A spark of anticipation blazed up and died in William’s breast. “I don’t have a destrier,” he said morosely. “I can’t ride into a tourney on a common hack.”
“Ah.” The cook scratched his head. “That’s a pity, but surely my lord Tancarville will give you a warhorse for the occasion at least. He’s taking as many knights as he can muster. Why don’t you ask him?”
The spark rekindled, making William feel queasy. If he did ask and was refused, he would have no option but to return to England, his tail between his legs. To ask at all was humiliating, but he had little alternative. Besides, his pride had already taken a fall; it couldn’t sink much lower. Gulping down the cider and leaving the food, he hurried to the hall.
The news of the tournament had created a festive atmosphere. William stood on its periphery, his emotions finely balanced between hope and despair. Going to his sleeping space, he sat on his pallet and began checking over his equipment: his mended mail shirt, his neatly patched gambeson, his shield and spear and sword. The squires sped hither and yon on errands for the knights as if their legs were on fire.
Men came up to him, slapped his back, and spoke excitedly of the tourney. William laughed, nodded, and worked at concealing his anxiety. Buffing his helmet with a soft cloth, he wondered if he should have spent the coin from the sale of his cloak on a passage home instead of a horse. His mother would be overjoyed to see him, and perhaps his sisters, but he harboured doubts about his brother John. The latter had been furious that William and not he had been chosen to go for training to Normandy. Instead John had remained at Hamstead, his likely fate that of service to their two older brothers, Walter and Gilbert, from their father’s first marriage. As it happened, Walter and Gilbert had both died, leaving John to inherit the Marshal lands, but that did not mean John would forget old jealousies and resentments.
Their younger brother Henry would not be at Hamstead as he was training for the priesthood and like William was expected to have fledged the nest for good. Ancel, the youngest, a wiry, freckled nine-year-old when William had last seen him, would be of squiring age now, although his training would probably be at John’s hands, God help him.
William polished his helm until it glittered like a woman’s hand mirror. He didn’t want to return to his kin in an impoverished state, but he very much desired to see them, even John. And he wanted to pay his respects to his father whose funeral mass he had been too far away to attend.
“You look troubled, William.”
He raised his head and found Guillaume de Tancarville standing over him, hands at his hips and amusement crinkling his eye corners. He was sensitive about his receding hairline and concealed it with a brightly coloured cap pulled low at the brow and banded with small gemstones.
William scrambled to his feet. “No, my lord, just deep in thought.”
“And what does a lad of your age have to think deeply about, hmm?”
William glanced down at his reflection, distorted in the polished steel of his helm. “I was wondering if I should return to my family in England,” he said.
“A man should always keep his family in his thoughts and prayers,” de Tancarville replied, “but I expected your mind to be on the tournament. Everyone else’s is.” He smiled and gestured around the bustling hall.
“Yes, my lord, but they have the equipment to take part, and I do not.” He made himself hold the Chamberlain’s gaze.
“Ah.” De Tancarville stroked his chin.
William said nothing. He wasn’t going to tell his lord that he had been forced to sell his knighting cloak in order to buy a common rouncy.
De Tancarville allowed the moment to stretch beyond comfort and then released the tension with a sardonic smile. “You displayed great courage and prowess at the fight for Drincourt, even if you were a rash young fool into the bargain. You’ll be a fine asset to my tourney team. I’ve arranged for a horse-coper to bring some destriers to the tourney field on the morrow. You weren’t the only knight to lose his mount in the battle. Since you’ve been taught a lesson, I’ll replace your stallion this time. The rest is up to you. If you capture other knights and take ransoms, you’ll be able to redeem your finances. If you fail…” De Tancarville shrugged and let the end of the sentence hang. He didn’t need to put it into words.
“Thank you, my lord!” William’s eyes were suddenly as bright as his helm. “I’ll prove myself worthy, I swear I will!”
De Tancarville grinned. “You’re a good boy, William,” he said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Let us hope that one day you’ll make an even finer man.”
William managed not to wince despite the lingering tenderness from his wound. It was a small price to pay; everything was suddenly a small price to pay. He would show de Tancarville that he was a man, not a boy, and capable of standing on his own two feet.
William eyed the stallion that two grooms were holding at the de Tancarville horse lines. Its hide was the colour of new milk, its mane and tail a silver cascade. Spanish blood showed in the profile of its head, the neat ears, the strong curved neck, deep chest, and powerful rump. It should have been the first to be chosen, not the only one left. William had been busy erecting his pavilion and whether out of spite, oversight, or heavy-handed jesting, no one had told him that the horse-coper had arrived and that the new destriers were being apportioned to their owners.
“We left you a fine horse, Marshal!” shouted Adam Yqueboeuf, a belligerent, stoutly set young knight who disliked William and baited him at every opportunity. “Only the best for our lord’s favourite relative!”
Pretending indifference to Yqueboeuf’s taunt, William approached the stallion and saw from the sweat caking the line of the saddle cloth and breast-band that the others had probably had their turn at it. Like a new whore in a brothel, he thought. Used and overused on the first night until of no use at all to the last man in line. In dismay he took in the laid-back ears; the tension in the loins; the way the grooms were holding tight to the restraining ropes.
“He’s wild, sir,” one of them warned as William approached side-on to the horse’s head so that it could see him. Its hide shivered and twitched like the surface of a pool in the rain. He reached out to pat the damp, gleaming neck and for a while quietly soothed the stallion, letting it drink his scent and grow accustomed to his presence.
“Wild?” he questioned the groom in a soft voice. “In what way?”
“He’s a puller, sir—bad mouth. No one’s been able to manage him.”
“Ah.” William glanced at his jeering audience and continued to stroke the destrier’s quivering neck and shoulder. After a time, he set his hand to the saddle bow, placed his foot to the stirrup, and swung astride. Immediately the stallion lashed out and sidled crabwise. “Whoa, softly now, softly,” William crooned and gingerly set his hands to the reins, exerting no pressure. Its ears flickered, and it continued to prink and dance. William applied firm pressure with his heels and the destrier sprang across the ward towards the watching knights. When William drew on the rein to pull him round the stallion fought the bit, plunging, sawing his head, and swishing his tail. The audience scattered amid a welter of curses. William had no time to laugh at them for he was too busy trying to stay astride a dervish. Dropping the reins he grabbed the mane instead, gripped with his thighs, and clung like a limpet. As soon as the pressure on its mouth relaxed, the horse quietened and after a moment, William was able to leap down from its back.
“Let’s see you win a tourney prize with that!” sneered Yqueboeuf from the corner into which he had leaped. Stone dust and cobwebs streaked the shoulder of his tunic.
William’s open smile was belied by the narrowness of his eyes and his swift breathing. “How much would you wager?”
“You’re a pauper, Marshal,” Yqueboeuf scoffed, dusting himself down. “What have you got that I could possibly want?”
