Richard came at him like a fury, as if it were a fight to the death. Henry parried and tried to hold his ground, but Richard pressed him back towards the watching children, his eyes glowing with relish. With a thrust and a flick, he struck Henry’s sword from his hand. The suddenness of the blow stung Henry’s palms and fingers, but not as much as his pride. He made a sideways lunge for his dropped blade, but Richard got there first and brought the tip of his play sword to Henry’s throat.
“Yield.” The gleam in Richard’s eyes was almost incandescent.
Henry glowered at him. To complain that it wasn’t fair would only allow Richard to prove again and again that it was. “Yielded,” Henry muttered. Richard made his point by keeping the weapon at his brother’s throat an instant longer than necessary, then withdrew it and smugly sheathed it through his belt.
“Just remember that you’ll have to kneel to me in homage when I’m King of England,” Henry snarled, fighting the shameful heat of tears.
“I won’t ‘have’ to do anything,” Richard retorted. “And you won’t be able to make me.”
“I will. You’ll only be a duke, after all.” Flinging away from Richard, Henry snatched his pony from his groom and heeled it towards the stables.
The farrier had been reshoeing some of the castle horses and an acrid stench of hot metal and burning horn filled the air. Several animals were tethered to a hitching bar, awaiting collection and return to their stalls, among them William Marshal’s two stallions, Blancart and Fauvel. The latter was plucking in desultory fashion at a net of hay and resting on one hip, eyes half closed. Henry had ridden him several times. For a destrier he was good-natured and indolent. It took a sharp dig in the flanks to remind him that he was a warhorse at all. Blancart, however, was gazing around with pricked ears and flaring nostrils, every inch the stallion. Now and then, he sidled, giving a flash of his new iron shoes, and his tail swished like a fly whisk. He was saddled which meant that Sir William intended riding him before he was returned to his stall. Henry gazed at the horse, his winter coat now grown out and his hide the colour of damp cream silk. Richard kept talking about riding him; he had tried to do so several times but had been thwarted by a mingling of circumstance and the vigilance of others. Henry glanced around; the horses were momentarily unattended, the opportunity was God-given and it would be a sin not to take advantage. It would counter the recent humiliation tenfold and wipe the smug expression off Richard’s face.
William was in the armoury having his hauberk mended and altered. Some links had been broken during a skirmish with the Lusignan rebels a fortnight ago. The damage had been simple enough to repair, but William had put on weight and muscle during the months since his knighting and the garment was now too snug across his chest.
