William gave a poignant smile. “Tell your lady that I thank her for the gift. It is gracious of her and I will treasure it always, but perhaps never quite as much as a certain piece of boiled sugar. Can you remember that?”
The youth nodded and William sent him on his way with two silver pennies for his trouble. He was not sure that he would ever wear the belt, but as a memento of the past and a reminder of why he could never let down his guard in the future, it was timely.
No sooner had the attendant departed than Ancel arrived. His brother’s gaze fell on the belt that William was rolling up to return to its pouch, and he gave a low whistle. “That’ll keep you in wine for longer than a sennight.”
William gave a wordless nod. He knew he should be pleased to see his brother, but just now he could do without Ancel’s lively presence. Oblivious to atmosphere, his brother unfolded a stool and sat down. He had gained weight. The whipcord leanness of young manhood was setting into maturity, and the living was obviously good in Rotrou’s household. The lines on Ancel’s face were of fulfilment and William felt a gut-surge of envy.
“I think you are mad for going back to the Young King,” Ancel said cheerfully, “especially when you could make a decent living elsewhere.”
William closed the drawstrings of the pouch and gave Ancel a warning look. The latter threw up his hands and sighed dramatically. “I’m with the French, you’re supporting Prince Henry, John is with the King, and our brother Henry’s with the Archbishop of York, so his prayers should count for something. No one can accuse the Marshals of putting all their eggs in one basket. One of us is bound to emerge covered in glory—although I wouldn’t care to wager which one.”
William snorted with reluctant humour and his mood lightened. “Neither would I, but I’d settle for contentment above glory.”
Ancel eyed him. “If that were so, you’d have retired long since. You chose the wrong word, brother. You should have said you’d settle for achievement above glory.”
William blinked. Ancel tended to live life in the shallows, but what he had just said was insightful and shrewd and gave William pause for thought. He had achieved nothing where the Young King was concerned—or nothing of which he was proud.
Ancel rose from the stool. “I was going to invite you to come to Rotrou’s pavilion and drink wine all night, but I can see you’re not in a carousing mood. I’ll not take no for an answer on the morrow though.”
William smiled at Ancel and then embraced him hard. “You won’t need to,” he said.
In his tent outside the walls of Limoges, King Henry studied the letters from King Philip, from the Duke of Burgundy, and the Count of Flanders. Then he raised his head to William. “You have been busy,” he said drily.
“My name has been dragged through the mire,” William answered. “It is natural that I should wish to have my innocence acknowledged in no uncertain terms.” Outside the tent, the April twilight was drawing in and the air was balmy with the scent of spring. A soldier ran past the opened flaps leading a warhorse, the sound of the hooves clumping on the turf.
“I forced your dismissal from my son’s service because I was led to believe that you were responsible for his profligate overspending. I realise now that the rumours were overblown, but you do not stint to spend money, and some, although not all, I grant you, comes from my son’s coffers, which in turn have to be filled by me. Nor have you displayed wisdom in other areas of your life. Having a henchman bellow aloud your prowess on the tourney field and flirting with my eldest son’s wife, no matter that it was indeed only a flirtation, are not the attributes I desire from my son’s marshal.” He pushed the letters back across the table to William. “Yes, you have been exonerated, and yes, you were the victim of a conspiracy, but you are no washed lamb either. Just so that we understand each other.”
“Perfectly, sire,” William said, tight-lipped but resolute.
“Good.” Henry rubbed the index and middle fingers of his right hand between his brows in a tired gesture. “My son needs you and you’re probably one of the few who can help him now. Do this for me, for him, and you’ll not go unrewarded, I promise you.”
William’s stomach leaped at the words. He didn’t know whether to feel pleased or insulted. “In what way do you want me to help him, sire? Making him see reason is not always easy, and in the end my loyalty is to him. If he chooses to ride into the fire, I will try to stop him, but if I cannot, then it is my duty to ride in after him.”
The King’s mouth twitched in a humourless smile. “Coming from someone else, I’d say that statement was grandiose posturing, Marshal, but coming from you, I’ll take it as true intent.”
“Thank you, sire…just so that we understand each other.”
Henry gave a bark of laughter. “Well enough. If you can bring him to his senses without smirching that precious honour of yours, then do so.”
“And if I cannot?”
Henry gave him a level look. “Stay with him,” he said. “It was a misjudgement to make you leave.”
Twenty-one
Martel, Limousin, June 1183
The Young King embraced William like a long-lost brother, weeping, declaring remorsefully that he should never have doubted William’s integrity. It was as if the weeks and months of black looks and ostracism had been no more to Henry than a passing tantrum—all-encompassing at the time, but completely forgotten now that it was over. His pressing concern was with his campaign against his father and Richard, which was not progressing well and, like a frustrated child, he wanted William to set matters to rights. Of Marguerite he said not a word; it was as if she too had never existed.
William was perturbed to discover that while the Young King had rid himself of Adam Yqueboeuf and his cronies, he had welcomed Geoffrey de Lusignan to his banner. Rannulf had omitted to mention that small detail on the road from Cologne. William had never forgiven the murder of his uncle on that bright spring morning in Poitou, nor the circumstances of his own captivity. To discover that he had to live and fight alongside one of the perpetrators of the crime, and to have to trust him at his back, was almost more than he could swallow.
De Lusignan was entirely pragmatic. “It was my brother who killed your uncle and wounded you,” he said. “Perhaps it was ill judged, but all men make mistakes in their lives and pay for them. I do not expect us to be friends, but at least let us have a truce.”
William refused to give de Lusignan the kiss of peace or clasp his hand, but managed a stiff nod of acceptance before he walked away from him. Beggars could not be choosers and his young lord was perilously close to being one of the former. However murky his past, there was no doubting Geoffrey de Lusignan’s abilities as a fighter and, as he said, he had not struck the blows. Repeating these palliatives to himself, William managed to choke down his disgust.
As usual money was scarce and Henry’s mercenaries were complaining vociferously that they had not been paid. Casting around for the coin to keep them employed, Henry had turned to pillaging the Church. When William baulked in horror at the notion of such sacrilege, Henry scoffed at him. “All the silver and gold the Church has amassed does naught but drape their chapels, gawked at by peasants and gloated over by priests.”
“It was given to God,” William protested, “to the glory of God.”
