Henry shrugged. “Probably half a dozen and their retinues.”
The constable blenched, partly at the notion of having to cater for another host at short notice, partly at the fact they would be French and thus the natural adversaries of Normandy—even if they were Henry’s kin by marriage.
“They won’t be staying and neither will I,” Henry snapped. “You need not concern yourself on that score.”
He retired to the room that had been rapidly prepared for him and, touching the linen bedsheets, made a face. “Cold as a witch’s arse,” he said and turned to warm his hands at one of the braziers that had been kindled in an effort to banish the dank chill from the room. Having departed Chinon at speed, Henry was without the usual comforts of his baggage train—the hangings, the candelabra, his own sheets and bedcovers, silver-gilt cups and platters, and had perforce to use the equipment supplied by his host.
William set out his own kit by the side of his pallet and drew his sword to check the blade for nicks and rust. It was a comforting ritual; something to ground him when the terrain underfoot was shifting like grains of sand on a dry beach. The detail that Henry was expecting members of the French court had surprised him. The steps of the dance had quickened, and if he didn’t want to fall by the wayside, he would have to pick up the pace at once.
Dismissing the constable’s servants with a flick of his fingers, Henry paced over to William. “Marshal, I have a boon to ask of you,” he said.
William sheathed his sword and propped his scabbard against the wall. Close now, he could see the smudged shadows under the Young King’s eyes and the sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat. In spite of his misgivings, William was swept by a wave of tender concern. “You have no need to seek boons of me, sire,” he said, opening his hands. “Anything you command of me I will perform to the best of my honour and ability.”
Henry nodded. “I know that, but this is not a command and I ask out of friendship and respect.”
William could have said that it made no difference, that a request from Henry was as good as an order, but it would have been ungracious; and the way the young man spoke the words, the look of uncertainty on his face, the combination of reckless courage and charm, made William realise why, even through the exasperation, irritation, and impatience, he had taken an oath to stand beside him unto death. Therefore he remained silent, his expression solemn and filled with waiting.
“I cannot lead men in battle unless I am a knight.” The tightness of Henry’s jaw made hollows in his cheeks. “I…I want you to confer it upon me.”
William inhaled sharply. To one side he was aware of Baldwin de Béthune and Adam Yqueboeuf staring with open mouths. “Me, sire? You want me to confer your knighthood?” For once, William’s aplomb deserted him. “Would not the King of France be better, or one of his lords?”
Henry shook his head impatiently. “No, I want you to do it. Why should you be so surprised? You have the renown, and the respect of all your peers. My mother loves and trusts you.” His complexion flushed. “It means more to me that you belt on my sword than any Frenchman, no matter his rank.”
“Then I would be honoured to knight you, sire,” William said hoarsely. He bent his knee and bowed his head, but Henry immediately bade him stand.
“I should kneel to you,” he said. “You have trained me to arms, you have stood at my side even when I haven’t deserved it. You show me what courtesy should be.” He knelt before William, the gesture dramatic but sincere. William sought for something to say but this was new territory and he had no precedents to guide him.
“Sire, you imbue me with virtues that I am not sure are mine. Please.” Stooping, William drew Henry to his feet and gave him the kiss of peace. For a moment the young man gripped his arm. To the others it looked like a soldiers’ clasp but William could feel the desperation in the touch. Henry wanted to be considered a man, capable of ruling, a fledged knight, a fine general on the battefield, a king. All those things he might become in time, but, for the moment, he was borrowing the robes of such men to clad a fickle, untried youth. As his young wife had done, he was asking William for reassurance. Unqualified, shouldering his own burden of expectation, William borrowed a stranger’s robes too—and gave it.
Ten
Hamstead Marshal, Berkshire, May 1175
The trees were in full pale green leaf as William rode along the dust-whitened lane towards Hamstead. The twitter of birdsong, the soft plod of shod hoof, and the creak of harness and accoutrements were pleasant sounds, but to William they were an uncomfortable reminder of the day his uncle Patrick had been murdered by the Lusignans. That too had been a soft, spring day with everyone off their guard. Not that he expected to be attacked within sight of the family keep, but memory did not answer to reason and he rode in his hauberk with his sword belted at his hip and a mace pushed through his belt.
He had left the Young King at Westminster with his father, attending a synod convened by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Father and son had been on the best of terms, laughing at each other’s jests, clapping each other’s shoulders like old friends. No one would suspect there had been a deep rift between them, or guess that their quarrel had caused a vicious, bloody war. But William only had to see smoke rising from a burning midden pit to remember the villages in flames as the bitter dispute ravaged the land and plagues of mercenaries despoiled and plundered at will. The sight of a dead ox or sheep would clench his gut even before his nostrils drew in the stench. Every castle he passed left him pondering ways to besiege it and bring it to surrender. William was pragmatic; he had not flinched from deeds of fire and sword, but there was a price to pay and it lay heavy on him now.
Louis of France had welcomed Young Henry with open arms; had given him a seal of his own, generous funds, and together they had coordinated an attack on Henry’s father. Richard and Geoffrey had arrived safely at the French court to join the rebellion but their mother had been captured as she rode to join them, disguised as a man, and was now under house arrest at Salisbury. The Young King had threatened to hew England to pieces in order to free her. Richard had been vociferous in his declarations to do just that, for the bond between him and his mother was particularly close. However, the practicalities had proven more difficult than the rhetoric and the English uprising had been left to the likes of the Earls of Leicester and Norfolk with aid from the Scots, who were always willing to stir the pot. The unrest had been widespread but the justiciar, Richard de Luci, had managed to contain it, the rebels had been routed, and their leaders captured. In Normandy too, despite modest successes and French support, the rebellion had failed. The best that could be salvaged was the King’s concession that his eldest son should have an income of his own, rather than be dependent on begging at his father’s purse strings. Young Henry had been given two castles in Normandy and an annual income of fifteen thousand Angevin pounds. Richard was to have half the revenues of Poitou and Geoffrey the same for Brittany. But the Young King had been forced to acknowledge his father’s right to make provision for John as he deemed fit, and Queen Eleanor remained a prisoner in Salisbury.
As William approached Hamstead he tried to set aside thoughts of the war, but it was difficult since his brother had fought in it too—on the King’s side. He hoped that John would understand, but a nugget of uncertainty caused him to pull back on the bridle even while he urged his palfrey onwards. Confused, the horse champed the bit and baulked. Rhys uttered a startled expletive as his horse collided with William’s mount and he had to rein back to avoid the irritated lash of a hind hoof.
William apologised. “I was thinking back instead of going forward,” he said.
“Never wise to do that,” Rhys replied in his sing-song French.
“No,” William agreed wryly. He looked at the small Welshman. Since his thoughts were on the recent war, it was a natural progression to mention Rhys’s former lord. “Richard de Clare was in Normandy fighting for King Henry,” he said. “Were you not tempted to return to him?”
Rhys screwed up his face. “I thought about it, sir, especially when things were going badly for us, but I knew that I’d be jumping out of the cauldron into the fire. Lord Richard came to fight for King Henry because he was ordered—because it was his duty and he’s a man of honour. But he’s back in Ireland now, and Ireland was the reason I left his service.”
William nodded at his servant’s reply. He had encountered de Clare briefly during the peace negotiations. There had been a few new scars, and the auburn hair had begun to salt with grey. Despite a leg wound that was slow to heal, the lord of Leinster and Striguil had been full of vigour. In some ways, Richard de Clare reminded William of his own father. There was that same incisive, ruthless streak combined with charisma and vision—and so much vitality that only the energy he threw into warfare seemed able to calm it.
“Lord Richard wouldn’t want to be away from the Princess Aoife and his children for too long, especially now she’s borne him a son and heir.”
William raised an eyebrow. “You keep abreast of his doings then.”
Rhys glanced over his shoulder towards William’s modest baggage train and the quiet, dark-eyed woman straddling one of the pack horses. “My wife’s like all women—no interest in men’s disputes, but likes to know the cosy fireside details.”
William laughed quietly at his groom’s eloquent expression. His heart was lightened by Rhys’s domestic observation and he urged his palfrey towards Hamstead with restored buoyancy.
