“Not if my mesnie is doing its job,” Henry retorted.
A year ago Henry had gained permission from his father to cross the Narrow Sea with his entourage and take part in the tourneys that were held fortnightly across France and neighbouring territories. The King had been reluctant at first, for he had a personal hatred of the sport, seeing it as a waste of time and effort, not to say a breeding place for rebellion. He would like to have seen tourneys banned from all his dominions, not just England. However, worn down by young Henry’s constant harassment and pleading, he finally capitulated, hoping that it would harness his heir’s restless energy, concentrate his fickle brain, and imbue him with some of the discipline he lacked.
At first, the losses of Henry’s mesnie on the field had been spectacular and embarrassing. William still cringed when he thought back upon those early days. Their failure had not been due to any lack of prowess, rather that their opponents were experienced professionals, some of whom had been riding the circuit for years and knew all the tricks, both honest and foul. It had been a matter of learning from their mistakes and learning fast.
William had taken it upon himself to fashion a decent tourney team out of a number of disparate abilities and personalities. He set the more cautious and solid men to hold the flanks and watch Henry. The fiery ones or those with the strongest destriers headed the line. The most versatile were in the middle, ready to attack or defend. He had the knights fight each other with every combination of weapon and he made them practise on their own mounts and other men’s so that they became accustomed to a variety of horses. When Adam Yquebeouf complained that such antics were below his dignity, William remarked that there were plenty of other knights keen to join Henry’s service who would not baulk at what was required. Henry desired to excel at the tourney; it was up to his men to ensure that it happened. Yqueboeuf had looked daggers, but had ceased to grumble—at least in William’s presence.
The intensive training during the slack winter months had begun to bear fruit this new season. Knights who had once laughed at the callow efforts of the Young King’s mesnie were now rubbing their bruises and polishing their respect. Henry basked in the adulation like a cat in warm sunshine and William’s cachet within tourney circles had risen considerably.
Passing a pavilion belonging to a Poitevan knight, William and Henry heard a man and a woman heatedly arguing behind the closed tent flaps. A red-faced squire was checking equipment outside the pavilion and unsuccessfully pretending to be deaf. Several knights were chuckling to each other and exchanging knowing glances.
“You whoreson, you promised me!” The woman’s voice was seething with fury.
“I said I would if I could afford it, and I can’t.”
“Hah, because you’ve swilled your coin away in gaming and dice with your cronies!”
“They’re a better bargain than a carping bitch. Whores like you can be bought ten a penny in any town brothel.” There was the sound of a slap, a scuffle, and a cut-off shriek.
“My parents used to scream at each other like that sometimes,” Henry said, moving on and shaking his head. “My father once compared my mother to a Rouen fishwife, and she replied it was a good thing she wasn’t, because she would have ripped him open with a gutting knife.” He snorted down his nose. “Preferably before he begot John on her and took up with the Clifford slut.” He looked at William, his mouth twisting with distaste. “I would never strike a woman. God knows, Marguerite irritates me on occasion but I’d never beat her for it.”
William thought wryly that Marguerite was probably also irritated by her young husband, who could be difficult in his cups and was frequently inconsiderate. “How is the Queen this morning, sire?”
Henry made a face. “The same as yesterday—puking. Her women say that it’ll stop in the fourth month. I hope so. I can’t abide her company while she’s heaving into a bowl every five minutes, even if she is carrying my heir in her belly. She says she’s not well enough to watch me either.” His tone verged on the petulant, for to Henry an admiring audience was crucial.
“It’s a wide tourney field, sire,” William said diplomatically. “She wouldn’t see much of you anyway.”
Henry made a disgruntled sound. “You’re right,” he said, but in a way that let William know that his words were a gracious concession and that his opinion had not changed.
The attractions of the booths explored and the opposition inspected, Henry repaired to his tent to don his armour. William followed suit, and while he waited for his squire to fetch his accoutrements, mentally prepared himself for the coming fray. Outside his pavilion, Rhys was carefully checking over the harness. His loyalty to William had solidified ever since the news had arrived of the death of Richard de Clare; not in battle, but of an infected leg caused by an old wound that had refused to heal. His children, a girl of six and a boy of three, were in royal wardship and for the moment their vast inheritance was being milked into the royal coffers. William had liked Richard de Clare from the little he had known of him and had attended a mass to honour his passing. Rhys had been deeply affected and it only took an extra cup of wine to make him maudlin with memories and regrets.
As William was adjusting his scabbard at his hip, Wigain arrived bearing slices of cold roast goose wrapped in lime leaves, a loaf, a handful of dried fruit, and a costrel of wine. “I’ve been making wagers with some of the other clerks,” he said as he placed the items on the trestle, ready for William’s saddlebag.
William raised an amused brow. “And what might they be?”
“That you and our lord Henry will win the most ransoms.”
“And you think this a wise thing to do?” William shook his head at the clerk. “I hope you haven’t put your shirt on it.”
Wigain grinned. “More like two shirts. Now that we’ve started winning, I’m recouping the losses of last year.”
“I don’t know whether that speaks to me of your faith or your folly.” William unwrapped one of the leaves and sampled a sliver of goose.
Wigain gave a cheerful shrug. “I was discouraged last year, sir, but then I saw the way you trained the knights every day, even when there was snow on the ground and they were complaining like a bowerful of old women.”
William snorted at the image.
“It’s made all the difference; there’s no one to better us now.”
“Your faith commends you,” William replied, “but why should others accept your wager unless they thought you were going to lose?” He devoured another slice of goose then bade his squire remove it to his saddlebag before he was tempted to eat the lot.
“Because you’ve only just begun to be successful and they still remember how you were. Some say that the Young King is a cocky young wastrel and his mesnie a group of bored fops without a yard of steel amongst them.” Wigain cleared his throat and looked apologetic.
“They’re going to be disappointed then, aren’t they?” William dug in his own purse and thrust a handful of silver into Wigain’s hastily provided palm. “Here, wager this too. Let’s see what a cocky young wastrel and a group of bored fops with soft swords can accomplish.”
The fighting was hard, fast, and at times almost as brutal as true war. The hooves of the destriers churned up the sweet spring grass and as the day wore on the horses began to slip in the mud. William changed mounts several times, always aiming to keep his stallion fresh and selecting the animal best suited to the ground.
Henry was fearless and led from the front—which meant extra work for William who had to keep pace with him and turn any blows that threatened his young lord’s superiority. However, the hard training through the winter was paying dividends. Fighting as a tightly knit team, Henry’s mesnie stormed the field. Henry was laughing as he led his team against a conroi of French knights who had just fought their way out of a conflict with another troop. The opposition resisted but William pushed forward, seeking their breaking point, knowing that it wasn’t far away. A blow from his mace sent his opponent reeling and William grabbed the knight’s bridle. “Yield!” he commanded, wrapping his fist around the rein, one eye on his prize, the other on Henry who was caught up in the thick of the brawl, but with Baldwin de Béthune and Roger de Gaugi close to hand. Reassured, William gave his full attention to his opponent who was trying to wrench his destrier away. By the time William had forced him to surrender, the rest of the French had scattered with the Young King’s mesnie in hot pursuit, including Roger and Baldwin. Having been busy taking the ransom pledge of his adversary, Henry was left behind.
