“The Young King’s tutor in arms and his marshal,” she declared proudly. “You have travelled far in a short time. If your father could see you…”
“He would praise me with one hand and fist me down to size with the other,” William answered merrily. “Mother, this is Baldwin of Béthune, who is to serve with me in the new King’s guard.”
Sybilla greeted him with warm words of welcome and insisted that both young knights take a cup of wine before they left for the Tower. Baldwin’s eyes lingered on the maiden who served them, as did William’s. In the two years since he had seen Alais, the last softness of childhood had melted away, defining the lines of cheekbone and jaw. She appraised him and Baldwin with clear hazel-green eyes and her full lips parted in an uninhibited smile that turned her from pretty into strikingly beautiful.
“It is good to see you again,” she said warmly to William.
“And you.” He returned her smile. “That colour suits you.” He was adept at the trivial talk and flattery that smoothed the way underfoot at court. Not that he needed to flatter in Alais’s case. The soft moss-green of her gown lit similar lights in her eyes and contrasted well with her fair skin.
Alais blushed and giggled nervously. John cleared his throat and gave William a ferocious glower. William had often received such looks at court, generally from anxious fathers, brothers, or husbands who disliked the ease with which he formed rapports with their womenfolk. Their alarm amused William for it had no substance. He enjoyed the company of women, and it was a delight to flirt with them, but he was no poacher and there was plenty of legitimate game should he choose to pursue it. John’s glare was definitely neither paternal nor filial as he moved to stand protectively in front of Alais. Every bone in his body said “mine.”
“Pretty girl, your mother’s chamber lady,” Baldwin said with speculation in his eyes as he and William took a barge downriver to the Tower to snatch what sleep they could before dawn.
“Don’t go harbouring ideas,” William replied, a note of warning underlying the good humour in his voice. “She’s not for tumbling.”
Baldwin grinned. “Your brother was certainly being as protective over her as a dog with a marrowbone. The look in his eyes, I don’t think I’d want to fight him for her.”
“It wouldn’t be my brother you’d be facing if you damaged Alais, but my mother, and you’d die.”
Baldwin laughed and then sobered. “So what are her circumstances? I take it your brother is not for marrying her or he’d have had six children out of her by now and another in her belly.”
William shook his head and studied the oar bench between his spread knees. “He’s the heir and Alais has neither dowry nor high family connections. A man of his standing has to select his wife for her estates and the importance of her kin.”
“And there was I thinking from the chivalrous way you behave towards women that you were a romantic soul who believed in wedding for love alone,” Baldwin mocked.
William curled his lip at Baldwin’s jesting to show that he thought it in poor taste. “That won’t comfort an empty belly,” he replied. “Should I ever marry, I would hope to love my wife for herself as well as her lands, but if I’m being practical, it won’t happen. Hearth knights like us seldom take wives or have the opportunity to settle down and beget sons and daughters.”
“And that disturbs you?” Baldwin eyed him curiously for it was not often that William allowed a glimpse beneath his good-natured composure.
William frowned. “Not for the moment, but it might when I’m older. Does it not disturb you?”
Baldwin shook his head. “We take what we’re given and make the best of it. Even without lands there is nothing to prevent a man from taking a mistress…or a wife, save perhaps his ambition in the second case. The right offer has to come along.”
“Then, like my brother, I must be an ambitious man,” William said with a smile. “And I have seen no woman yet with whom I am tempted to share a bed beyond a night…except perhaps the Queen,” he added with self-mockery. “And that’s not a temptation that’s ever likely to be fulfilled.”
“One to dream about though,” Baldwin said.
“Dreaming’s best. You can’t get into trouble for dreaming, and it costs less.”
“Indeed,” Baldwin laughed. “I wonder how Wigain and Walter are enjoying their bath!”
Westminster’s great hall was packed to the rafters with nobility celebrating the coronation of the royal heir. Now two King Henrys, their crowns identical, sat side by side on the raised dais beneath a banner of snarling red and gold leopards. Queen Eleanor, wife to one and mother to the other, wore her crown too and everyone’s garments shone with the gleam of silk and glittered with gemstones and thread of gold. William thought that it was like looking upon a river as it flashed with coins of dazzled light at sunset. He too was a part of the majestic flow in his court tunic of blue silk with red linen undergown. As a bodyguard to the Young King, he wore his sword in the hall and his scabbard was laced to his ceremonial swordbelt of embossed and gilded leather. The one he usually wore, wrinkled and polished with constant use, was stored in his baggage roll awaiting the end of the formal festivities.
Although William was on duty, he had still managed to sample many of the courses of the coronation feast. He had decided that swan was overrated, that cooking a peacock did not improve it, but that the chicken pasties and spiced almond wafers were delicious, as were the honeyed, fried pork trotters.
A stocky young priest joined him, his brown fringe neatly clipped and his river-grey eyes bright with pleasure. “The crowning went well, don’t you think?” he asked, his smile pursed and smug.
William turned to his younger brother. Henry had taken his monastic vows and was forging an ecclesiastical career in the service of Roger de Pont L’Évêque, Archbishop of York. “Indeed,” William said. “Everyone played their part.”
“The Archbishop was magnificent.” Henry’s voice was belligerent. He folded his arms and stood firmly planted as if to resist a buffet, his posture very reminiscent of their deceased uncle Patrick.
“Yes, he was,” William agreed. Even had he thought otherwise, he would have been diplomatic for his brother’s sake. The Archbishop of York had performed the crowning because Thomas Becket of Canterbury was currently in exile at the French court, having quarrelled with King Henry over several issues of Church and State. Most of the barons thought that the quarrel was Becket’s fault for being so stubborn and determined to thwart Henry’s will at every turn. The senior churchmen were divided as to who should take the blame—Henry or Becket—but all agreed that it was a great pity that Becket, who had been the Prince’s boyhood tutor, was not here to crown his pupil. Roger of York had filled Becket’s empty space but such a choice had always been bound to cause dissent, especially amongst the Canterbury faction who had been heard to mutter that it wasn’t a “real” coronation.
William had small interest in the dispute for it impinged little on his daily life. Prince Henry had other tutors now and his days with Becket had already been finished when William had entered Eleanor’s service.
“You’ve heard the grumbles from the French?” his brother asked.
William nodded. “They expected the Princess Marguerite to be crowned beside the Prince and they are bound to be angered that she has not.” He frowned, remembering Marguerite’s bewilderment at being left behind in Normandy. The gift of a gold circlet and a new gown had not consoled her, for the child cared little for such things; he felt sorry for her.
