It was late evening and much of the royal household had retired for the night, but not the King, who seldom slept more than a few hours at a time, even in sickness. Seated on his bed, robed only in his nightshirt and a light mantle, he ordered William to take out a reconnaissance party at dawn and see if he could find the French army and discover King Philip’s intentions. “I need to know how far away he is,” he said.
“Sire.” William bowed. There were a few others in the room with him, including the marshal of Henry’s household, Robert de Souville, and Hubert Walter, who was representing England’s justiciar, Ranulf de Glanville. There was also Henry’s bastard son, Geoffrey, who had been at his side throughout. Like his father he was short and sandy-haired, belligerent too, and fiercely protective of his parent in a way totally lacking in the legitimate sons. The lord John was not present, having a prior engagement with his current mistress, who had been taking up a great deal of his time of late.
“Wait, Marshal,” Henry said as William prepared to leave.
William turned. “Sire?”
The pouches beneath Henry’s eyes could have held at least a dozen silver pennies each and the tremor in his hands sent ripples through the wine in his cup. “I want to talk to you about your wardship of Heloise of Kendal.”
The words sent a jolt through William, but he managed to look no more than politely concerned. “Sire?”
“I take it you do not intend to marry the girl yourself, or you would have done so when first you became her warden.”
“Sire, I…”
Henry waved him silent. “I may be ill, but I have been robbed of neither wits nor hearing. I promised that if you came to me I would consider you for the position of lord of Châteauroux, but from what I hear, you would rather wed a different heiress—Isabelle de Clare?”
William cleared his throat. “Yes, sire…that is so.”
“Then take her and I will bestow the right to Denise de Berry on Baldwin of Béthune. Heloise of Kendal’s wardship can go to Gilbert FitzReinfred. I’ve been looking for something likely to settle on him.” He looked to Hubert Walter. “Make note of my promise and convey it to my lord Glanville. William Marshal is to have Isabelle of Striguil in marriage and governance of all the lands that come with the lady’s hand.”
Hubert Walter bowed and murmured that it would be done. His family might have been cherishing hopes of a match between Isabelle de Clare and Hubert’s brother Theobald but he was too consummate a politician to bat an eyelid in front of Henry.
Swallowing, William rallied the wits that Henry’s offer had scattered to the four winds. He went to Henry, knelt at his feet and, with bowed head, proffered his sword. “You will always have my loyalty, sire.”
Henry gave a bleak smile. “Then let us hope that my life is as enduring as your fidelity, for both our sakes.”
William led a small scouting party out of Le Mans as the first cockerels crowed the dawn. A thick mist was rising from the River Huisne and visibility was so poor that William was reminded of a deep English autumn rather than spring in Anjou. He and his men were all lightly clad and the morning chill penetrated through their cloaks and tunics and seeped into their flesh. Their horses moved stiffly at first, but their pace gradually eased as they warmed up. Clopping through the suburbs and across the wooden bridge over the river, William tried to concentrate on the task in hand, but his mind kept returning to the promise Henry had made to him. Isabelle de Clare. At one fell swoop, her lands would make of him a magnate, a lord of the highest rank. The girl was lovely too. It would be no hardship to beget children on her to follow in his line. He had to remind himself sternly to keep a rein on his hopes. For him to claim his heiress, Henry had to live long enough to uphold his word, and retain his authority, both of which hung in the balance. It was glittering all, or ragged nothing…and probably what Henry was counting upon.
They rode through pasture and meadow. Willow branches dripped with moisture and the smell of new, green spring clung in sap-heavy tendrils amid banks and hedges. As they left the immediate vicinity of the river, the mist became patchy and started to clear. By William’s order the knights rode in silence, their bit chains muffled with strips of cloth. Their brief was to locate the French army, assess its intentions and report to the King. Robert de Souville, marshal of the royal household, rode at the rear, looking nervously around as if he expected to be pounced upon at any moment. In contrast, Geoffrey de Brûlon, a young knight of Henry’s mesnie, trotted confidently at the front and William could almost see him spoiling for a fight. One to egg on, one to hold back, he thought with a pained smile, remembering himself at Drincourt. And then there was Gilbert FitzReinfred, nephew to Walter de Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen. He was a likely enough young man, nothing distinguished about him, but as steady and true as a good hound.
“Heloise is a rare jewel,” William commented with quiet emphasis to FitzReinfred as they rode. “Make sure you treat her as such, or you will be answering to me.”
“Yes, sir,” FitzReinfred replied, reddening. His light blue eyes were bright with intelligence. “I have every intention of being a good husband.”
William nodded curtly, man to man. “Then there is nothing more to say, except to wish you joy of each other.” He had been speaking in a low murmur, but now other sounds impinged on his awareness and, raising his hand, he drew rein. Through drifting grey swags, they saw a dozen knights dismounted by the edge of the trees on the other side of the hill. They were lightly armed and were eating hunks of bread and drinking from leather costrels. One of their number emerged from the wood further down, lacing his hose to his braies and jiggling his crotch. Adjustments completed, he took his horse from the man who had been holding it and swung into the saddle. Within moments his companions had followed suit. The spare bread was stowed in saddlebags, the costrels slung over the pommels, shields and lances were picked up, and the party turned away from the woods and trotted in a northerly direction. The last man in line paused and looked round before riding after his companions. The mist closed in again and when it cleared there was nothing but a few breadcrumbs scattered on the ground and crushed grass springing back from the imprint of the horses’ hooves to show they had been there at all.
“Scouts from the French army,” William murmured, skirting the tracks and drawing rein.
Robert de Souville licked his lips and tightened his grip on his spear haft. “We should tell the King.” He started to turn his horse.
“No.” William shook his head. “What is there to tell at the moment? We think we saw what might have been some scouts from Philip’s army? Where are they bound now? How close are they to their master?”
De Souville reddened and mumbled something into his beard. “You remain here,” William commanded. “Myself and Geoffrey will follow them at a distance and discover their purpose. On no account are you to return to the King until we know more.”
Leaving de Souville with the other knights, William and de Brûlon followed the direction the French had taken. The hoofprints led them through fields grey with deep dew, the land rising in a gentle undulation. Soon the men heard more sounds: voices; the rattle of weapons; the thud of hooves on moist turf. William signalled to Geoffrey and they dismounted. Leaving their horses tethered to an elder tree, they crept stealthily to the top of the hill, the dew soaking icily through their boots and hose. On the summit, crouching low to avoid being seen by a stray glance, they peered down.
“Jesu,” muttered Geoffrey, crossing himself. “There are thousands of them.”
“The entire host,” William agreed. Scouting parties flanked the French knights and footsoldiers and from where they hid, he and Geoffrey could have picked off the outriders if they had had crossbows to hand. Swiftly William retreated from their position. It only needed one of the scouts to ride to the top of the slope and the game would be up. Mounting their horses, he and Geoffrey hastened back to their companions. Geoffrey was hot to attack the outriders and do some damage, but William swiftly disabused him of the notion.
“Yes,” he said, “we could make a charge and take a few of them, but that would be like thrusting a stick into a nest of hornets and expecting not to be chased by the entire colony. Our horses would never stand the chase and they need their wind for speeding this news to King Henry in Le Mans. Don’t worry. You are going to have time aplenty for valorous deeds very soon!”
Henry received the news of the approach of the French army with a tight mouth and no surprise. He was ailing again, with pains in his chest and shortness of breath, but he refused to rest and ordered that the fords across the river be staked and the bridge across the Huisne destroyed, emerging to view the work himself from the back of his favourite grey hack. Prince John came with him, and watched the men hammering the stakes into the sluggish flow of the river, his gaze intent.
Even as the work was being carried out, the outriders of the French army started arriving on the opposite bank and pitched their tents amongst the woods.
“Just out of bowshot range, sire,” William murmured, measuring the distance with narrowed eyes. “They know what they’re about.”
