The King ruffled John’s hair. “I have enough sons bedazzled by the folly and profligacy of the tourney. I thought you at least had more sense.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to tourney myself,” John said with a scornful gesture that echoed his father’s tone, “but it might be interesting to lay wagers on the outcome. My brother’s kitchen clerk has a pile of winnings the size of a dung heap thanks to Marshal.”
The King raised a sardonic eyebrow. “It seems that everyone gets rich except for me. I pay for the horses, the armour, the fine clothes, the food, the minstrels, the petty hangers-on. Do you know how many times your brother’s clerks come to me with demands for more funds because he and his mesnie have spent in a month what I have given them to last the year? Even with revenues of his own, he cannot live within his means.” Although he was addressing John, his gaze bored accusingly into William. “Indeed,” he continued, “I hear that certain knights encourage my son to spend beyond his means.”
William said nothing. It was pointless to fuel the confrontation and he was already standing on precarious ground. He had no doubt that someone had been feeding rumours to the King. No man was keen to challenge William on the tourney field where his skills made him supreme, but at court there were many who were prepared to put a knife in his back and clamber over his falling body to advance their ambitions.
“Have a care, Marshal,” the King said, his tone ambiguous. “You are not above taking a fall.” Still rubbing his leg, Henry moved on. John hesitated, then followed his sire, but he cast a glance over his shoulder and gave William a smile that was as dangerous as his father’s words had been.
William breathed out hard, pushing the tension from his body. He felt as if he had just been through a bruising bout on the tourney ground and emerged intact—but by the skin of his teeth; certainly not as the victor. He had thought himself adept at weaving his way through the dark undergrowth of the court, but plainly he was not adept enough. Perhaps it was time to retreat from the field for a while and refurbish his armour.
“William, I love you!” Alais threw her arms around his neck and smacked kisses enthusiastically on either cheek.
“It’s nothing,” he chuckled. “Call it payment for my board and lodging.”
“I wouldn’t call a silk wimple and gold hair pins nothing!” Sitting down again, Alais spread her fingers beneath the gossamer blue silk. “It’s beautiful.”
“So are you.”
Alais gave him a severe look, marred by the twitch of a smile and a deepening of pink in her cheeks. “You flatter me.”
“Not in the least. My brother doesn’t know how fortunate he is.”
“You can stop playing the courtier with my woman,” growled John Marshal, his humour tinged with annoyance. “Go and find one of your own.”
William hesitated. The world of the court made one do that—think long before speaking and then measure every word with caution. “I can’t take the praise for the choice of veil,” he said. “That was made by…a good friend.”
Alais raised an eyebrow. The corresponding mouth corner curved too. “Not a man, I hazard.”
William shook his head and smiled. “Her name is Clara,” he said, “and she rescued me once.”
Alais was determinedly eager to know more; John was amused and smugly prepared to wreak vengeance. “You can’t be holier than thou now, can you?” he derided as William told them as little as he could get away with. After all the lectures you gave to me on the matter of mistresses…”
William bit his tongue on the reply that it was different for him and Clara. He did not have an obligation to wed to enhance the Marshal line, and Clara’s barren womb meant there would never be offspring. “There are shades of difference,” he said diplomatically, “but I agree that I can no longer lecture you from the moral high ground.”
“You should have brought her with you.”
“I would have done, but she hates crossing water and she is a woman of the troubadour lands. If it rains, she mopes.” His smile was forced and the subject was rapidly dropped for other ones. John was troubled about the King’s irascibility towards his son’s extravagances and what it might mean for his followers.
“He is looking for a scapegoat,” John warned. “Everyone knows that you are the Young King’s right hand and his favourite. His father’s well informed, and not all of it is to your glory.”
“Men will say what they want,” William answered tersely. “What am I supposed to do? Lose a few bouts at the tourney? Snarl at my lord when he asks me a question? Fart in the hall?” He made a swift motion with his fist. There was a burning sensation in his gut. The anger he was usually so good at damping down flickered like dragon fire.
“You could try being less extravagant and do more to watch your back,” John retorted. “I’m the King’s Marshal and head of our family, but I would be hard pressed to dress myself like a prince of the realm. What must the King think when he sees a landless knight robed in ermine and purple?”
William folded his arms defensively. “I don’t wear ermine and purple.”
“Near enough. Look at you now. That’s best Flemish twill and at least twice dyed to judge from the depth of colour, and the embroidery won’t have been cheap.”
William plucked his tunic. “It’s Clara’s. She’s skilled.”
“Yes, but how much does a yard of gold thread cost? I grant that your winter cloak’s only lined with sheepskin, but it’s trimmed with sable.”
William drew himself up. “I don’t see why you’re so bothered about my clothes.”
“You don’t want to see,” John replied with laboured patience. “William, you’re a rich man, and your wealth comes from the purse of your master, who cannot keep its strings closed. You know how little store the King sets by outward show. The sight of you clad like a magnate must sour his digestion. At least wear something sober and plain when you’re in his presence.”
Alais gave a slight shake of her head and laid her hand on her lover’s sleeve, warning him that he was pushing too hard.
