“It’s humiliating to have to answer to him for every penny I spend,” Henry complained. “Am I supposed to clad myself in rags and freeze in the winter cold?” He gestured toward FitzReinier and his lad. “That idiot clerk Adam was beside me checking every ell of cloth I ordered, and now he’ll tell my father who will complain that I spend too much. I am a crowned king, a duke, and a count, and it’s all dross!” He hurled the inkhorn at the wall. It broke upon the plasterwork, splattering the limewash with blots and drips of oakgall brown.
“You are attending his Christmas court,” William said. “Speak to him and tell him of your discontent.”
“He won’t listen. He never listens,” Henry flashed. “Why do you think my mother no longer dwells with him? She hates him. Everyone hates him except his English whore and that’s only because her brains are between her legs. Everyone knows that he was to blame for Becket’s murder. It doesn’t matter that the Pope has absolved him and he’s done penance and promised money for a crusade. He’ll always be stained by the shame of the blood spilled on Canterbury’s altar.”
William winced. The memory of that time was one he would rather put behind him. The King had grown furious at Becket’s stubborn refusal to come to terms over the matter of clerical reform. A royal tirade against the Archbishop had been misinterpreted and four knights eager to secure the royal favour had ridden to Canterbury and murdered Thomas Becket on the steps of the altar. The dead Archbishop had become more popular and revered than the living one had ever been. His bloodied clothing, his hair shirt, his soiled, filthy braies were stored in a locked chest by the monks of the cathedral and periodically brought out to be soused in Holy Water. The cloudy results were then sold to an increasing number of pilgrims as a cure-all. Becket had been truculent when alive but dead he was more successful by far and had perhaps created more ills than his diluted essence would ever alleviate. There was a growing feeling of unease and discontent among the people of England, and here was a smooth-browed young man with fine looks and charm and a crown on his head. William knew how volatile the situation could become.
“You could govern better than him, sir,” said Adam Yqueboeuf. “The magnates and barons love you, and so do the people. You should make your father listen to you, not just ‘speak’ to him.”
William sent Yqueboeuf a quelling look to which the latter responded with a sneer. “And how would he do that? Threaten his father with force? Bring about the strife that the coronation was supposed to avoid?”
“Anyone would think you were on my father’s side,” Henry said irritably. “You’re like an old woman sometimes.”
“And does chivalry not tell you to respect old women, sire?”
Henry’s scowl slowly gave way to reluctant humour. “That depends on whether or not they are senile,” he retorted. “Are you senile, William?”
“I hope that I still have some reason left in my skull, sire. I am in your service, not your father’s, and my loyalty first and foremost is to you.”
Henry chewed his thumbnail. “I do respect my father—I have a care for old men as well as old women.” He paused to give his sycophants time to guffaw their appreciation. “But he must respect me too. I am no longer a child and I won’t be treated like one.” His lips thinned mulishly. “I will speak to him at the Christmas feast, but he had better listen.”
William said nothing because there was no point. Henry was too high on his pride to pay heed to other than his own desires. Turning away, William studied the bolts of fabric, now tidied on the trestle, noting that the purple silk had been set to one side, together with some fine linen chansil and a glorious gold and blue wool brocade.
“You know what will please,” William murmured sardonically to the merchant.
FitzReinier shrugged. “My business would fail if I did not,” he said. “The Young King wanted to see my choicest wares and it is my place to satisfy his need, not pander to his clerks.”
William smiled. “Or perhaps to encourage his hunger.”
FitzReinier returned the smile and clicked his fingers at his assistant. “If you’re interested in silk but don’t have the means for purple, I have some remnants of green and yellow that would make a surcoat…at a very attractive price,” he added with delicate mischief.
A short while later, William stood on the dockside, marvelling at FitzReinier’s skill in persuading otherwise sane and sensible men to part with their silver. He was now the owner of some green and yellow silk that he didn’t really need, not to mention several ells of red wool for a tunic. He could hardly cavil at Prince Henry’s extravagance when he was incapable of controlling his own.
Irritated and slightly bemused by his own folly, he watched porters load the furniture of Prince Henry’s household on to the royalesnecca. The vessel was sleek and narrow, built to knife through the water and carry her passengers at speed across the expanse of sea separating England from Normandy. Brightly painted shields lined her strake and the leopards of Anjou fluttered from her mast. Men were busily erecting a deck shelter near her stern so that Marguerite and her ladies would have some protection from the flying spray and sharp sea wind. The young royal couple was bound for the French court to visit Marguerite’s father, King Louis, and then for an Angevin family gathering at Chinon.
William strolled along the dockside, past the moored fishing vessels and two men mending nets by a brazier, their knuckles chapped and red with cold. William’s new groom Rhys was standing with a group of soldiers, his bow stave horizontal across his shoulders and his arms propped over its length. Beyond them, a rider and his attendants were picking their way along the crowded wharf. William’s gaze narrowed. “John?” His stomach lurched as if he were already on board ship, his first thought being that something had happened at home to bring his brother chasing down to Southampton. Ancel was with him too. His worry was compounded by John’s strained expression, and did not diminish even when his brother found a smile as he dismounted.
“I hoped I would catch you before you sailed,” John said as they clasped each other in a brief embrace.
“What’s your news?” William turned from John to greet Ancel. The youth had grown again and his narrow frame was filling out with adult muscle. He wore a sword at his hip too, which meant that he was now sufficiently accomplished to use one. “It’s surely not just brotherly love that brings you to Southampton?”
“That if you will,” John replied with bluff unease, “but business too.” A caustic note entered his voice. “I’m the King’s Marshal you know; I don’t spend all my time mouldering like a rustic. I’ve letters for the King to be taken on ship and matters to discuss with the constable.”
“Matters not for my ears?” Reassured that the news from home was plainly not that dire, and imparting it not John’s sole purpose for being in Southampton, William relaxed and found a mocking smile.
John chose not to return it, his own expression officious and fussy. “Not that you’ve an imprudent tongue, I know you better than that; but the King’s business is the King’s business.”
“And we’re both loyal to the last drop in the flagon,” William said. “It’s cold here, and going to be even colder than a witch’s tit once at sea. We can at least be warm while we talk.” He indicated the alehouse standing back from the dockside, lazy smoke twirling from its louvres. “Unless you want to go straight to the castle?” His voice lacked enthusiasm. He had come from there to escape the tense atmosphere and FitzReinier’s depredations on his purse.
John gave him a speculative glance. “No, the alehouse will do.”
The establishment was already busy with sailors and passengers waiting to embark and who, like William and his brothers, were here to warm and fortify themselves in the interim. The brothers sat down at a trestle in a corner of the room and a woman brought them a pitcher of straw-coloured English wine, a basket of freshly baked bread, and another of raisin and chicken pasties. William eyed the food, his stomach rumbling. The pity was that anything he ate, he’d likely lose five miles out to sea. He didn’t know which was worse, puking on an empty stomach or a full one. John was staring at the food too, but as if he were faced by platters of logs and sawdust. Only Ancel set to with a will.
William took a swallow of the wine which was dry and tart, but not sour. John echoed him, and then looked across his cup. “You might as well know,” he said with a grimace, “Alais is with child.”
William stared at his brother for a long moment. “You couldn’t keep your hands off her, could you?” he said with quiet disgust.
John reddened. “It wasn’t like that.” He plucked a loaf out of the basket and set about reducing it to crumbs with vicious digs of his thumbnail.
