Ralph Farci was a drunkard and a glutton, hence his name, which meant “stuffed.” He looked as if he had a cushion up his tunic which he frequently wore unbelted to give himself more belly room. Despite his size, he was nimble enough on his feet and had a quick eye and hand—useful for sword fighting, but even more so for dice and games of chance where the rumour was that he cheated. He was in a jovial mood for his hawk had made several kills during the hunt, and his dogs had helped course down a hare. The dinner had been excellent, the wine plentiful, and his favourite court whore had promised him a soft bed for the night. He had lost at dice with the Young King, but that had been deliberate and he wasn’t too much out of purse. The pay-off was a place basking in the warmth of the Young King’s favour.
Caressing the whore who was sitting in his lap, he nodded genially to Adam Yqueboeuf and Thomas de Coulances as they joined him.
“Fine hunt today,” said Yqueboeuf. “Your falcon flew particularly well, I thought.”
“She did, didn’t she?” Farci pushed the woman off his knee and waved her away. She could easily wait on a discussion about the prowess of his falcon with knights whose approval he sought.
The talk and the wine flowed easily as the men dissected the day’s sport and Farci found himself being courted as if he were of great importance, which left him flattered and a little bewildered. Usually he had to do the chasing.
“Of course,” Yqueboeuf said, leaning towards Farci and lowering his voice, “there was another kind of hunt in full cry too, and less noble than the one we were engaged in.”
Farci frowned at them. “There was?”
Yqueboeuf glanced around and further dropped his voice. “Where do you think the Queen went when we stopped to dine?”
Farci shrugged. “I don’t know; for a piss in the bushes. I didn’t notice.”
“You didn’t notice, because for most of the time she wasn’t there…and neither was William Marshal.”
“Ah.” Farci’s interest kindled. He had no love for Marshal and was deeply envious of the way the man could eat everything on the table without an ounce of it showing on his hard, athletic frame. The Young King appeared to think that the sun shone out of Marshal’s arse, which was another reason to feel antipathy.
“They were trysting in the woods.”
Farci looked from Yqueboeuf to de Coulances. “You jest, surely.”
Yqueboeuf snapped his fingers at an attendant and demanded a fresh pitcher of wine. “Did you not see the Young Queen returning to the picnic all flustered and flushed as if she’d been well tupped, and then the Marshal strolling back on the same path a few minutes later?”
Farci chewed his underlip. “Now you mention it, the Queen did seem unsettled during the afternoon. She put me in mind of a doe who knows she is being stalked but cannot see the hunter.”
“Believe me, she has already been chased and caught and split with a spear,” Yqueboeuf said crudely.
“You know this for certain?”
Yqueboeuf nodded and exchanged glances with de Coulances. “There are witnesses.”
Farci expanded his chest in indignation. “God’s bones, if what you say is true, Marshal and the Young Queen have committed treason!” The attendant returned with a brimming pitcher and Farci immediately helped himself to another goblet of wine.
“It is true,” Yqueboeuf said, “but if Thomas or I tried to tell the Young King of our doubts, he would not believe us. He knows that we are hostile to Marshal and he would suspect our motives.”
“But you can’t let the Young King be cuckolded like this,” Farci spluttered. “What if she should get with child?”
Yqueboeuf poured wine for himself and de Coulances. “Indeed, and if someone that the Young King trusted to be more impartial should broach the matter to him, he might be prepared to listen and do something about it.”
Farci drank, realised the other two were watching him as intently as a pair of cats at a mousehole, and almost spluttered his mouthful back out. “Me!” he choked. “You want me to tell the Young King that William Marshal has put the horns on him!”
Yqueboeuf leaned forward, his gaze glittering with intent. “For the good of us all, the Marshal must be dragged off his pedestal and shown for the base knave that he is. This shameful state of affairs cannot be allowed to continue.”
“But why should the Young King believe me?” Farci asked in bewilderment. “Marshal is his favourite. Henry’s not going to take my word over his.” He wondered what he was getting into. He didn’t like William Marshal, but he didn’t want to end up in disgrace for making adverse comments to the Young King about his favourite—unless he could be certain that those comments would topple the knight.
“He would have to if you had others to confirm your story, and he trusts you. There are many knights of the company who will agree with you once the words have been said. The only men who will stand for Marshal are the likes of de Béthune and the de Preaux brothers, and they will be voices in the wilderness. Myself and Thomas will make sure of that.” Yqueboeuf folded his arms, making the gesture one of finality. “Henry needs to be told by someone to whom he will listen. Of course, if you would rather not and let us be ruled by an English scab-wit and his friends, that’s up to you…”
Farci shook his head and swallowed. “No…no, leave it with me,” he said. “I will talk to our lord and see that he knows.”
His belly roiling with wine and shock, Henry curtly dismissed the guards and squires outside his wife’s apartment. He couldn’t believe what he had just been told, but Ralph Farci was a solid, indolent blockhead, without that kind of imagination. It couldn’t be true; yet remembering William’s courtliness toward Marguerite and the way that her silks were as often tied to William’s banner on the tourney field as his own, he was assailed by doubt. A few years ago, Philip of Flanders had executed one of his mesnie for dallying with his wife. It happened, it happened frequently, but Henry had never believed that it would happen to him. He was too sure of his own worth and to have it attacked from this direction was a shock…if, of course, it was true.
Marguerite’s maids curtseyed to him as he gestured them out with a swift jerk of his head. The women left with apprehensive looks over their shoulders, especially his wife’s favourite maid, Nicolette. He almost bade the woman remain, and then changed his mind. She might know more than he wanted to hear.
Marguerite came to him and he wondered if what he saw on her face was natural anxiety at having her husband burst in on her so late at night, or the more damning traces of guilt and fear. The women had been brushing her hair and it fell in a bright brown skein to her waist. It was her best feature, that and her white, full breasts, tipped by large rosy nipples. She was wearing her bedrobe, and beneath it a chemise of delicate linen. He wondered how often William Marshal had been a party to that sight? How many times had he unfastened the tie of her bedrobe, pulled open the throat lacing of her chemise and availed himself of those white, pillowy breasts? Had he laid her on the bed and mounted her? Had she spread her legs for him and taken his seed? Henry had to swallow a retch.
