With a bow, William released the bridle, letting de Valognes spur back into the tourney like a carp reprieved by an angler and returned to the river. “Hah!” cried William and, urging Blancart into the fray, went to net more fish.
A muscle working in his cheek, Adam Yqueboeuf unbuckled his swordbelt and handed it across to William. “You win your wager,” he muttered gracelessly. “I’ve never seen anyone with so much luck.”
William had gained the price of four warhorses in the tourney and half the price of another which he had shared with Gadefer de Lorys. The amount might be no great sum to the likes of Philip de Valognes and Guillaume de Tancarville, but to William it was a small fortune and proof of his ability to provide for himself. Smiling at Yqueboeuf, he inclined his head. “Some would say that a man makes his own luck, but what do they know?” He studied the swordbelt and the attached scabbard, but did not draw the weapon. “A man’s blade is made to suit his own hand. I gift it back to you with my goodwill.” Bestowing a courtly bow, he returned Yqueboeuf’s sword, his smile becoming a grin.
If Yqueboeuf had been struggling to swallow his mortification before, now it was choking him. Uttering a few strangled words of insincere gratitude, he closed his fist around his scabbard and, turning on his heel, strode away.
“You make enemies as well as friends in life, remember that, lad,” said de Tancarville, drawing William aside for a quiet word before the carousing started. “You’ve a rare talent there and lesser men will resent it.”
“Yes, my lord,” William said. He looked troubled. “Yqueboeuf’s sword would have been of no use to me. I thought about asking him for its value in coin, but it seemed more courtly to return it to him.”
De Tancarville pursed his lips. “I cannot fault your reasoning, but high courtesy will not protect you from malice.”
“I know that, my lord.” William’s eyelids tensed. “I have endured the years of being called ‘Guzzleguts’ and ‘Slugabed.’ Perhaps some of it is deserved, but as much stems from being your impoverished kin as from the truth. At need I can go without food and sleep.”
“I’m sure you can.” The Chamberlain cleared his throat with unnecessary vigour. “What will you do now?”
The question shook William, for he understood what it presaged. Whatever his skill, de Tancarville was not prepared to continue to furnish his helm. The tourney had been a great success, but it was over and now he had a surplus of young knights. William was being as good as told he was too troublesome to keep.
“I have been thinking about visiting my family,” he said, swallowing his disappointment.
“You have been many years away; they will be glad to see you again.” De Tancarville showed his discomfort by rubbing his forefinger over the jewelled band on his cap.
“Perhaps they won’t recognise me,” William said, “nor I them.” He looked thoughtful. “Tourneying is not permitted in England, and Gadefer told me that there is another contest three days’ ride away. I thought I might try my fortune there first—with your permission.”
The last three words gave de Tancarville a way to make a graceful and formal ending to the obligation that had tied him to William and William to him for the past five years. “You have it,” he said, “and my blessing.” He clasped William’s shoulders and kissed him soundly on either cheek, then embraced him hard. “I have nurtured and equipped you. Now go out and prove your knighthood to the world. I expect to hear great deeds of you in the future.”
William returned the embrace, heat prickling his eyes. Guillaume de Tancarville had never been especially paternal towards him, but he had given him the tools with which to make the best of his life. “I will do my best, my lord,” he said, adding after a hesitation, “There is one last boon I would ask of you.”
“Name it and it is yours, and let there be no talk of ‘last boons’ between us,” said de Tancarville, although his mouth quirked as he spoke the words.Within reason, said the look in his eyes.
“I ask that you send a messenger to the Earl of Essex with this.” William produced a fine jewelled breast-band and crupper off one of the horses he had claimed in the tourney. “Bid him say that William Marshal pays his debts.”
De Tancarville took the gilded pieces of harness and suddenly he was laughing. “It’s a good thing you were not taken for ransom today,” he chuckled, “for I doubt you have a price.”
William grinned. “Does that make me worthless, or worth too much?” he asked.
Three
Hamstead Marshal, Berkshire, Autumn 1167
Replete with spiced chicken and saffron stew served with fresh wheaten bread and washed down with a satisfying quantity of mead, William leaned back from the trestle and gazed at his surroundings. Hamstead was small and humble when compared to Drincourt, Tancarville, and the other great Norman donjons where he had trained to knighthood. There were no chimneys and the fire blazed in an old-fashioned stone-ringed hearth in the centre of the room, but it didn’t matter. Hamstead, on its hill above the Kennet, was the core of the family patrimony, and it was home.
“So,” said John, his elder brother, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, “you’re a great tourney champion now.” The beard he had cultivated since inheriting their father’s title two years ago edged his jaw in a closely barbered line. Their father had always gone clean-shaven, saying that a man should not be ashamed to bare his face to the world, but John thought that a beard lent his youth gravitas and dignity.
William shrugged. “Hardly that.” His own smile was diffident. “But I’ve had some good fortune at the few I’ve attended.”
“More than that to judge from the horses you have brought with you.” John’s voice was envious. Against William’s courtly dazzle, he was conscious of looking like a poor relation rather than the head of the Marshal household.
“They’re recent gains. At the end of the summer I had naught but a common rouncy to my name.” Amiably, William regaled his fellow diners with the tale of the battle for Drincourt and his subsequent impoverishment. His tone was self-deprecatory and he was careful not to boast but even so, John looked away and fiddled with his eating knife while fourteen-year-old Ancel hung on William’s every word, his eyes as wide as goblet rims.
“A thatch gaff?” his mother said faintly.
William unpinned the neck of his tunic and dragged his shirt aside to show her the narrow pink scar. “I was lucky. My hauberk saved me. It could have been much worse.”
Her horrified expression disagreed with his statement. His sisters, Sybil and Margaret, craned to look.
“Didn’t it hurt?” asked Alais, a damsel of his mother’s chamber. William had known her since her birth, which had caused something of a scandal at Hamstead. She was the result of an affair between one of Sybilla’s women and a married knight in the service of the Earl of Salisbury. Her father had died in battle before her birth, and when Alais was nine years old, her mother had succumbed to a fever. Sybilla Marshal had taken Alais beneath her wing, raised her with her own daughters, and given her a permanent place in the chamber as a companion and attendant. When William had left for Tancarville she had been a skinny little waif, still in wan mourning for her mother, but she had certainly blossomed in the interim.
