“William, God save you!” Eleanor stooped, took his hands and raised him to his feet, her tawny eyes full of concern. “You’re as thin as a lance, and I was told that you had been grievously injured.”
“A spear in the thigh; it is almost healed, madam,” William replied, not wanting to dwell on his injury. “I am for ever in your debt for ransoming me.”
Eleanor shook her head. “There will be no talk of debt unless it is on my part. You and your uncle sacrificed yourselves for my freedom and I can never repay that. Patrick of Salisbury was my husband’s man, and did his bidding first, but he was honourable and courteous and I grieve his death. His murderers will be brought to justice, I promise you that.” Behind Eleanor, de Tancarville made a sound of concurrence.
“Yes, madam,” William agreed, his mouth twisting. He had sworn an oath on his sword on the matter. Until the Lusignan brothers had taught him the meaning of hatred, he had harboured strong grudges against no man. Now he had that burden and it was as if something light had been taken from him and replaced with a hot lead weight.
“You have no lord now, William.” Eleanor drew him further into the room and bade him sit on a cushioned bench. He did so gratefully for his leg was paining him and he had yet to regain his stamina.
“No, madam.” William glanced at Guillaume de Tancarville, who was watching him with an enigmatic smile on his lips. William had half expected the Chamberlain to invite him to rejoin his household, but the older man remained silent. “It is the tourney season, and I still have Blancart. I can make my way in the world.”
De Tancarville’s smile deepened. “Are you sure about that? You seem to have an unfortunate skill for losing destriers and putting yourself in jeopardy.”
“I would have done the same for you, my lord, were you in my uncle’s place,” William replied with quiet dignity, thereby wiping the humour from de Tancarville’s face.
“I’m sorry, lad. I should not have jested. Perhaps it’s because I know more about your future than you do. You won’t need to ride the tourney roads or accept a place in my mesnie.”
“My lord?” William gave him a baffled look; Eleanor shot him an irritated one, as if de Tancarville had given too much away.
“What my lord Tancarville is saying in his clumsy fashion is that I am offering you a place among my own household guard,” Eleanor said. “I will furnish you with whatever you need in the way of clothing and equipment…and horses should the need arise,” she added with a twitch of her lips. “It is more than charity. I would be a fool of the greatest order not to take you into my service. My children adore you, we have missed your company, and you have proven your loyalty and valour to the edge of death.”
Her compliments washed over William’s head in a hot wave and he felt his face burning with pleasure and embarrassment.
“Lost for words?” she teased, her voice throaty with laughter.
William swallowed. “I have often dreamed of such a post but I never thought…” He shook his head. “It is an ill wind,” he said and suddenly a sweeping feeling of loss and sadness overtook his euphoria. He put his right hand over his face, striving to hold himself together. He had managed it for four months under the most difficult of circumstances. He wouldn’t break now, not in front of the Queen.
“William, I understand,” Eleanor said in a gentler voice than was her wont. “Take what time you need and report to me as soon as you are ready. Speak to my steward. He will see that you are provided with anything you lack. Go to.” She gave him a gentle push.
“Madam.” William bowed from her presence. On the threshold, just as he was almost free, Princess Marguerite came skipping into the chamber with her nurse. Her face lit up when she saw William. Producing the puppy that had been tucked under her arm, she thrust it at him. “This is Diamond,” she announced. “She’s my new dog. I’m glad you’re back.”
“So am I.” William dutifully tussled the pup’s silky ears. It opened its little jaws and nipped his finger with its milk teeth. The word “rat” came to mind but he kept it to himself.
“Are you crying?” Marguerite asked, some of the pleasure leaving her face as she prepared to pucker her chin in sympathy.
William’s nostrils filled with the smell of the pup—a mingling of mild urine and baby fur. “No, Princess,” he lied, forcing the shield of his control to remain even though it was damaged beyond repair. “I have a cold, that is all.” Suddenly he was very glad that it was only Marguerite on the stairs and not Eleanor’s demanding, boisterous sons.
Holding on to the storm had its price. Like summer lightning, it flickered on the horizon, clouding his head, building painful pressure behind his eyes, refusing to break because he had stopped the natural order of things. He avoided as many folk as he could, replying in monosyllables to those who attempted to speak to him.
He came to the church of Saint Hilaire shortly after vespers with the sun mellowing at his left shoulder and casting long shadows over a landscape wearing the dusty, faded green of midsummer. He had thought of nothing as he walked, because that had been the easiest thing to do—exist in his own company with a blank mind. It took him a moment to respond to the porter on duty and the words fumbled out of him as if he had been drinking, causing the monk to look at him with disapproval.
William drew himself together and in a firmer voice repeated who he was and why he had come. The porter summoned another monk to lead William to Patrick of Salisbury’s tomb. Their footsteps echoed in the vault of the nave and the evening light spun through the arches and gilded the walls and floor in soothing, quiet gold.
In silence the monk indicated the tomb, currently devoid of embellishment save for a pall of red silk fringed with gold, candles burning in sockets at each corner of the cover. The formal effigy was still in the process of being carved. William nodded his thanks and knelt beside the tomb. The monk’s footsteps whispered away, leaving William to his vigil. As the sun set, blue dusk followed by deep night covered the church in successive layers. Shrine lamps glimmered in the darkness and candles made pools of light. William heard the monks at their compline service and then again at matins. A deep hush fell, as profound as the darkness between the islands of light. Alone, William leaned his forehead against the shroud and willed himself to weep for the proud man struck down from behind, but the tears would not come. Somewhere between Eleanor’s chamber and the church, they had dried up and the storm had rumbled off to some fasthold at the back of his mind.
Seven
Southwark London, June 1170
William had often heard about the stews that populated the suburb lining the south bank of the Thames, but until today, he had never set foot in the notorious district of brothels, bathhouses, and cookshops that served the city across the river. That he was here at all was the fault of Eleanor’s kitchen clerk, Wigain, who said that no man had lived until he had tasted Emma’s roast goose with sage and onion frumenty. Predictably it had been the description of the food that had lured William to the Southwark side, together with a need to escape the tangles of court intrigue and ceremony for a short while. William might be a workhorse, but tonight he had cast off the yoke and was a young man of three and twenty, set on enjoying himself with his friends and family. The company consisted of Wigain, Walter Map, who was also a royal clerk, Baldwin de Béthune, who, like William, was a knight in the royal household, and William’s brothers John and Ancel.
William’s first shock was discovering that “Emma” was a man—over two yards tall and hairy as a bear. Dangling around his neck was a startling array of gaudy glass necklaces, beads and pewter tokens, one of which portrayed an enormous winged phallus in a glorious state of erection. Wigain laughed at William’s stunned expression. “Don’t worry, he likes other men, but not unless he’s invited.”
“Well that’s a relief,” John Marshal said acidly. “I don’t suppose he gets many offers.”
“You’d be surprised.” Walter Map smiled broadly behind his ink-stained fingers. He was forever writing down his observances concerning life at court and the people in positions of authority. “I know of at least one baron who comes here for more than the goose and he’s not interested in wenches.”
As he spoke, the men turned to observe two young women emerge from the bathhouse that was situated beyond the eating room. They were bearing piles of damp towels and giggling to each other, their faces flushed, hair escaping their veils, and their gowns clinging to their bodies. Before they closed the door the sound of a client’s voice bantering with another, unseen bath maid could clearly be heard. Wisps of herb-scented vapour wafted across the dining space.
