“I know some ladies who would dispute that with you,” William retorted as he pushed a comb through his damp hair.
“Not nuns though,” grinned Maurice de Craon, a florid knight with a full black beard. “Who else are you likely to meet here? The Count of Poitou, when he arrives, won’t care what you smell like.”
“Hah, don’t be too sure of that!” someone else shouted.
DeCraon waved the declaration aside with a swipe of his ham-sized fist. “Rumours and gossip!” he growled. “Richard’s no sodomite.”
The word hung in an uncomfortable silence. Men busied themselves with other tasks amidst a lot of throat-clearing and harrumphing.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” William murmured to de Craon.
The knight spread his hands in bewilderment. “Why in God’s name not? I was defending the Count of Poitou’s reputation!”
William set the comb aside. “But also calling attention to the whispers. True or not, the tales will grow with each telling. What began as a grain of sand will eventually become a mountain…as I know from experience.”
De Craon snorted and blustered, but soon grew quiet and wandered off, a thoughtful look on his face like an ox with cud to chew.
With a pensive sigh, William straightened the creased folds of his plum-coloured tunic and sat down to the food his squires had brought. The other knights came and joined him to discuss their predicament. As supporters of the old King were they going to be disgraced and exiled? What price were they going to have to pay to keep their lands? Most expected that they could buy Richard’s favour for a fee, especially as he needed the money for his imminent crusade. Their assessment of William’s situation was less optimistic, but William shrugged it off with the comment that what would be would be. “I haven’t starved yet,” he said, thinking that there was always a first time.
Richard arrived early the next morning. Unlike his sick, exhausted father who had jounced along like a half-empty sack of cabbages as he fled from his eldest son’s harassment towards his deathbed, Richard looked every inch the warrior king. He rode a Spanish grey and his tunic was of crimson silk, thickly embroidered with snarling lions in thread of gold. His swordbelt was gilded, so were his shoes, and his cloak was edged with braid that shone with gold filaments. A little to one side and behind rode his brother John, his colour high and his expression defensive, and with him, Richard’s chaplain and chancellor, William Longchamp. The look the latter cast towards William seethed with malice and disdain. William returned the stare with antipathy for there was no love lost between himself and Longchamp.
A hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, William bowed head and knee in submission to England’s new King. The remaining knights of Henry’s mesnie did the same, sending each other sidelong glances. Staring at the ground, William waited. He knew it was foolish, but he half expected to feel the bite of a sword across the back of his neck. However, the touch when it came was to his shoulder, and of a hard, firm hand. William could remember the days when that hand had not been big enough to fold around the grip of an adult sword; he could remember parrying the attacks of the juvenile blade. It had been easy then, but he suspected that nothing was ever going to be easy again.
Richard commanded the men to rise, his voice strong but neutral. “Some grudges I harbour,” he said, “but not against men who are loyal.” He squeezed William’s shoulder before he stepped back and moved on. Exhaling a shaky breath, William rose to his feet and straightened his tunic. Prince John was looking at him, his pale tawny gaze a replica of his mother’s. He raised a sardonic eyebrow and corresponding mouth corner and followed his brother towards the church where their father lay in state. William lowered his gaze for he could not be certain of concealing his anger. If Richard had hounded his father during the failing King’s last days, then John’s desertion had hastened the death and made it into one of despair, lacking all comfort and peace.
The lords and knights followed the royal brothers into the church. John side-stepped softly in the shadows like a cat, but Richard strode forward to the bier; the only sign of his disquiet was the way in which his left hand clutched the grip of his sword.
He stood a long time looking down at his father’s body, his expression contained and devoid of emotion. After a while he moved up to Henry’s uncovered face and gazed upon it, saying not a word to the gathered knights and retainers. John emerged from the shadows, but would not approach the bier. It was said that a corpse would bleed when in the presence of its murderer and William wondered if either brother feared a sudden gush from their father’s body. He wished that they could have seen Henry in his death chamber at Chinon. They deserved to do so, but whether it would have provoked any feelings of pity or remorse was another matter. William suspected that Richard, at least, had no notion of the meaning of the word where his father was concerned. John might have, but although the latter sometimes showed his thoughts on his face, the inner workings of his mind were a mystery. Nor did William want to delve into them, because he suspected that he would find things lurking in their darkness that had grown beyond redemption.
Finally Richard turned from his scrutiny of Henry’s face and between the dead father and the living son there was not an iota of difference in the rigidity of the expression. Richard’s gaze fell upon William. “Marshal, a word.” Gesturing everyone else to remain where they were, he drew William outside. “Ride with me,” he commanded. Rather than wait whilst William had his palfrey saddled, he gave him Longchamp’s chestnut—a move which caused the latter to glare daggers at William. Longchamp harboured jealous suspicion of anyone who he thought might challenge his own influence with Richard and he considered William not only a rival but an enemy. William returned Longchamp’s glower with the indifference that he knew would gall Richard’s chancellor to the bone.
Richard rode straight-backed and with a natural, supple grace, one hand at the reins, the other down by his side. William adjusted the stirrup leathers, which had been strapped to suit Longchamp’s much shorter legs, and brought the chestnut alongside Richard’s stallion. They rode away from the abbey in silence, the hooves making a hollow thud on the dry ground and raising a powder of pale dust. Over Chinon the sky was hazy and suggestive of thunder. William could feel the first hint of pressure building within his skull. He pondered breaking the silence between him and Richard and decided against it. Let the new King set the tone, and if Richard was waiting for contrition or apology, he would wait for ever.
Finally, Richard looked across at William. “You tried to kill me,” he said. His voice had a hoarse catch, but William thought it more a matter of being rusty from too much bellowing on the battlefield than because of strong emotion.
William drew himself up. “No, my lord, I did not. I am still strong enough to direct a lance at a target and be certain of hitting it. If I had wanted to kill you, I would have driven my point through your body with ease, as I did to your horse. I will not apologise for the act. I was defending your father and given the choice again, I would do the same.”
“I thought that you were going to spit me on your lance.” Richard gave William a look that in itself was as piercing as a steel point.
“I almost did, sire, but I decided that skewering your horse would be just as effective as skewering you.”
Richard gave a reluctant laugh. “And it was.” He glanced sidelong at William. “It took great courage and a steady hand.”
William shrugged. “I’ve served a long apprenticeship,” he said.
“And if I said that I had work for you and that I wanted your oath of loyalty now that my father is dead, would you give it?”
William studied the brooding sky and took his time to reply. There might only be one answer but let Richard wait to hear it. Besides, he had to summon his courage for what came next. “Before he died, your father gave Isabelle of Striguil to me in marriage.”
Richard drew hard on the reins, causing his mount to start and sidle. “He didn’t give you anything,” he snapped. “I have my spies; I know what he said. He only promised you, and a promise is so much dross until it is fulfilled. You know that.”
William struggled to read Richard’s expression, but the new King was adept at hiding what he chose not to show.
“I will do more than promise,” Richard said in a grating voice. “This very day you will set out for England bearing messages. You can marry the girl at the same time. Take Isabelle de Clare, take her lands and plough them both with my blessing.”
It was hard for William to draw breath. “Thank you, my lord,” he managed, the words heartfelt and unembellished.
Richard waited, as if expecting more, but when none came, he nodded curtly. “You stood by my father when lesser men deserted. You risked your life for his and jeopardised your own future security. I desire to harness that steadfastness for myself. As you say, you have served your apprenticeship. I have just given you your share of reward and punishment.Given,” he emphasised, his voice hardening. “I have done more than promise. You received nothing but empty words from my father and my brother.”
