“I can see why you might think life at Hamstead too staid for your appetite these days,” John muttered to William.
William laughed at his brother’s prim expression. “Despite what you think, we don’t lead a life of debauchery, do we, Baldwin?”
De Béthune’s dark eyes sparkled. “Not yet, but I’m hoping our luck’s going to change.”
They leaned back to allow “Emma” to place the roasted goose on the trestle. A succulent aroma oozed from its crisp golden pores. Amber droplets trembled down its flanks and pooled on the salver. The scent of sage and onion frumenty rose in heavenly waves. There was a jug of verjuice and raisin sauce to offset the richness of the meat and good white bread in quantity to soak up the juices.
“You won’t taste anything better, even on the morrow,” announced Wigain as he cut into the bird with alacrity. “The kitchen sheds are piled to the rafters with swans and peacocks and God knows what else. If you and Baldwin want feathers for your caps, I can get you plenty.” He speared a piece of breast on the tip of his knife and directed the meat to his mouth. A look of pure bliss crossed his face and he gave a lecherous moan.
John leaned towards William and said with an edge to his jesting, “After the morrow your head will be too big for any kind of hat to stay on it.”
“I trust you to shrink it to size,” William retorted amiably. “I’m well aware of how fortunate I am.”
“Aye, you’ve always had the luck, even when you were a snot-nosed brat,” John growled. “We all thought we’d never see you again when you were given as a hostage to King Stephen. Gilbert and Walter taunted me that you had been hanged and our father beat them for it.”
“I didn’t know that…”
John shrugged. “No reason why you should. I bawled my eyes out for you, God knows why.”
“Perhaps because you didn’t know how lucky I was going to be,” William suggested, to which John replied with a grunt that might have been amusement but was probably something darker.
As William dined on the succulent roast goose, he pondered the nature of that luck. Being in favour at court was a two-edged sword, and the court itself was a constant battlefield of wits, where the wrong word or an unwise alliance could destroy a man and one’s enemies were never met face to face, for, as often as not, the killing blow was to the defenceless back.
During the past two years in the Queen’s household, William had been developing the diplomatic survival skills learned under Guillaume de Tancarville. At the outset, he had been just another hearth knight, beholden to Eleanor for his daily bread, but even so he had been noticed and marked for attention. He had heard it muttered that he was a favourite because his face fitted, but if so, he had worked hard to ensure that it did. His reward had been a change of households and additional responsibility.
Tomorrow Prince Henry was to be crowned and given the title of king in his own father’s lifetime. There would be two King Henrys—the “Old” one who was but seven and thirty, and the “Young” one who had turned fifteen in February. The crowning of the heir while the father still lived was traditional in the French royal family but had never been undertaken in the English one. However, the elder Henry, scarred by the inheritance wars of his own childhood, had decided to ape French custom and crown his eldest son and pronounce him heir to England, Normandy, and Anjou. Richard had been made Count of Poitou the previous year and betrothed to Alys Capet, Marguerite’s sister. Geoffrey had been given Brittany. All business of inheritance was being tidied and made certain.
Since Prince Henry was to be a king and was surging rapidly through adolescence towards manhood, his parents had deemed that he should have his own household. William and Baldwin had been amongst the young knights chosen to enter his service and William had particular responsibility for Henry’s military training. It was a task he had been casually undertaking for the last two years, but this set it on a formal basis and raised his position to greater prominence. The one fly in the ointment was the appointing of Adam Yqueboeuf, his rival from his Tancarville days, to the Prince’s household too. William could have lived very happily without that particular friction.
The women returned bearing fresh towels. Before re-entering the bathhouse, one of them slanted an inviting glance over her shoulder at the dining men.
“You think they’d entertain six of us?” Wigain asked, rubbing his hands.
William rolled his eyes. The little clerk reminded him of the fearsomely lecherous terrier belonging to the royal nursemaid, Hodierna. William had lost count of the times he had booted it across the room for trying to futter his leg. “I prefer my pleasure to be less of a mêlée outside tournaments,” he replied, “and I’ve certainly no desire to watch you take yours.”
“They have private arrangements if you’d rather.”
William opened his mouth to say that any arrangements would be of his own making, not theirs, but the words went unspoken as the client emerged from the bathhouse. His sleeked-back hair was a deep chestnut that would be fox-red when it dried and his angular features were dappled with freckles. He rapidly assessed the occupants of the main room out of pale grey eyes, his hand hovering close to his sword hilt. Two squires who had been drinking quietly in a corner rose to attend him.
“It’s Richard de Clare,” muttered Walter Map out of the side of his mouth, adding when Baldwin looked blank, “Lord of Striguil. He’s not long returned from escorting the Princess Matilda to her marriage in Saxony and he’s seeking the King’s permission to go to Ireland and fight for King Dermot of Leinster.” He leaned forward like a conspirator. “The rumour is that King Dermot’s offered him his daughter, the Princess Aoife.”
“If I wanted to know my future, I’d not ask heaven, Master Map, I’d enquire of a court clerk, because their breed appears to know more than God,” said de Clare, bending over the table to speak in Walter’s ear. He slapped him on the shoulder, thereby sending the clerk’s cheek into the greasy goose carcass. “I have sharp hearing and you have a loud whisper.” He looked around the table. “I have no need for clerks where I’m going, gossips and spies the lot of them, but it is true that I am bound for King Dermot’s court on the next ship to Ireland, and I have need of good knights.” His gaze ranged over the swords worn by William, John, and Baldwin. “If any of you has a mind, I’m recruiting followers. I can’t promise riches, but likely you’ll acquire them.”
“It is generous of you to offer, my lord,” William replied, wiping his hands and lips on a napkin. “If we did not already have places with King Henry and his sons, we would be glad to consider your proposal.” He indicated the table. “Will you join us?”
De Clare eyed the glisten-cheeked Walter and smiled sourly. “Thank you, but I have already eaten,” he said, “and I’m not sure that sharing company would aid my digestion or yours.” Saluting them, he departed with his squires. The odour of herbs and costly scented oil lingered in his wake.
“I don’t think he approved of you, Master Map,” chuckled Baldwin.
“Well, King Henry doesn’t approve of him,” Map retorted, on his dignity. “He’ll be glad to be rid of him to Ireland and hope that some Hibernian with an axe puts an end to his ambition. He’s a brawler and a troublemaker.”
William said nothing. The brief exchange had given him an impression of a strong, charismatic personality. A man of plain speaking who did not suffer fools gladly and was short of patience, but who had the ability to mock himself and laugh at the world. A man to follow, except that William already had his feet on another path and his allegiance was to a young lord of a very different kind.
Emma came to clear the table of the remnants of the goose and receive ardent compliments concerning his culinary expertise. A smile appeared within the thicket of black beard and he simpered. Wigain and Walter chose to partake of the pleasures offered by the adjoining bathhouse, while William, his brothers, and Baldwin paid for their meal and headed out into the warm spring evening in search of a boat to row them back to the respectable side of the city.
William’s and Baldwin’s eventual destination was the White Tower where their duties would begin long before dawn, but first they accompanied John and Ancel back to their lodging near Billingsgate and the rest of the Marshal family.
Their arrival caused a flurry of delight. William’s sisters were wild with excitement to be in London for a coronation, especially when their brother was one of Prince Henry’s chosen knights. Not having seen William for more than two years, they flung themselves upon him. Sybilla Marshal was laughing as she called them to heel like two half-trained puppies. Glowing with pride herself, she embraced William tenderly then stepped back to look at him.
