Harry blinked and looked at him with the expression if not the wisdom of an owl. “Sir?”
William shook his head. “Go to. Seek your pallet for a few hours if you can. I have no doubt that we’ll be called to attend on the Young King the moment he wakes.” He slapped Harry on the shoulder and, smiling, watched him shamble off towards his pallet in a corner of the downstairs room. The knight always reminded him of one of the tenacious little terriers that delighted in shoving their heads down fox dens and badger sets and clearing out infestations of rats in barns, often at the risk of being bitten themselves. He wondered how long it would be before one of his detractors referred to Harry as his lap dog.
On heavy legs he mounted the stairs to the bedchamber, set his hand to the latch and shouldered open the door. Although outside a red autumn sun was rising out of the banks of the night, the shutters were still latched and the room was dark and imbued with the lingering smell of snuffed candles. With foreboding but no surprise, William went to the windows, unfastened the boards, and let in the morning. The light from the open window cascaded on to the bed, brightening the colours on the striped coverlet, picking out the lozenges woven into the woollen hangings. It was neatly made and the pillows so plumped and smoothed that not a hint remained that anyone had ever slept there. Clara’s travelling chest was gone from its corner, and with it the enamelled box he had given her to hold her combs and brooches. He knew that she must have waited those few hours of his asking, for the brazier was still warm and there was a feel of recent occupancy, but she had not given him the leeway of more time. Why should she? What would they have said anyway? It was over.
William unlatched his belt and dropped it on the floor. With fumbling hands, he stripped to his shirt and braies and, groaning softly, flopped on to the bed. Upon the pillow, a single fine, dark hair pointed up his loss. Pinching it between finger and thumb, he held it up to the light and then scattered it free. He supposed that she was right. He cared, he cared deeply, but not enough to abandon his post at court and chase after her to Le Mans to try and win her back. He turned on his side, drew up his knees, and slept.
Seventeen
The French court had gone hunting in the woods and pastures to the north of Paris. It was a crisp autumn day, the turning leaves an illuminator’s scrollwork of bronze and verdigris against a sky of enamelled blue. Men and women had brought their hawks to fly at game and their dogs to flush the quarry from cover. Henry had a pair of silver greyhounds, fleet and dainty. On his wrist perched a peregrine falcon, its head covered by a close-fitting embroidered hood. Thus far there had been no word from his father, but Henry was not allowing it to spoil the day’s sport.
William had never been enthusiastic about hunting. The best practice for war was the tourney field. Hunting might help to develop stamina and ability on horseback, but the skills weren’t always of the kind needed to control a destrier in close-in fighting whilst wielding lance and sword. He enjoyed watching the hawks soar and plummet on their prey and he admired the skills of the falconers, but he did not have the same passion for the sport as Henry, Baldwin, and Marguerite. Her excited laughter rang out as she launched her peregrine to climb high above the fields of gleaned stubble. The wind had flushed colour into her cheeks and her brown eyes glowed. She rode her palfrey astride, as Queen Eleanor had been wont to do…and Clara too, her riding boots clipped with stylish silver spurs. Watching Marguerite, William was struck by a poignant sensation of loss. He could go for days on end without thinking about his former lover, but then something would prompt a memory and her ghost would be waiting for him, as once he had found her waiting in his tent.
Shortly after noon, the court stopped beside a stream to enjoy a leisurely picnic, which, besides the hunting, was half the reason for the venture. The hawks were secured to bow perches a little removed from the gathering so that the noise from the company would not disturb them. Cooks and kitchen boys who had been sent on ahead of the hunt laboured over fìrepits filled with a mixture of charcoal and firewood. There were cauldrons of simmering venison stew to greet the ravenous party, wheaten loaves, salmon baked in pastry, small tarts of chopped chicken and raisins, and apples and brambles stewed in honey. The kennel-keepers and grooms leashed the dogs, tethered the horses to graze, and sat around their own fire. Nearby the huntsmen sorted the morning’s kills, neatly tying and bagging.
William took some bread and a bowl of stew and wandered down the stream a way. Usually he would have stayed with the company and sought the banter as a way of banishing unquiet memories, but the loud talk of the hunt was wearisome and suddenly he desired respite.
Shortly he arrived at a grassy bank that was obviously someone’s fishing place, for it had been weeded of bramble and nettle and the turf was cropped short. William spread his cloak and sat down to eat. He could still hear the laughter and conversation of the hunting party but it was muted and the distance made it a comfort rather than an irritant. The sun was warm on his back and he was almost content. Having finished the stew he crouched at the side of the stream to rinse his bowl and spoon in the water. When he turned and rose, he found Marguerite and her maid standing behind him. The Queen’s pet dog was with her: an exuberant brown and white spaniel with floppy ears and a panting pink tongue. It hurtled past William into the stream where it paddled round in the shallow current with huge delight before emerging and shaking itself vigorously, causing the humans to leap hastily aside. Panting, suddenly intent, the dog put its nose to the ground and set off along the river path. William picked up his cloak and followed; so did Marguerite, her hands gathering her trailing woollen skirts above the moist grass and her gown spotted with water from her dog’s coat.
“I haven’t spoken to you in a long while,” she said, “at least not in the proper way that old friends should talk.”
“Madam, there are some at court who would call all ways ‘improper,’” William said, his tone filled with warning.
A look of irritation crossed her face. “And we know who they are and what their opinions are worth. I will walk where I will and talk to whom I wish. I am not a child; I am England’s future Queen and the sister of the King of France.” She jutted her jaw.
“Indeed, madam, but it is dangerous nevertheless.”
Her lips pursed with impatience. “Oh William! Stop using your courtier’s voice and look at me without your mask.”
William blinked at the sharpness of her tone. “If I wear a mask it is the same as the face beneath. How would you have me speak and behave?”
“As if I am your friend and not a stranger to whom you have to be polite.” Marguerite took his arm and shook it gently. “Alone or in company, people will see what they want to see, I weary of the lot of them.” She breathed out hard and stopped to face him, her gaze steady and forthright and her hand still determinedly on his sleeve. “Do you remember when you played with us in Queen Eleanor’s gardens in Poitou? Myself and the Queen’s daughters?”
“Hoodman blind, if I recall.” William’s voice scraped over his larynx.
“You let me catch you. You always swore that you didn’t, but I know that you did. You could have evaded us all every time.”
He shrugged. “But then I wouldn’t have been invited so often into the Queen’s garden.”
“No.” Her smile was wistful. “I always thought that you enjoyed playing with us; it never occurred to me that you were doing it for your own purpose.”
“Ambition and pleasure are not always mutually exclusive. Besides, it wasn’t so much ambition as a case of being besotted with Queen Eleanor.”
“And are you still besotted?”
“Of course I am. She never lets you go.” He gave a pained smile. “Clara looked a little like her; she had a similar grace. I suppose that was half of what attracted me in the first place—that and the fact that she saved my life.”
“Oh, William.” Impulsively, Marguerite took his hand, stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
The spaniel suddenly began to growl, and then to bark, its legs stiff, and its ears cocked in the direction of the woods beyond the grass bank. Marguerite’s eyes widened with fear. The maid moved swiftly to her side and William dropped the bowl and spoon and drew the long hunting knife at his belt. Nothing moved except the wind-rustled grasses. The breeze was blowing towards them, carrying scents to the dog’s sensitive nose.
“Madam, I think you should return to the main party before you are sought,” William said, “and it is probably for the best if I follow at a distance.”
Her eyes widened. “You think we were being spied on?”
“I am certain of it.” He sheathed the knife with deliberate care, forcing control upon himself. It was pointless to go in search of whoever had been watching them. The dog’s barking would have alerted them to the danger of being discovered, even as it had alerted William and Marguerite. “Go, madam,” he said. “And say nothing. You have nothing to be reproached for, unless comforting a friend’s grief is wrong.” He bent her an eloquent look to which she responded with a stiff nod. Pale, but resolute, she clapped her hands to the dog and turned back towards the picnic, her maid close by her side. He watched the women from sight then stooped to pick up his bowl and spoon, his expression sombre. He hoped that it would blow over like a storm cloud on a windy day, but acknowledged that he had given the court gossips all the ammunition they needed to cast him down.
Eighteen
