Baldwin gave a stiff nod. “I will. Where will you go?”
Again William shrugged. “Wherever the wind blows me,” he said. “And in a way it will be a relief.”
Twenty
The Rhineland, Spring 1183
March snow never lasted long, but from the density of flakes whirling from the massed banks of thick, yellow-grey clouds, no one would have believed it. A biting north wind swept William’s cloak against his spine. There was no telling the time of day for the sky gave no indication as to the position of the sun but William knew that it must be after noon. He could feel snow seeping through his hood in ice-water tendrils. The flakes were melting to grey slush as they landed on the rutted track. In the trees bracketing the road, a wolf howled and William heard his squire invoking the Holy Virgin to protect their small company from harm. There were terrifying tales of pilgrims being attacked by the packs that prowled the swathes of forest in what had been the heart of the Holy Roman Empire and although sharp swords were a comfort, the fear was sharper still.
William was returning from a pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Cologne, where he had visited the shrine of the Three Magi. He had offered up prayers asking for their intercession in the matter of his banishment from the Young King’s household. The shrine itself was still being built but its popularity was already widespread. William had been one amongst hundreds, including pilgrims who had already made the journeys to Rome, to Compostela, and even the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The experience had both humbled and uplifted him. Pride had been taken and pride had been restored.
There was a momentary lull in the wind and the snowflakes became smaller, like drifting hawthorn blossom. “Lights,” cried Eustace, jabbing his mittened hand towards a yellow twinkle on the road ahead.
“Praise God.” William made the sign of the cross. He wouldn’t have relished pitching a tent at the roadside tonight. Moments later a hostel loomed out of the weather, smoke eddying from its louvres and dissipating amid the swirls of snow. With relief, the men rode into the yard and were directed by an attendant to a spacious barn to stable their mounts. As Rhys and Eustace set about tending the palfreys, packhorses, and destrier, William inspected the mounts belonging to the other guests. There were a couple of solid hacks, a handsome grey mule, the usual motley assortment of pack beasts, and a fine, strong palfrey the bitter brown colour of oak gall ink. William stared at the beast as it rested on one hip and champed on the hay in its net. Since horses were a valuable and integral part of his life, he seldom forgot one, and he had long admired this particular animal.
Leaving Eustace and Rhys to finish the stabling, he hastened across the yard towards the torchlit reek of the main tavern, cursing as he stepped in a slushy puddle and liquid ice sprang through the ankle fastening of his right boot. The solid door swung open on a main room with a floor that was almost as thick in straw as the stables, but considerably more trampled and thatched with age. New had been thrown on top of old and the layers piled up to make a thick insulating carpet. Most of the guests were huddled on stools and benches around the central hearth, warming themselves at the fire. William’s gaze trawled the assortment of merchants, soldiers, carters, and clerics until he arrived at the owner of the brown palfrey who was hunched over the flames, the beaver lining of his cloak folded over in a deep collar and drawn around his bright red ears. A mug of hot wine occupied his equally reddened hands. He looked round as William’s entry swept a gust of icy wind through the room.
“God on the Cross!” swore Rannulf FitzGodfrey, the Young King’s chamberlain. Putting down his cup, he sprang to his feet. “At last! Do you know how far I’ve searched for you? You’re more elusive than a blasted unicorn!”
The two men embraced hard with much back slapping. At length, pulling back, Rannulf called to the hosteller for more hot wine, which William accepted with alacrity. “I have been to the shrine of the Magi at Cologne Cathedral,” he said. “And before that I was in France and Flanders. You could always have found me there…” He gave Rannulf a keen look and took a seat at one of the benches. The heat glowed out towards him from the hearth bricks. A couple of large earthenware cooking pots stood on them, a savoury steam wafting tantalisingly over their rims. William’s stomach rumbled. It seemed an age since his mid-morning meal of bread, mutton pasty, and sour wine, snatched in the saddle.
“Well, I went to France and Flanders,” Rannulf said, “but you were always ahead of me, and your reputation with you.”
“Oh yes?” William’s tone was neutral. “And what reputation would that be?” The door opened again as Eustace and Rhys came in, blowing on their fingers. William made room for them at the fire and pointed to the jug of hot wine sitting on the hearth beside the pottage.
Rannulf said, “Philip of Flanders told me that he had given you money for your journey and offered you a place in his mesnie should you want it. Theobald of Blois and his Countess wished you well. Robert de Béthune said you were like another son to him and he would willingly take you into his family. Not one of them believed the rumours that sent you from the Young King’s court.”
“It’s a pity the Young King could not have done the same,” William answered flatly.
Rannulf looked uncomfortable. “He was in a difficult position.”
“So was I. Why are you seeking me?”
The Young King’s chamberlain rubbed his hands on his knees. “You and I have always been friends,” he said, “even in the difficult times.”
William nodded. “I bear no grudges towards you.” He drank the hot wine, pungent with the flavours of cinnamon and pepper. “I cannot be as forgiving towards certain knights of the household though.”
“Then it will gladden you to know that they are no longer members of the Young King’s mesnie.”
William had to gulp his last mouthful before he choked. Eyes watering, he stared at Rannulf. “What are you saying?”
Rannulf glanced round at their fellow guests and lowered his voice. “The Young King was distressed at the shameful way you were treated at Caen…”
William laughed acrimoniously. “That was not the impression I received. He did nothing to prevent my humiliation. The matter could have been settled long before Caen if he had been willing to listen—but he plainly had his reasons for letting it get so far.”
Rannulf cleared his throat and looked discomforted. “He was lied to and badly advised by men he thought were his friends. Farci, Yqueboeuf, and the de Coulances brothers have now been sent forth in disgrace. The reason I am seeking you is that the Young King bids you return to his service as soon as you may. He has great need of your skills.”
William drank his wine and for a while said nothing. Rannulf made no mention of an apology from Henry, no admission that he had been wrong. But then, to William’s knowledge, Henry had never apologised for anything in his life and would see no reason to begin now. “And if I choose to withhold them?” he finally replied.
The hosteller’s wife brought baskets of freshly baked bread to the benches around the fire, checked the pots of pottage, and began doling the thick mixture into wooden bowls.
“There is a great deal you have to know,” Rannulf said and gestured to the food. “Eat first. You’re going to need your stamina.”
Outside the wind howled at the shutters with the same high keening as the wolves in the forest. Satiated with bread and pottage, William and Rannulf moved themselves and a jug of hot wine to a trestle a little away from the fire where there was more privacy. What Rannulf had to say was complicated and convoluted: a squabble here, a misunderstanding there—festering wounds that no amount of money could cleanse and heal. Prince Richard had quarrelled with his father and his brothers. The Young King and his brother Geoffrey had joined the disaffected barons of Aquitaine and had taken up arms against Richard. The money that King Henry had given his heir had gone straight to buy support and mercenaries and the southern Angevin lands were in turmoil. When the exasperated King had set out to separate and deal with his warring sons, he had been turned upon.
“In Limoges, when he came to try and talk to our lord, a crossbowman shot at him from the walls and the arrow passed through his cloak. Two of his heralds were set upon and slain too.” Rannulf looked morose and disgusted. “I never thought to see such shame and dishonour in my lifetime.”
“Did the Young King order them to it?” William asked with resignation.
