“I am a good woman,” offered her youngest maid, Gersendis, hopefully.
Eleanor gave her a pitying look. “Not William Marshal’s sort of good,” she said as she resumed her sewing. Now and then her eyes went to the small ampoule he had given her and she thought about what he had said, and even more about the spaces between his words.
William was shocked to see how much King Henry had aged in the three years since they had parted company at his son’s tomb in Rouen. Henry’s eyes were bloodshot, as if with too much wine or not enough sleep. His complexion was wind-blown and ruddy from hard exercise, but he looked neither healthy nor robust. Prince John, now nineteen years old, had accompanied him on the hunt. He possessed his mother’s high cheekbones and fine hazel eyes. An attempt at growing a beard had edged his strong chin and petulant upper lip with a minimal dark grizzle.
“Hah!” Henry clasped William’s arm in a hard grip and raised him to his feet. “You’ve returned to me then?”
“It was my duty…and my loyalty, sire.”
“Loyalty,” Henry repeated the word as if he didn’t know whether to choke on it or roar with laughter. “You always have the right words, Marshal, I’ll grant you that.” He turned to his half-smiling youngest son. “Loyalty is as valuable as gold,” he said. “Especially loyalty like the Marshal’s. Remember it well.”
“It can be bought with gold too,” John said, “or bought off.” He looked at William. “What’s your price, Marshal?”
William hesitated, tempted to tell John that it was more than a too-clever stripling like him could afford, but prudence curbed his tongue. He reminded himself that his elder brother was one of the Prince’s men. “That is between myself and your father, Lord John,” he replied, “should he wish to retain my services. What I did for your brother, I did for love, not gain.”
“But you will gain by it, won’t you!” the youth said with bright malice in his eyes.
“John, enough, stop teasing.” Henry raised an indulgent hand towards his youngest son. “Come, Marshal, share wine and tell me about the pilgrimage.”
It was very late when William returned to his tent, staggering through the cool spring evening, his way lit by stars and the soft flare of cooking fires. Time and again he was stopped by men who wanted to greet his return and welcome him home. He found the smiles, the right words to say; he managed brief conversations. He had had a long apprenticeship in the art and even when less than sober could still hold himself together to play the game. But it was wearisome and he felt a powerful sense of relief as he finally reached his pavilion. His fingers, usually so swift and dextrous, fumbled at the flap ties and Eustace had to undo them for him.
“Never drink the King’s wine, especially after the Queen’s,” he told the squire. “They don’t agree with each other.”
“Like their owners,” Eustace said. “Have you eaten?”
William snorted at the first remark and waved away the second. “Less than I’ve drunk but more than enough if my gut’s the judge. All I need now is sleep.”
Eustace saw him inside the tent and loosely retied the flaps. By a lantern’s dim glow, William lay down on his pallet, grateful to find that the squire had stuffed it with plenty of fresh straw. But although he was exhausted, sleep was slow in coming and his brain, like his abused stomach, continued to churn and swirl upon its contents. Henry had wanted to know about his pilgrimage, but in different substance to the Queen. Not for him the colours and texture of the journey, but the stark facts succinctly given like a battle report. The only images he demanded in detail were those of the laying of his dead son’s cloak at Christ’s tomb and the lighting of a candle for the young man’s departed soul. William had given him what he required, as he had given Eleanor, but at cost to himself and with Prince John looking on and absorbing every word and nuance with the greedy eyes of a predator. At least it was over now, he thought, trying to recover his mental balance as the tent whirled around him. At least now that it was told, it could be put in a chest with the silk palls—always there, always a reminder, but not for daily inspection.
When William had done with his tale, Henry had asked him to stay, speaking of grants and riches that could be his for the taking of an oath of fealty while John looked on with a knowing smirk. “I have an heiress in wardship,” Henry had said, “and I have been looking for a suitable administrator for her lands. She is of marriageable age. You can be her warden or her husband as you please.”
William closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his lids until stars came. Her name was Heloise of Kendal and she held substantial estates in the north of England. Henry had given him other wardships too, but they were insignificant when compared to the main one. He had also granted him a piece of land abutting Heloise’s domains, to do with as he chose, although his homage for the land would be owed to Prince John who held it of his father. William had accepted the grant, had drunk a toast of the King’s musty household wine, and sworn his fealty. He had a new lord, a new cloak to put on, but whether it would fit him well was another matter.
Twenty-five
Earley, Berkshire, May 1186
William had never had a wardship before, although he had trained several squires and mentored plenty of young knights. The youth who stood before him now was his responsibility in every sense of the word. Jean D’Earley’s parents were dead and his guardian, the Archdeacon of Wells, was recently deceased. At fourteen Jean was still too young to administer his lands by himself. Not too young though to be wearing a sword at his left hip and the long sheath of a hunting dagger at his right, William noticed, concealing a smile. The sword was far too cumbersome for the youth’s light frame and from the somewhat outmoded style of the hilt was a family heirloom, probably passed down several generations. William recognised the pride, the challenge, and the uncertainty.
“Jean,” he said pleasantly and extended his hand. The youth gave him a wary look out of slate-blue eyes half hidden by a fringe of night-black hair, and after a moment responded. His wrist bones were long and narrow, speaking of recent rapid growth. His damp hand revealed his apprehension, but the strength of the grip showed that he was determined not to be overwhelmed. “I assume you have been told that while the Crown will administer your lands, you yourself are to be trained in my household until you reach your majority.”
“Sir,” the boy said and compressed his lips.
“And you do not know whether to be resentful or pleased.”
The lad looked startled but said nothing—not that William had expected him to. “Let me see your sword.”
His charge drew the weapon and handed it over hilt-first, anxiety entering his expression. William examined the blade thoroughly, noting how the edge was keen and bright and how it had been oiled and looked after. “You care for this yourself?” he asked as he tested the balance.
“Yes, sir.” The youth reddened.
William handed it back to him. “Good,” he said. “Cleaning weapons is the first duty a squire learns, and you’re already competent. How much training in weapon play have you had?”
The youth’s flush deepened. “Only a little, sir.”
Probably next to nothing, William thought. His father had died when he was eight, and the Archdeacon had been an elderly priest. Buried here, all the training the youth had likely received was some basic spear and shield work and the rudiments of swordplay. Likely, the same applied to courtly skills. The only thing polished was that great sword, which was entirely unsuitable. Nevertheless, the lad clearly possessed ability, and was a hard worker if the shine on that steel was any indication.
“That doesn’t matter. As my squire, you’ll learn.”
