“It is usually the women who come here,” Thibaud said, looking curious and amused. “The men always head for the sword-sellers, the horse market, and then the tavern.”
William half smiled. “All of those in due course, but I have a matter to attend to first.”
“Ah, you’re buying a gift for your sweetheart?” Thibaud gave a sly grin.
William shook his head. “For myself, for when I die.”
The humour fell from the knight’s face. “You’re buying your own pall?”
Without replying, William paused at a stall and began examining the wares. There were fabulous bolts of gold and red silk, shimmering like fire; blues and greens with an iridescent peacock gleam; Tyrian purple, its price beyond reckoning. Some were woven with patterns of lozenges and fantastical beasts, others had raised designs repeated through the weave. William spent a long time looking. The Syrian merchant spread the cloths for him, emphasising their texture, how fine the weave was. Eventually he selected two pieces of undyed silk with no embellishment, but of a weave so delicate and exquisite, they cost as much as some of the more colourful and elaborate cloths.
“They are my covenant with God,” he told the bemused Templar as the merchant wrapped the silks in a square of plain linen to protect them. “I accept that he can claim my life whenever he chooses and that until such time I will endeavour to lead an honourable life and repay the debt owing.” He took the wrapped silks from the merchant. They made only a small package, which weighed next to nothing in his hand…but their significance to his life was all-embracing. It was the difference between staying where he was and moving forward.
Twenty-four
Lyons-la-Forêt, Normandy, Spring 1186
Drawing rein, William eyed the timber hunting lodge standing amid the trees. The court was in residence and the opening in the palisade that divided the forest from the lodge was braided with a host of humanity weaving in both directions. Without the palisade, clustered like fanciful knots of embroidery on a robe, a sporadic overflow of tents and shelters stitched the ground.
William’s road to Lyons-la-Forêt had been more than two years in the travelling and he didn’t know if it was going to continue past without succour, or lead him back into a world that he had once known as intimately as his armour. There was only one way to find out, and he had never yet held back from a challenge. He nudged his palfrey’s flanks and the horse stepped out, a fine beast showing its eastern origins in the arch of its neck, its dished face, and hard blue hooves. He had bought it from the Templars in the week before he sailed from Saint Symeon for home—if home this was. Behind him, Eustace and Rhys rode second and third palfreys and led the packhorses and William’s two destriers on leading ropes.
Passing amid the flurry of tents, William approached the gateway of split logs. A pimply young guard stepped forward to demand his business and was immediately drawn aside by a more knowledgeable veteran.
“Messire Marshal.” The older man bowed deeply as if addressing a great lord rather than a travel-weary knight with two dusty attendants at his heels. The young guard’s eyes widened and flickered from William to the shield athwart the packhorse with its rampant red lion on a background half green, half yellow, and then he too bowed.
William inclined his head. The first barrier was down then. In truth, he did not expect to be thrown out on his ear, but royalty was nothing if not fickle. “Is the King within?” he asked, gesturing towards the main building.
“No, sir. He’s out hunting, but should return by dusk. He will be right pleased to see you.”
“And I him,” William answered with formal courtesy and rode on. Word had already raced ahead. The young guard might not have recognised William until prompted by his fellow and the sight of a shield that not so long ago had been famous across every tourney ground between Normandy and the Limousin, but others were not so ignorant.
“Sir!”
He turned at the call and as he dismounted was effusively embraced by a wiry little clerk with ink-stained fingers and receding curly dark hair. No ceremony here; no bowing. “Wigain!” William returned the hug full measure, feeling a warm rush of affection. “King Henry took you into his employ then?” he asked as he pushed away.
“Yes, sir. There’s always room for another clerk in the lord King’s household.” He gave William a sly look. “I’m not as rich as I used to be since you left the tourney road though.”
William chuckled. “Neither am I,” he said and began walking his palfrey towards the stable block. “Is the King well?”
Wigain made a face. “Most of the time, although of an early morning or late at night he sometimes remembers his years and his burdens.” He hesitated. “He misses our lord.”
William touched his breast where the sapphire ring now hung on a cord with a cross and a token of Saint Christopher. For a moment melancholy engulfed him, but then mercifully receded. It was an ebb tide these days rather than a running one. “So do I,” he said, thinking of summers spent in the pleasure of the tourney. Frivolous and fickle and, even while they had seemed endless, trickling through the fingers like grains of sand. The laughter and companionship, and beneath it the darkness and uncertainty. Friendships and betrayals, and that last terrible farewell.
“Did you reach Jerusalem, sir?”
They came to the stables and William gave his palfrey to Eustace and dismissed Rhys who he knew was desperate to go and find his wife who had been taken into the Angevin service as a laundry maid while he was absent on pilgrimage. “Would I be here if I had not?” Taking a travelling satchel from the palfrey’s saddle, he slung it at his shoulder and began to walk. “I laid the Young King’s cloak at the tomb of Christ, and lit candles for his soul. I am here to tell his father that I have fulfilled his son’s dying wish.”
“And you will stay?” Wigain looked eager. “The King will welcome you, I know he will…the Queen too.”
William checked his stride. “Queen Eleanor is here?”
“Yes, sir, although she returns to England soon.”
“Still a prisoner?” William resumed walking.
Wigain looked uncomfortable. “He gives her more freedom now, but he still won’t let her out of his sight unless she is closely guarded.”
William said nothing, although he wondered if King Henry was ever going to forgive his wife for rebelling against him and wanting more from her life and her marriage than he had been willing to yield.
