That night the Sire de Tancarville held a feast to celebrate a victory that his knights had not so much snatched from the jaws of defeat, as reached down the throat of annihilation, dragged back out, and resuscitated. Badly mauled, the French army had drawn off to lick its wounds and, for the moment at least, Drincourt was safe, even if the neighbouring county of Eu was a stripped and pillaged wasteland.
William sat in a place of honour at the high table with the senior knights who fêted him for his prowess in his first engagement. Although exhausted, he rallied beneath their camaraderie and praise. The squabs in wine sauce and the fragrant, steaming frumenty and apples seethed in almond milk went some way to reviving his strength, as did the sweet, potent ice-wine with which they plied him. His wounds were mostly superficial. De Tancarville’s chirurgeon had washed and stitched the deeper one to his shoulder and dressed it with a soft linen bandage. It was sharply sore; he was going to have the memento of a scar, but there was no lasting damage. His hauberk was already in the armoury having the links repaired and his gambeson had gone to the keep women to be patched and refurbished. Men kept telling him how fortunate he was. He supposed that it must be so, for some of the company had left their lives upon the battlefield and he had only lost his horse and the virginity of his inexperience. It didn’t feel like luck though when someone inadvertently slapped him heartily on his injured shoulder in commendation.
William de Mandeville, the young Earl of Essex, raised his cup high in toast, his dark eyes sparkling. “Holà, Marshal, give to me a gift for the sake of our friendship!” he cried so that all those on the high table could hear.
William’s head was buzzing with weariness and elation but he knew he wasn’t drunk and he had no idea why de Mandeville was grinning so broadly around the trestle. Knowing what was expected of him, however, he played along. The bestowing of gifts among peers was always a part of such feasts.
“Willingly, my lord,” he answered with a smile. “What would you have me give to you?”
“Oh, let me see.” De Mandeville made a show of rubbing his jaw and looking round at the other lords, drawing them deeper into his sport. “A crupper would do, or a decorated breast-band. Or a fine bridle perchance?”
Wide-eyed, William spread his hands. “I do not have any such items,” he said. “Everything that I own—even the clothes on my back—are mine by the great charity of my lord Tancarville.” He inclined his head to the latter who acknowledged the gesture with a sweep of his goblet and a suppressed belch.
“But I saw you gain them today, before my very eyes,” de Mandeville japed. “More than a dozen you must have had, yet you refuse me even one.”
William continued to stare in bewilderment while a collective chuckle rumbled along the dais and grew in volume at William’s expression.
“What I am saying,” de Mandeville explained, between guffaws, “is that if you had bothered to claim ransoms from the knights you disabled and downed—even a few of them—you would be a rich man tonight instead of an impoverished one. Now do you understand?”
A fresh wave of belly laughter surged at William’s expense, washing him in chagrin, but he was accustomed to being the butt of jests and knew that the worst thing he could do was sulk in a corner or lash out. The ribbing was well meant and behind it, there was warning and good advice. “You are right, my lord,” he agreed with de Mandeville. The shrug he gave made him wince and brought a softer burst of laughter. “I didn’t think. Next time I will be more heedful. I promise you will receive your harness yet.”
“Hah!” retorted the Earl of Essex. “You’ve to get yourself a new horse first, and they don’t come cheaply.”
On retiring to his pallet that night, William lay awake for some time despite his weariness. His mind as well as his body felt bludgeoned. The images of the day returned to him in vivid flashes: some, like his desperate fight with the Flemish footsoldiers, repeating over and over again; others no more than a swift dazzle like sharp sun on water, there and gone. And through it all, running like a thread woven into a tapestry was de Mandeville’s jest that wasn’t a jest at all, but hard truth. Fight for your lord, fight for his honour, but never forget that you were fighting for yourself too.
Two
The cloak that William had received at his knighting was of Flemish weave, felted and thrice-dyed in woad to deepen the blue, and edged with sable. The garment was designed to cover the wearer from throat to ankle in a splendid semi-circular sweep of fabric. Brushing his palm over the expertly napped cloth, William’s heart was heavy with reluctance, regret, and shame.
“I will give you fifteen shillings for it,” the clothes-trader said, rubbing his forefinger under his nose and assessing William with crafty eyes.
“It’s worth twice that!” William protested.
“Keep it then, messire.” The trader shrugged. “I’ve a wife and five children to feed. I cannot afford to give charity.”
William rubbed the back of his neck. He had no choice but to sell his cloak because he needed the money to buy another horse. The Sire de Tancarville had shown no inclination to replace the chestnut. A lord’s largesse towards his retainers only went so far and it was up to the individual knight to account for the rest. William was not at fault for losing a valuable warhorse in battle; his blame lay in his omission to recoup that loss from the men he had defeated. His problem was compounded by the fact that the Kings of England and France had made peace and Lord Guillaume no longer needed so many knights in his retinue—especially inexperienced ones lacking funds and equipment.
“Being as it’s never been worn, and it’s a fine garment, I’ll give you eighteen,” the merchant relented.
William’s gaze was steel. “No less than twenty-five.”
“Then find another buyer. Twenty-two, and that’s my final offer. I’m robbing myself blind at that.” The trader folded his arms, and William realised that this was the sticking point. For a moment he nearly walked away, but his need was too great and although the taste was bitter, he swallowed his pride and agreed to the terms.
Leaving the stall he hefted the pouch of silver. Twenty-two Angevin shillings was nowhere near enough to buy a warhorse. It might just pay for his passage home across the Narrow Sea with his light palfrey and pack beast, but arriving at his family’s door in such a penurious state would be tantamount to holding out a begging bowl. It would have been difficult enough were his father still alive, but now that William’s older brother John had inherited the Marshal lands, he would rather starve than receive his grudging charity.
Forced to a grim decision, he used the coin to buy a solid riding horse from a serjeant’s widow whose husband had been killed in the fight for Drincourt. It was a decent beast, well schooled and, although a trifle long in the tooth, had plenty of riding left in it—but it wasn’t a destrier.
Having stabled the beast, he visited the kitchens and availed himself of bread, cheese, and a pitcher of cider, hoping that the latter would wash away the sour taste of what he had just been forced to do. The cloak was the thin end of the wedge. Next it would be his silk surcoat and his gilded swordbelt. He could see himself trading down and down until he stood in the leather gear of a common footsoldier or became his brother’s hearth knight, undertaking petty duties, living out his days in ennui, and growing paunchy and dull-witted.
The cook tossed a handful of chopped herbs into a simmering cauldron, stirred vigorously, and glanced round at William. “I thought you’d be in the hall,” he remarked.
“Why?” William took a gulp of the strong, apple-scented cider.
“Ah, you haven’t heard about the tourney then.” The cook’s eyes gleamed with the relish of the informed in the presence of the ignorant.
William’s expression sharpened. “What tourney?”
“The one that’s being held in two weeks’ time on the field between Sainte Jamme and Valennes. The herald rode in an hour since with the news. Lord Guillaume’s been invited to take part.” He pointed his dripping spoon at William. “It’ll be a fine opportunity to build on your prowess.”
