With a visible effort, Henry forced himself to mark what William was saying. “You were the head of his mesnie. I charge you with the duty of escorting his body to Rouen and I give you command of the cortège.”
“Gladly, sire, but I have promised the mercenary Sancho to surrender myself as his prisoner for a ransom of one hundred marks.”
Henry stared at him, red-rimmed eyes incredulous. “You’ve done what?”
“Your son owed him that money, and pledging myself to redeem it was the only way to prevent a battle around the coffin. But now I am honour bound to find that money before I can do anything else.”
Henry’s upper lip curled with revulsion. “You are certain that this mercenary was owed such a sum?”
“Yes, sire, unfortunately so.”
Henry’s throat worked. “My son has cost me more than that in his lifetime, and would that he were still costing me instead of sealed up in a lead coffin.” His voice cracked on the last word and his eyes swam with tears. “Go,” he said roughly. “I will underwrite the debt…now let me be.”
“Sire.” William bowed from Henry’s presence and went to the chapel tent, there to keep vigil over Henry’s remains and prostrate himself before God.
Twenty-two
Hamstead Marshal, Berkshire, July 1183
“Jerusalem?” John Marshal’s mouth turned down at the corners. “That is no small undertaking.”
“I have debts to God that cannot be paid any other way,” William replied. They were sitting outside in the hot summer evening, resting their elbows on a trestle table and drinking wine. Both men had removed their hose and wore only their braies and light summer tunics. “I am doing this for my own soul as well as that of the Young King. I need to find peace; I need to do penance and be cleansed.” He glanced towards his nephew, who was playing chase with the steward’s lad. Young John, now known by his fond name of Jack, was nine years old and sturdy of limb with grey eyes and bright brown hair. Alais had borne a daughter four months ago and little Sybilla was sleeping in a rush basket on the trestle, her face rosy in slumber.
“It’s a dangerous way to go about it,” John said. “The grass will grow long in your absence. King Henry may well not vouchsafe you a place in his retinue if and when you return.”
“That is up to Henry,” William replied. “He is stabling my horses while I am gone and he has given me funds to undertake the task. As matters stand now, he wants me back. Would you have me renege on my vow?”
John gave an impatient shake of his head. “Of course not, but…”
“My body will be no more imperilled than it has been over these last months warring for my lord, and my soul even less so.”
“Yes, we heard about what happened at Rocamadour,” John said disapprovingly.
William rubbed his palms over his face. “I have my own atonement to make to God for the part I played in stripping the shrine of Saint Amadour. I stood back and let him do it. I let his mercenaries strip the gold from the altar and tear the sword of Roland out of the wall.” He shivered. Even now the memory filled him with fear and self-loathing. “At least the sword has been restored to the shrine, even if the other treasures have been scattered far and wide.” William looked morosely into his wine.
There was a long silence. John tilted his goblet to his lips and swallowed. Then he wiped his mouth and looked at William. “By all accounts the Young King’s funeral was interesting. Twice buried eh?”
A look of distaste crossed William’s face. “You heard about that too?” He shook his head. “We brought the cortège to Le Mans and kept vigil overnight at the church of Saint Julian, but when we tried to leave at dawn, the town worthies and the priests refused to allow us on our way. They insisted on burying my lord in their church and there was nothing we could do short of drawing our swords.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture of weary recollection. “The people of Rouen were expecting my lord to rest in their cathedral—it was his dying wish—and they set out to take his body by force of arms. The King had to intervene and command the coffin to be dug up and sent on its way to its resting place.” His face twisted at the memory. “All the way along the road we had no money to give the people alms, and yet still they loved him and blamed us and his father that we had nothing for them.”
“He was so handsome,” Alais said sadly. “And he had the sweetest smile.” She checked on her daughter, stroking the downy little cheek with a gentle forefinger.
John made a disparaging sound. “A king needs more than that in his armoury to rule.”
“But it will take him a fair distance down the road,” William said. “You are right though. It was all glitter and no gold.” He traced a ring mark of wine on the trestle. “He was my lord. I am honour bound to fulfil my oath to him.”
“Well, I’ve sworn my own oath to Prince John,” his brother announced. “Saving my loyalty to his father, of course.”
William gave him a startled look. “Why would you want to do that?”
“He spends more time in England than his brothers do. He’s overlooked because he’s the youngest, but that doesn’t mean he’s anybody’s fool. The King is ageing and John is his favourite son and the one most like him. You should think about that.” His tone was defensive. “He’s got time to grow and at least he’s got a head on his shoulders, not a vain bucket of feathers. I know what I’m doing.”
“At least one of us does,” William replied, refusing to be drawn into a needle match on the merits of the King’s sons, one of whom was in his grave and the other an untried youth of sixteen who might or might not one day wear a crown.
Twenty-three
Near Reading, Berkshire, September 1183
Twelve-year-old Isabelle de Clare gazed out of the opening at the back of the covered wain at the unrelenting autumn downpour. She was accustomed to wet days in Ireland, but to her imagination, this deluge seemed harder, colder, and altogether more hostile. Had the weather been reasonable, she could have ridden pillion with one of the grooms. They hadn’t let her bring her own mare; they said she would have no need of a mount when eventually they reached London. Today, their intended goal was a night’s lodging at Reading Abbey, although it would be dark by the time they arrived, given the lurching pace of the wain through the ruts and puddles. Overhanging trees dripped on to the top of the wain making heavier sounds around the steady rustle of the rain. The air that blew through the opening was moist and cold. There was a hanging that could be drawn across, but that would mean sitting in semi-darkness and Isabelle had slept all she could. Aine, her Irish nurse, and Helwis, her Norman maid, sat in a huddle of furs, the former complaining about a persistent toothache, the latter coddling a heavy cold, her nose a beacon.
