Yqueboeuf started to draw his sword but Baldwin warned him back, and de Coulances was similarly stopped by Peter de Preaux. Young Henry ceased slouching in his chair and sat up, a red flush creeping over the stubble on his throat and mantling his face.
“Sire, I ask you the boon of listening to me,” William said formally. An upward glance was not promising for it showed him that the Young King was scowling ferociously and looking away. His father, however, was leaning forward and stroking his chin. Geoffrey’s expression was neutral, Richard’s curious.
Doggedly, William pressed on. “Rumourmongers have been spreading the vicious lie that I have committed treason against you—you know the matter of which I speak, as you know those who have spread these vile stories. Today, before your lord father, in full view of all men who are able to judge right from wrong, I have come to defend myself. I challenge my accusers to come forward and face me on the field of battle.” His voice rang along the high table, for he was appealing to be judged by his peers. Although he had not been bid to stand, he rose to his feet and fixed Yqueboeuf, Thomas de Coulances, and the newly returned Ralph Farci with a contemptuous stare. “Let three of their number come forward and I will fight each one, on three successive days. Should I fail on any count, then take me to the gibbet and have me hanged and drawn forthwith. I trust in God to prove my innocence.”
Farci’s gaze widened, whilst Yqueboeuf’s narrowed. Thomas de Coulances shot both of them a look filled with apprehension. The Young King said nothing, although the red flush had now reached his scalp. It was left to his father to wave his hand in a gesture of weary dismissal.
“Marshal, you are souring my digestion with your complaint and I want none of it. This is neither the time nor the place.”
“Then if not here before my King and my lord and all my peers, when is the time and place?” William retorted bitterly. “The men who started the rumours against me are present and within listening distance. Why have none of them spoken up to defend their vile whisperings?” He had intended to speak with diplomacy but found it no longer possible. He was known for his implacable good humour but the last few months had worn it threadbare. He raised his right hand and spread it palm facing outwards, towards father and sons, showing the hard, strong span of his fingers. “Take my right hand,” he said hoarsely, “the one that has wielded sword and lance in the loyal service of your family for all of my adult life. Cut off a finger and let the man among my accusers who considers himself the best do battle with me. If he can bring me to defeat, then deal with me as you would any traitor. Otherwise let my name be cleared once and for all of these putrid rumours.”
The King looked at his own hands and his eldest son at the floor. William stared at them, rage and despair scalding through him. “It is plain to see that a lying tongue will brave all that its owner dare not prove,” he said with scathing contempt. “I may be a fool, but I am not blind. You are seeking to be rid of me. Have your desire. There is no point in my remaining if you will not grant me justice in your court. In full hearing of all present, I renounce my service to you. I will seek patronage from men who do not tolerate liars and cowards under their roofs.”
At William’s words, Young Henry clenched the arms of his chair until his knuckles blenched, but still he made no answer. His father slowly raised his head. “So be it,” he said impassively. “You may have a safe conduct as far as Mortagne. All ties are sundered herewith.” He waved William away with the indifference he might bestow on a chance-come supplicant he had never met before. Thomas de Coulances eagerly stepped forward to manhandle William from the dais. William thrust him off with an elbow to the midriff that doubled the knight over in a whoof of exhaled breath. His brother and another knight hastened to his aid and William was pummelled and shoved. Yqueboeuf seized William’s right arm and rammed it behind his back, intent on dislocating or breaking the limb. Baldwin and Peter de Preaux strode into the fray and sundered Yqueboeuf’s grip. A frowning Prince Geoffrey leaned to speak to his father.
The King rose to his feet. “Enough.” His harsh voice cut across the babble in the hall. “William Marshal’s safe conduct begins here at my feet and you will let him go in my peace.”
The knights released William with a final shove that sent him stumbling against one of the trestles. A goblet of wine tipped over and a red stain spread across the napery. William pushed himself upright and straightened his tunic. His heart was hammering against his ribs and a mist blurred his vision. He wanted to lash out, to sweep his hand along the board and see the cups and platters, the loaves and sauce dishes fly in all directions. To use his fists and smash the smug expressions from the faces of the men who thought they had won. It took every iota of his control but he managed to check himself and walk away from the temptation, the sounds of the hall echoing in his ears. The mist across his vision became moisture and seeped over his lids.
The guards stood aside to let him pass and then crossed their spears behind him. There was bile in William’s throat. He swallowed and swallowed, but it was no use. In the end, he gave up the struggle and, leaning against the pale grey stone, retched up the wine he had drunk. There was nothing else in his stomach but the hollow sensation of shame and failure and loss.
His gut aching, he straightened up and walked unsteadily towards the stables. Wigain came running after him, clutching the writ of safe conduct, the ink still wet and the sealing wax still warm. “It is a shame, a vile shame!” he said furiously as William signalled Rhys to saddle his horse.
William shook his head. “It is more than that,” he replied, then compressed his lips so that he would not say more.
“King Henry is angry with you for making all those demands on our young lord’s behalf.”
“What demands?” William asked blankly.
“When our lord desired to have Normandy for his own rule and you said that he should milk his father for as much as he could obtain. The King blames you for what he lost from his coffers in order to pacify his son.”
“I was trying to avert another war of the kind that almost brought the house of Anjou to its knees last time,” William snapped. “I shouldn’t have bothered; I should have let them tear each other limb from limb.”
Wigain lifted his shoulders. “As far as the King is concerned, you are the one who helps Henry spend beyond his means and waste his time at the tourneys. He thinks that you have grown too great and proud and you need a lesson in humility.”
William thought he had control of himself, but something must have shown in his face for Wigain took several steps back and licked his lips. “I am only telling you what I have heard. Do you think I am your enemy too?”
William released his breath on a hard sigh. “No, Wigain, I don’t, never that.” He took the safe conduct from the clerk and pushed it down between tunic and shirt.
Wigain’s dark eyes were robin-bright. “Promise me you will send word if you are going to take part in any tourneys. I’ll want to wager on your success.”
William eyed him sidelong. “Even now?”
“I never make a bad bet,” Wigain said. “That heap of dross surrounding the Young King won’t last long. I give them until spring at the most.”
William set his foot to the stirrup and swung astride his palfrey. “Is that a wager too?”
Wigain shook his head. “No, my lord,” he said. “A certainty.”
William did not miss the fact that Wigain had called him “my lord.” There was no irony in Wigain’s tone, only a troubled respect.
As William turned his mount, Baldwin came striding towards him from the direction of the hall, his expression thunderous. “The whoresons!” he spat. “The bastards! They’ll rot in hell for this! I’ll see justice done if it kills me.”
William shook his head. “Do not jeopardise yourself for me.” He drew in the reins as the palfrey caught the tension in the air and pranced. “If you find the opportunity, tell Queen Marguerite that I am sorry and bid her have courage.”
“It’s not about you and the Queen at all,” Baldwin said vehemently. “It’s about the petty jealousy of small and cowardly men.”
William shrugged. “Then I am free of it now.” He leaned down to clasp Baldwin’s arm in a soldier’s grip. “Tell her.”
