William spluttered. She was incorrigible.
“You will manage.” She yawned delicately like a cat. “After all, you are only playing at war. You might have to plan a strategy, you might have to fight hard, but at the end of the day, you can shed your mail, eat a decent meal, and sleep in a feather bed with no greater concern than a favourite horse you might have lost, or when the next tourney is going to be held.”
William’s mouth tightened. “I have fought in wars,” he said defensively. “I know the difference.”
“So do I.” The look of hazy pleasure left her eyes. She turned over and moved a little away from him, curling on her side, knees drawn up, and fists gathered beneath her chin.
William lay in silence, adjusting himself to her presence. His body was heavy with lassitude, his thoughts made slow and winding by the need for sleep. He eased over on the pallet to set his arm at her waist and kiss her throat beneath her hair. “It is a game, but all games are practice for the business of living…and living itself is also a game with harsh rules.”
“But you are a winner,” she said. “And I am tired of losing.” She turned into his arms and he folded them around her.
The sleep that he courted remained out of reach and as the dawn birdsong began to flute and cool grey light filtered into the tent, William pressed her waist, eased himself from his pallet, quietly dressed, and went outside. Rhys and his squire, Eustace, were building the fire and the former had been into the town to fetch fresh bread. William tore a hunk off a loaf still hot in the centre, and took the cup of wine that Eustace gave him. The youth kept his gaze studiously lowered whilst Rhys bestowed William a knowing look.
“Lady Clara will be travelling with us for a while,” William told them. “You should know that I owe her a debt of kindness, and that I expect her to be treated with the same respect you afford Queen Marguerite and her ladies. Nor do I want to find you gossiping about her to the likes of Wigain. Her honour is mine.”
“Yes, sir,” Eustace mumbled, red to the ears.
An experienced married man, Rhys was less embarrassed. “I was right to let her wait in your tent last night then?” he asked.
William laughed darkly, and toasted the Welshman. “I don’t know about that.”
Twelve
Pleurs, Champagne, Summer 1177
Seated in the window of the lodging house that William had rented, Clara held up the small hand mirror of grozed glass in its silver case and studied her reflection from various angles, inspecting her face and clothing to satisfy herself that all was in order. The town of Pleurs was playing host to a grand tourney and she was here with William and Roger de Gaugi who were fighting on their own behalf, although under the Young King’s banner. The latter had remained in Paris, awaiting Marguerite’s imminent confinement, but had exhorted his knights to break as many lances on his behalf as they could.
Adorned in a gown of blue silk trimmed with pearls, silver stars stitched on her gauze veil and wound through her plaited hair, Clara had gone to watch the opening bouts of the day’s sport. The prowess of William and Roger on the field had bolstered her pride and given her a sense of her own worth as the mistress of the greatest knight on the field. For a time she had followed their activity across the wide tourney ground, watching them win every engagement. Finally, as they ranged out of sight, she had repaired to their dwelling in the town to wait.
Tonight, the great lords who were the patrons of the tourneys would open their houses and throughout the evening the knights and their ladies would drift from one to the other like moths in search of nectar. As two of its most successful and attractive knights, William and Roger were in high demand and would be plied at each lodging with food and wine and rich gifts. Clara enjoyed basking in the reflected glory. William always introduced her as a highborn Poitevan lady, which amused her greatly.
She had been his mistress for three months now—a position she found both satisfactory and frustrating. His manners were impeccable and he treated her with deference and respect. Although a fierce competitor on the tourney field and assertive as a courtier, he was a considerate, restrained lover. When she had shown him wildness, she had sensed his shock, although he had adapted swiftly enough and she still tingled when she thought of a certain night under the stars somewhere in the County of Eu. The shattering of lances on the tourney ground had been as nothing compared to the impact of their pleasure on William’s rope-framed camp bed. But for all he gave her, she was greedy for more, and the hungrier she grew, the more reluctant he became. There was a well of reserve in him that she could not win past. On the few occasions she had pushed him in an attempt to wring a response, she had received either courteous platitude or silence. Following her tirades, he would invariably perform like a demon upon the tourney field. Clara had begun to think that the latter was where he exorcised all his anger and frustration, channelling it into clean, physical activity.
Seeing several dusty, weary knights and squires clopping up the road towards their lodgings, Clara surmised that the tourney had ended. In anticipation of William’s arrival, she abandoned her grooming, prepared him a bath, and set out meat, bread, fruit, and wine, knowing that he would have the appetite of a bear when he returned. Likely, he would smell like one too, hence the bath.
The water in the tub began to cool and Clara sighed, suspecting that William had lingered to talk with other contestants or else was about the matter of arranging ransom money from those he had taken captive. She had such faith in him it didn’t occur to her to think that William himself had been taken for ransom. Looking impatiently out of the window, she saw two knights and a squire approaching the lodging on foot. The squire was carrying a large salver draped with an embroidered cloth. Mystified, suddenly anxious, Clara hastened down to them.
“We are seeking Sir William Marshal, my lady.” A dark-haired knight bowed as Clara opened the door. “Is he here?”
She shook her head. “He has not yet returned from the tourney.” She glanced towards the cloth. The second knight leaned across the squire to twitch the linen aside and reveal an enormous pike with scales of iridescent silver tabby. It lay upon a bed of herbs and salad leaves, the latter a little wilted. The fish itself still looked fresh though.
“The Countess of Champagne sends this pike to Sir William in honour of his prestige in the tourney,” the knight said.
“Is he not still at the field?” Clara looked at them askance.
“No, my lady, he is not.”
Clara gnawed her lip. “I cannot help you, except to offer to take the pike and…” She paused and raised her head as Rhys clattered into the yard, William’s sweat-caked destrier on a lead rein. Gathering her skirts, she ran to him. “Rhys, where’s your lord?”
The Welshman dismounted and unclipped the lead rein. “At the forge, my lady, by the town gate,” he said. “His helm took some hard blows and he can’t get it off. He sent me to bring his horse back to the stables and to tell you that he will come as soon as he can.”
Relief and apprehension coursed through her. If he had taken blows sufficient to crumple his helm, then he could be injured or concussed. Her fear must have shown on her face, for Rhys gave a reassuring grin. “He’s sore discomfited,” the servant said, “but otherwise unharmed.”
Clara shook her head. “I need to see for myself.” She turned to the waiting knights and squire with their gift. “Do you want to leave that here?”
The knight who had spoken earlier declined her offer, laughter brimming in his eyes. “No, my lady, my instructions were to present it to him in person and I would not miss the sight of William Marshal with his head on an anvil for anything!”
Hands on hips, brawny features soot-smudged, the blacksmith studied William and sucked a considering breath between his teeth. “There’s no rescuing this one from the scrap heap,” he announced. “Fact is, I don’t even know how I am going to get you out of it with your head intact. I’m neither a chirurgeon nor a midwife.”
