“I understand, my lady.”
“Do you?” She smiled cynically and shook her head. “You said you needed bandages.” Stooping, she placed a large loaf in his hands, so fresh that it was still slightly warm. For a moment, the stench of his surroundings was overlaid by the homely aroma of the bread and the spicy scent emanating from her garments.
William had to swallow before he could speak. “Thank you, my lady,” he said huskily. “I will not forget your charity.”
“Perhaps,” she murmured, giving him a sceptical look from her great dark eyes. Gathering her skirts to hold them clear of the soiled floor rushes, she left the hall. William looked down at the loaf. The golden crust was cracked in several places and it was from these that the appetising smell was leaching. He broke a piece off one particularly damaged end and saw that the middle had been hollowed out and replaced with several tight rolls of linen bandage. His vision blurred and he had to cuff his eyes. So small an act of compassion, yet beyond price. He meant what he said; he would not forget.
At dawn, they left the castle and headed deeper into the Limousin with its numerous hidden forests and gorges. William had cleaned his wound with water begged from one of the hall wenches, and bound it with a strip of new bandage. The girl had told him that the lady’s name was Clara, and he consigned it to his memory so that he could light a candle for her soul next time he was in a church.
William was young and strong; fortune was with him and his injury healed cleanly, except for a slight limp when he was tired. With his flair for being sociable good company, he steadily eroded his enemies’ hostility, whilst keeping an essential rein on his own, and by high summer, they had almost accepted him as one of their own.
As the Lusignan brothers rode between their allies, claiming sporadic succour and support, news came to them that Guillaume de Tancarville, Chamberlain of Normandy—and also William’s kin—had replaced Patrick of Salisbury as governor of Poitou. The Lusignans grilled William for details of de Tancarville’s character, his methods and his men and William cheerfully fed them a complex, subtle concoction of half-truths and lies, telling them much and giving them nothing.
One evening in late July four months after the ambush, the de Lusignan brothers returned to the castle where they had first brought William. Amalric’s greeting was strained and it was plain that while he would do his duty and aid his overlords, he was fearful too. De Tancarville had brought fire and sword to Poitou and prudent men were keeping their heads below their battlements.
Under the watchful eye of a Lusignan serjeant, William was unsaddling the spavined nag they had given him to ride, when a youth stuck his head round the stable door to say that William was summoned to the great hall. “There’s a messenger arrived on the business of the Queen Eleanor,” the lad announced, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist before loping off.
“Hah!” declared the serjeant. “Looks as if someone’s finally decided you’re worth something.”
William’s heartbeat quickened. He tethered his horse, avoiding the snap of its long yellow teeth, and headed for the hall at a swift limp.
The messenger he recognised as Father André, one of Eleanor’s chaplains. As a priest, his spiritual calling gave him a certain (although not guaranteed) immunity and he was more easily able to venture where a sword-wearing man could not. The chaplain’s eyes widened and William became conscious of the sorry vision he must present. Four months of continuous wear had rendered his garments so filthy that they could have stood up by themselves. His hair was overlong and matted, his beard thick, and both were infested with lice; his braies were held up by strips of leather and frayed string.
“My son…” he said, shaking his head. “My dear, dear son…” Pity and concern creased his blunt features.
Falling to his knees, William bowed his head. “Thank God.” His voice cracked as he fought not to weep. “Tell me that you are here to ransom me?”
“Indeed, my son, that is my purpose.” The priest’s tone was gentle with compassion. “Queen Eleanor has redeemed your price in full. On the morrow you are free to leave.”
The words were the sweetest that William had ever heard. The lump in his throat made speech impossible. Father André set his hand to William’s sleeve and gently raised him to his feet. “Although not as free as you might choose,” the priest added with a smile. “The Queen desires words with you on your return.”
William stepped into the steaming bathtub and hissed at the scalding heat. A swift command from the lady Clara hastened a serving girl to the tub with an extra half-pail of cold water. Now that he had been ransomed and was no longer a prisoner, the laws of hospitality declared that he must be treated as a guest—perhaps not a welcome one, but the courtesies still had to be observed. Since Eleanor herself had paid his ransom, William’s importance had suddenly risen dramatically and neither the Lusignans nor Amalric were about to return him to her clad in filthy rags and looking like a scabrous beggar. He had been brought to the domestic chambers above the hall and the women instructed to tend him and find him fresh raiment.
The bathwater was already turning a scummy grey. Clara brought a jar of soap and some stavesacre lotion to deal with the lice. Sitting on a stool to the side of the tub she set about ministering to him, efficiently barbering off his beard and cutting his hair before rubbing the pungent stavesacre lotion into his scalp.
William was embarrassed. “You do not need to do this, my lady, I can see to these things myself.”
Her lips curved in a half-smile. “I do not need to, but I wish to.”
“May I look a gift horse in the mouth and ask why?”
She slowed kneading his scalp. “Because I was angered and ashamed by the way they treated you,” she said. “I do not like to see suffering. I would have done more for you if I could, that first time.”
“I am very grateful, my lady, for what you did do.”
“It was little enough.” Her breathing hesitated, but when he tried to look round, she tipped a jug of water over his hair to sluice it clean.
She provided him with clean garments from the chest containing clothing that had been made as gifts for the household knights. The linen shirt was a little too short but fitted well across the shoulders; the braies could be made to fit any waist by adjusting the drawstring tie; and she found some good woollen hose for him that were sufficiently long in the leg. When she enquired if his wound needed dressing, he answered swiftly that it did not. The thought of her long, slim fingers anywhere north of his knees sent a flood of heat to his groin. If she caught his turmoil, she was sufficiently tactful to ignore it and presented him with a tunic of green linen, a light woollen cloak and a leather hood.
“My lady, you have my thanks,” he said as, finally, clean and spruce for the first time in four months, he prepared to go down to the hall and take his place among the knights instead of in the piss corner. “If ever there is anything I can do to repay you, then you need only send word and I am at your service.”
Mischief lit a gleam in her dark eyes. “Anything?” she said, and then laughed. “Thank you, messire; I will bear it in mind. For the moment, you can best repay me by staying alive lest I should need you to fulfil your promise.”
He bowed over the hand she extended to him. “I will do my best, my lady,” he said.
When William entered the Queen’s chambers in Poitiers, he was immediately struck by the familiar scents of cedar and sandalwood and by the opulent shades that Eleanor so loved: crimson and purple and gold. He drew a deep, savouring breath; he was home. Eleanor had been standing near the window talking to Guillaume de Tancarville but, on seeing William, she ceased the conversation and hastened across the chamber.
Somewhat stiffly, William knelt and bowed his head. Clara had shorn his hair close to his scalp to help rid him of the remainder of the lice and the air was cold on the back of his neck.
