“More training, I think,” William avowed, joining his young lord. “What would happen in true battle if they all hared off like that?”
Muffled laughter emerged through the slits in Henry’s gleaming new helm. “I’ve heard tales about you at Drincourt where you pushed forward with no thought for the outcome.”
“It was my first battle and I was green,” William retorted.
Henry leaned over to slap him on the shoulder. “You’re being an old woman again,” he teased. “If you’re going to lecture them, we’ve to catch them first, and likely we’ll catch a few Frenchman along the way too!” He spurred his stallion in the direction that the others had taken.
William and the Young King rode into the town of Anet and clopped their way downhill towards the centre. As they rode, William hunted in his saddlebag and brought out the goose and bread. Henry lifted his wine costrel off the saddle bow and he and William removed their helms and bolted their food and drink in companionable haste. Henry washed down a mouthful of goose with a swig of wine. “I love this life.” He wiped his lips on the cuff of his gambeson, his eyes alight with pleasure.
William nodded vigorous agreement, for he loved it too: it was something that he and the Young King had in common. Troubadours sang of the joy of the breaking of lances on a fine spring morning, the boldness running as red as blood through men’s veins, the hungry elation and desire for glory, and it was all true. Come cold rain, a lame horse, rusting armour, and a bad day at the tilt, a knight might wish to wring said troubadour’s neck, but not now, not when one was living the song.
The main street was empty of combatants but the townsfolk were standing at their balconies and spinning galleries, hoping to see some activity. A few brave souls stood at the roadside, including a wine seller who had set up a trestle of jugs to take advantage of the thirsty knights. A gang of little boys were daring each other to dance in the roadway and then leap clear at the last moment.
“Which way?” William asked a freckled urchin, thumbing him an Angevin penny and a piece of the loaf from his meal. The child’s eyes rounded at such largesse and he pointed down a street leading off to the right. “The knights went down there,” he said. Keeping his fist tight around the precious coin, he bit into the bread and worried the crust like a dog.
Replacing their helms, William and Henry urged their destriers down the road the boy had indicated, but found their way blocked by a lord named Simon de Neauphle and a troop of footsoldiers brandishing fearsome glaives and spears. Henry swore under his breath and reined in so hard that his stallion leaned on its haunches. “What now?” he asked William, some of his confidence evaporating. “We won’t be able to go through them, but we can’t go back.” He half turned in the saddle to gesture at their difficult retreat.
William studied de Neauphle’s men through the eye slits in his helm. “They won’t hold their ground if we charge,” he said. “It’s not true battle where it’s our lives or theirs. Whatever he’s paying them, it’s not worth standing in the path of a pair of galloping stallions. De Neauphle doesn’t have space to make a counter-charge. They won’t defend him…trust me.”
Henry made a noise within his helm that sounded like reluctant laughter. “I always have,” he said. “Don’t let me down now.”
“Never,” William said. “Remember, posture and attitude is more than half the battle. Those footsoldiers are seeing two knights on fledged warhorses. They are seeing iron-shod hooves that can shatter a limb with a single kick. They are seeing mail which cannot be easily pierced and facing the blankness of our helms while we are watching their fear.”
Henry nodded, absorbing the lesson. “And what are we seeing?”
“Sheep,” William replied with a low chuckle. “Panic one and the entire flock will run.”
As one, they levelled their lances, tucked in their shields, and spurred their mounts. The horses’ shoes struck sparks on the street cobbles; the silk barding of the destriers rippled as they galloped. William fixed his gaze on Simon de Neauphle who was roaring commands at his men to stand firm, but William knew they wouldn’t. The majority were hirelings with no history of loyalty to glue them in place and withstand the power of two charging warhorses. Between one hard stride of his destrier and another, the nerve of the footsoldiers broke and they scattered like chaff on the wind. William nudged his bay with his thigh, turning a fraction so that he was able to seize de Neauphle’s bridle and hold him fast.
“Marshal, you bastard, let go!” De Neauphle was wearing an open-faced helm and his brown eyes were ablaze with chagrin and fury.
“Gladly, if you yield me your pledge of ransom,” William answered and laughed as de Neauphle let fly with several expletives aimed at his captor’s ancestry. Henry following, William led his quarry down a narrow side street with low-hanging gutters, his destination a livery stable which had been designated one of the rallying points of the tourney. Captured knights were brought to make their pledges and combatants could take a rest, mend equipment, or change horses as their needs dictated. In the confines of the street, their horses’ hooves raised an echoing clatter and the light was so poor that William’s vision was reduced to a murky slit. De Neauphle ceased swearing and fell silent but this was compensated for by Henry who was singing loudly and somewhat tunelessly to himself.
At the livery stable, William dismounted and as he unlaced his helm, commanded one of Henry’s waiting squires to take the captive knight into custody. “What knight?” Henry asked before the bewildered squire could speak. He had removed his own helm and set it before him on the pommel. His eyes were sparkling and his shoulders were shaking. “Certainly you have custody of the horse and its harness, but you seem to have lost your captive.”
William slewed round and, now that he had full vision, stared at the empty saddle in astonishment. He handed his helm to the squire and untied his arming cap. “Where’s de Neauphle?” he demanded.
Turning in the saddle, Henry pointed back the way they had come. “He took advantage of one of those gutters—swung up on to it without you seeing. Christ, it was funny.” The mirth that he had been struggling to contain burst out of him and he bowed over his saddle, incapacitated by laughter.
Scowling, William strode back up the street. Simon de Neauphle was no longer hanging off a gutter, but capering on the walk of the spinning gallery belonging to the same house. A shocked matron was standing near him, clutching her distaff to her bosom as if it were a talisman against rape.
“I claim sanctuary, Marshal!” de Neauphle cried, showing William a taunting forefinger. “You enter this house and the good dame here will beat you to a pulp with her distaff!”
Hands on hips, William stared up at his escaped quarry. “Well, she couldn’t be any worse at defending you than your men!” he retorted, and began to laugh himself as the humour in the situation overrode his annoyance at losing his quarry. “Enjoy your nuptials.” He flourished a bow. “I’d serenade you, but I’ve a fine warhorse and harness to stow.”
Predictably, de Neauphle dropped his braies and waggled his buttocks at William, who threw up his hands and returned to the stables to find Henry still convulsed. “If you had seen him, Marshal!” he spluttered. “What a trick, what a trick!”
William wasn’t so sure the incident had been that sidesplitting, but he had the grace to laugh at himself and the good nature to enter into the spirit of the jest. Henry harped on about the matter to all who would listen and by the time they arrived back at the tourney field there was scarcely a contestant who had not heard the tale of de Neauphle’s escape literally behind William’s back. William endured the joshing and back-slapping and consoled himself with the knowledge that he had the ransom money due from de Neauphle’s Lombard destrier and its fine Spanish harness. He was further mollified when a grinning, excited Wigain dropped a weighty pouch of silver into his cupped palm—profits from wagers won on the success of Henry’s mesnie.
The great lords hosted feasts in their tents, vying to outdo each other in extravagance and largesse, offering the strongest wine, the whitest bread served on silver dishes, the most skilled tumblers, the most amusing jester, the best troubadour. The townspeople and farmers playing host to this vast locust plague prayed to be reimbursed for the supplies consumed and the crops trampled in the course of the contest. The presence of a tourney crowd was always enlivening and exciting, creating a spectacle amidst a fairground atmosphere, but although the silence was resounding when it moved on, the peace was a relief, especially to the older members of the community. Silly, smitten girls and young lads with the shine of armour in their dreams took longer to fall back into the monotonous daily routine.
The tally of injuries to Henry’s mesnie included cracked ribs, broken fingers, and a dislocated shoulder, but nothing too serious, and the celebrations continued long into the night. William drank, but not to excess, and kept an eye on the men. There was to be more sport on the morrow and the winners would be those who were able to rise in the morning without heads as thick as thunderclouds.
Queen Marguerite appeared with her ladies and briefly joined her husband for the early courses of the feast. He regaled her with tales of the day’s doings, and the story of William’s escapee was repeated yet again. Marguerite laughed dutifully, but the laughter scarcely reached her eyes, which were shadowed with fatigue.
“Are you unwell, madam?” William enquired with concern, for she was as pale as a shroud.
She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Just tired,” she said, “but I thank you for asking, messire.”
