“Gossip can destroy even the cleanest reputation,” Ancel pointed out.
William made an explosive sound through his pursed lips. “What else am I supposed to do? Everyone, including Marguerite and Henry, knows that I have a mistress and no desire to chase other women.”
Ancel shrugged. “It’s just wise to take care,” he said and then gave a rueful smile. “I know I’m teaching my grandmother to suck eggs.”
William looked wry. “And who’s to say you’re not right? I’ll think on the matter and take heed.” Slapping Ancel’s shoulder, he went to don his armour.
Although William did not dismiss the jealous mutterings of Adam Yqueboeuf and Thomas de Coulances, he set them to the back of his mind. He had more immediate matters to concern him than their petty scheming. Rhys brought William’s new stallion round from the horse lines to his tent. Blancart had grown too long in the tooth for the tourneys and Count Philip of Flanders had bought him from William to run him at stud on one of his farms. Blancart’s replacement was a Lombardy stallion with a hide of ruby-gold satin and flaxen mane and tail. Wigain had remarked that his coat resembled the gold bezants brought home by returning crusaders and thus the stallion had come by his name.
“He’s been warmed,” Rhys said cheerfully. “Put him through his paces myself. Sweet as a nut.”
William nodded his thanks, swung into the saddle, and rode to join the English knights who were assembling under his banner ready for the day’s sport. He was pleased to note that every man had taken extra care with his appearance. Harry Norreis, William’s herald, had plaited his horse’s mane with green and yellow ribbons and his bridle jingled with small silver bells. “He looks like a jongleur’s beast,” William said with an amused shake of his head. “And you look like a travelling player.”
“All the better to sing your praises!” As irrepressible as his shock of bright auburn hair, Norreis drew his sword and twirled it in the air like a juggler before revolving it back into the scabbard. Suppressing his laughter, William turned to find a page from Queen Marguerite’s household waiting his attention.
“Sir William, the Queen requests that you carry her favour on the field to bring you good fortune,” he piped and presented William with a red silk strip to tie around his lance.
William had to accept the gift. To have refused would have caused hurt, insult, and more speculation. Taking it would usually have meant nothing, but with the bad taste of rumour still in his mouth, he wondered if others would misconstrue what they saw. “Tell the Queen that I thank her and I am proud to bear her token.” He tied the gaudy flutter of silk to the end of his lance. The page bowed and ran off as the Young King arrived at the head of the two hundred Norman and Angevin knights he had employed for the occasion. The serried ranks of red and gold were a magnificent, throat-catching sight. Henry’s surcoat was blood-red silk and two lions snarled across his breast in glittering thread of gold with jet beads for eyes and rock crystal claws. His swordbelt was decorated with enamelled lions, and his horse harness bore more of the lion badges across the brow-band, chest strap, and at each buckle point. William was relieved to see an identical strip of silk to the one just bestowed on him fluttering from the haft of Henry’s lance. At least Marguerite had had the good sense to gift her husband similarly. Beyond the knights wearing the red and gold of Anjou were others in disparate hues whom he had attracted to his side at the last moment, and some smaller contingents, like William’s, who carried their own flags on the field but were fighting under Henry’s banner.
“Ready to take all comers with your doughty Englishmen, Marshal?” Henry teased. There was mockery about the way he said “doughty Englishmen,” for the latter were perceived as being less civilised than their Norman and Angevin counterparts—drunken clods with only half a wit to share between all of them. Such prejudices gave the English a gritty, brawling edge when it came to a fight for they were ready with a vengeance to prove their true worth.
“Never more so, sire.” William gave Henry an assured smile. In the ranks behind the Young King, his gaze fell upon the partnership of Adam Yqueboeuf and Thomas de Coulances. The latter gestured obscenely at William, who ignored the provocation, knowing that his indifference was more galling than a response. The English, appropriately enough, had a word for men such as Yqueboeuf and Coulances:nithing. It was what he called them in private. “The nithings.”
Other entourages were riding on to the tourney ground. The Flemish under Philip, Count of Flanders and his brother Matthew of Boulogne, the men of Burgundy following their Duke, the Earl of Huntingdon with his Scots, the French in vast numbers, parading to honour their new Young King. It was a brave and daunting sight and made William’s stomach wallow with anticipation while pride tightened his throat. Henry must have felt it too, for there was a sparkle of tears in his eyes as he paused before taking his great helm from his squire and settling it over his arming cap. “There will never be a greater moment than this in all our days of tourneying,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “Never.”
A greater moment there might never be, but the fight was hard and bruising and there were so many knights involved that it was often more like a real battle than one played by tourney rules. The noise was deafening and at times there was scarcely room to manoeuvre the destriers. When there was space to charge, men and horses were so strung up that the clashes were thunderous. Lances splintered into myriad shards; knights were thrown; destriers fell—and some horses and men did not rise again. The vine fields over which the companies ranged were trampled and churned. Battle cries and rallying cries rang out. Harry Norreis was as good as his word and bellowed William’s name for all to hear at the top of his lungs. “God is with the Marshal!” he roared, twirling his lance, while the bells on his bridle rang and rang.
The field was a wheeling, changing tapestry of movement and at one point William and his troop became separated from Henry by a conroi of Flemings. Cursing, William hacked a path through them and was in time to see his lord’s bodyguards, including Yqueboeuf and the de Coulances brothers, haring off in pursuit of some richly caparisoned French knights, whilst Henry, oblivious with battle fire, launched himself into a group of Burgundians with only a handful of knights to back him up. William saw Henry’s lance shatter like glass on an opponent’s shield, the pieces flying far and wide. His opponent rocked in the saddle but did not fall and his companions closed in on the Young King, seizing his bridle, attempting to bring him down off his horse.
William spurred into the fray and Norreis’s cry rang out. “The Marshal, the Marshal! God is with the Marshal!” Laying about with his sword, William battered his way to Henry’s side. The young man had lost his helm and arming cap and his hair stuck up in spiky brown tufts around his flushed face. His arm rose and fell and his teeth were gritted with determination: he was not going to be taken for ransom at such a prestigious tourney with all his peers looking on. However, the Burgundians were loath to relinquish their prize and without control of his horse, Henry was still theirs. William reached out, laid hands to the brow-band of Henry’s destrier and pulled. The stallion struggled and plunged. The Burgundians battered at William, but he held on grimly, aided in his endeavour by Ancel who had galloped up on his right. William managed to peel the bridle off the destrier’s head, leaving the opposing knights with nothing to grasp. Henry had nothing to grasp either, except a handful of mane, but that was enough and he was able to kick his destrier out of the fray.
“Ware!” Ancel roared, pointing towards a band of Flemish knights who had seen Henry’s predicament and were galloping to take advantage. Cursing, William leaned to grab a fallen lance and charged to intercept their leader. Giving Bezant an extra dig in the flank, he ran the lance on to the knight’s shield and felt the impact shudder up his arm. The shock flung Bezant back on his haunches, sturdy though he was, and the overstrained length of ash splintered and broke, leaving William clutching a stump. For a terrifying instant William thought that Bezant was going over, but with a tremendous heave, the destrier recovered his legs and William drew his sword, hoping that he had bought Henry time to escape to one of the sanctuary points. Parrying his opponent’s determined blows, it was all William could do to avoid being captured himself and it was with a great surge of relief that he heard Harry Norreis shouting the Marshal rallying cry. From some desperate corner of himself, he found the breath to roar an answer. Ancel blocked a blow that would have struck William side on, and Baldwin de Béthune appeared, his surcoat torn and muddy. William renewed his efforts, and his adversary drew off rather than risk being taken for ransom. As the opposition withdrew, William leaned over his saddle bow and gulped breath into his starving lungs. Eyes stinging with sweat, he studied the field through the slits in his helm and was furious to see a blurred cluster of red and gold at one of the respite enclosures.
He spurred Bezant towards them. Arriving at the enclosure, he removed his helm and thrust it at a royal squire. “Good of you to rejoin us, gentlemen,” he snarled at the knot of Norman knights, which included Yqueboeuf and de Coulances. “Where were you when your lord was within a gnat’s cock of being taken for ransom? A gang of peasant brats has more discipline and control!”
Yqueboeuf strode up to William’s destrier, his complexion dusky with exertion and temper. “As far as we knew, you and your mighty band of English lackwits were at our lord’s heels. It is not our fault that you were not up to the task.”
William flung down from the saddle and seized Yqueboeuf by the throat. “You dare speak thus to me when you lack the competence of a swineherd!”
Yqueboeuf wrenched William’s hand away and pushed him, his eyes blazing. “You treat our lord as if he’s a babe in need of a wet nurse when he is a skilled fighter in his own right. At least we took some ransoms for our lord’s coffers. Your only concern is to promote your own glory. ‘The Marshal, the Marshal, God is with the Marshal!’ Hah!” Yqueboeuf spat at William’s feet then turned in appeal towards Henry, who had been intently watching the exchange. “Did we do wrong, sire?”
Henry frowned. “No,” he said. “It happened in the heat of the moment and as you say, Adam, you took some useful ransoms. I value you both, and I will not have you shame me by quarrelling in public. That too is a slur on my dignity. Let it go. There is still half a day’s tourneying left and I want the prize. Clasp hands and set your differences aside.”
William swallowed bile. The heat of the wine in his belly had gone from flame to ashes. He was furious, but with himself more than anyone else. He had allowed Yqueboeuf to strike under his guard, which was precisely what his rival had intended. Tightening his jaw, he held out his hand. At least Henry had not asked them to apologise to each other, only to set their differences aside. With bad grace, Yqueboeuf grasped William’s hand, gave it a squeeze that deliberately crushed William’s fingers together, and then abruptly withdrew.
Satisfied, Henry gave a terse nod and lifted his voice. “Anyone who needs a fresh horse or sustenance, attend to it now. We ride on the moment!”
The enclosure became a surge of knights hastily obeying Henry’s bidding. William checked Bezant’s legs, but they were sound apart from a minor graze to the left fore. Indeed, William thought, he was probably in a worse case than his mount. Somewhere out on the field was the shattered stump of a lance with Queen Marguerite’s ribbon attached to it, but he wasn’t about to go and search for it. Collecting a fresh one from his squire and setting his mind to the business in hand, he lined up behind Henry, who had changed his own winded mount for a spirited Spanish roan.
“Stay with me if you can, wet nurse!” Henry shouted, and clapped spurs to his mount’s flanks.
Pushing Bezant after his lord, William began to wonder if he was getting too old for this.
***
The tourney lasted for three days and on the last night, Henry held a feast in his hall for the knights and lords who had fought on his side. There were prizes given out to those deemed the best. Harry Norreis was presented with a silver trumpet in token of being the knight with the loudest voice. William le Gras was given a silver-headed spear for breaking the most lances in the tourney and Thomas de Coulances was awarded a fine silver goblet for being the most drunk. Yqueboeuf too was given a drinking vessel—a gold-rimmed mazer. “It’s a loving cup,” Henry said with a wave of his hand and a gleam in his eye. “Because your nature overflows with the milk of human kindness.” Yqueboeuf thanked Henry with a bow and a forced smile. For William there was a silver-gilt aquamanile in the form of a knight on horseback, and for Ancel a cloak lined with squirrel fur with a clasp of gold and amethysts.
Ancel beamed at William. “What would our brother John say about all this?” he asked.
