Chapter 2
Two
The cloak that William had received at his knighting was of Flemish weave, felted and thrice-dyed in woad to deepen the blue, and edged with sable.
The garment was designed to cover the wearer from throat to ankle in a splendid semi-circular sweep of fabric.
Brushing his palm over the expertly napped cloth, William’s heart was heavy with reluctance, regret, and shame.
“I will give you fifteen shillings for it,” the clothes-trader said, rubbing his forefinger under his nose and assessing William with crafty eyes.
“It’s worth twice that!” William protested.
“Keep it then, messire.” The trader shrugged. “I’ve a wife and five children to feed. I cannot afford to give charity.”
William rubbed the back of his neck. He had no choice but to sell his cloak because he needed the money to buy another horse.
The Sire de Tancarville had shown no inclination to replace the chestnut.
A lord’s largesse towards his retainers only went so far and it was up to the individual knight to account for the rest. William was not at fault for losing a valuable warhorse in battle; his blame lay in his omission to recoup that loss from the men he had defeated.
His problem was compounded by the fact that the Kings of England and France had made peace and Lord Guillaume no longer needed so many knights in his retinue—especially inexperienced ones lacking funds and equipment.
“Being as it’s never been worn, and it’s a fine garment, I’ll give you eighteen,” the merchant relented.
William’s gaze was steel. “No less than twenty-five.”
“Then find another buyer. Twenty-two, and that’s my final offer.
I’m robbing myself blind at that.” The trader folded his arms, and William realised that this was the sticking point.
For a moment he nearly walked away, but his need was too great and although the taste was bitter, he swallowed his pride and agreed to the terms.
Leaving the stall he hefted the pouch of silver.
Twenty-two Angevin shillings was nowhere near enough to buy a warhorse.
It might just pay for his passage home across the Narrow Sea with his light palfrey and pack beast, but arriving at his family’s door in such a penurious state would be tantamount to holding out a begging bowl.
It would have been difficult enough were his father still alive, but now that William’s older brother John had inherited the Marshal lands, he would rather starve than receive his grudging charity.
Forced to a grim decision, he used the coin to buy a solid riding horse from a serjeant’s widow whose husband had been killed in the fight for Drincourt. It was a decent beast, well schooled and, although a trifle long in the tooth, had plenty of riding left in it—but it wasn’t a destrier.
Having stabled the beast, he visited the kitchens and availed himself of bread, cheese, and a pitcher of cider, hoping that the latter would wash away the sour taste of what he had just been forced to do.
The cloak was the thin end of the wedge.
Next it would be his silk surcoat and his gilded swordbelt.
He could see himself trading down and down until he stood in the leather gear of a common footsoldier or became his brother’s hearth knight, undertaking petty duties, living out his days in ennui, and growing paunchy and dull-witted.
The cook tossed a handful of chopped herbs into a simmering cauldron, stirred vigorously, and glanced round at William. “I thought you’d be in the hall,” he remarked.
“Why?” William took a gulp of the strong, apple-scented cider.
“Ah, you haven’t heard about the tourney then.” The cook’s eyes gleamed with the relish of the informed in the presence of the ignorant.
William’s expression sharpened. “What tourney?”
“The one that’s being held in two weeks’ time on the field between Sainte Jamme and Valennes. The herald rode in an hour since with the news. Lord Guillaume’s been invited to take part.” He pointed his dripping spoon at William. “It’ll be a fine opportunity to build on your prowess.”
A spark of anticipation blazed up and died in William’s breast. “I don’t have a destrier,” he said morosely. “I can’t ride into a tourney on a common hack.”
“Ah.” The cook scratched his head. “That’s a pity, but surely my lord Tancarville will give you a warhorse for the occasion at least. He’s taking as many knights as he can muster. Why don’t you ask him?”
The spark rekindled, making William feel queasy.
If he did ask and was refused, he would have no option but to return to England, his tail between his legs.
To ask at all was humiliating, but he had little alternative.
Besides, his pride had already taken a fall; it couldn’t sink much lower.
Gulping down the cider and leaving the food, he hurried to the hall.
The news of the tournament had created a festive atmosphere.
William stood on its periphery, his emotions finely balanced between hope and despair.
Going to his sleeping space, he sat on his pallet and began checking over his equipment: his mended mail shirt, his neatly patched gambeson, his shield and spear and sword.
The squires sped hither and yon on errands for the knights as if their legs were on fire.
Men came up to him, slapped his back, and spoke excitedly of the tourney.
William laughed, nodded, and worked at concealing his anxiety.
Buffing his helmet with a soft cloth, he wondered if he should have spent the coin from the sale of his cloak on a passage home instead of a horse.
His mother would be overjoyed to see him, and perhaps his sisters, but he harboured doubts about his brother John.
The latter had been furious that William and not he had been chosen to go for training to Normandy.
Instead John had remained at Hamstead, his likely fate that of service to their two older brothers, Walter and Gilbert, from their father’s first marriage.
As it happened, Walter and Gilbert had both died, leaving John to inherit the Marshal lands, but that did not mean John would forget old jealousies and resentments.
Their younger brother Henry would not be at Hamstead as he was training for the priesthood and like William was expected to have fledged the nest for good.
Ancel, the youngest, a wiry, freckled nine-year-old when William had last seen him, would be of squiring age now, although his training would probably be at John’s hands, God help him.
William polished his helm until it glittered like a woman’s hand mirror. He didn’t want to return to his kin in an impoverished state, but he very much desired to see them, even John. And he wanted to pay his respects to his father whose funeral mass he had been too far away to attend.
“You look troubled, William.”
He raised his head and found Guillaume de Tancarville standing over him, hands at his hips and amusement crinkling his eye corners. He was sensitive about his receding hairline and concealed it with a brightly coloured cap pulled low at the brow and banded with small gemstones.
William scrambled to his feet. “No, my lord, just deep in thought.”
“And what does a lad of your age have to think deeply about, hmm?”
William glanced down at his reflection, distorted in the polished steel of his helm. “I was wondering if I should return to my family in England,” he said.
“A man should always keep his family in his thoughts and prayers,” de Tancarville replied, “but I expected your mind to be on the tournament. Everyone else’s is.” He smiled and gestured around the bustling hall.
“Yes, my lord, but they have the equipment to take part, and I do not.” He made himself hold the Chamberlain’s gaze.
“Ah.” De Tancarville stroked his chin.
William said nothing. He wasn’t going to tell his lord that he had been forced to sell his knighting cloak in order to buy a common rouncy.
De Tancarville allowed the moment to stretch beyond comfort and then released the tension with a sardonic smile.
“You displayed great courage and prowess at the fight for Drincourt, even if you were a rash young fool into the bargain. You’ll be a fine asset to my tourney team.
I’ve arranged for a horse-coper to bring some destriers to the tourney field on the morrow.
You weren’t the only knight to lose his mount in the battle.
Since you’ve been taught a lesson, I’ll replace your stallion this time.
The rest is up to you. If you capture other knights and take ransoms, you’ll be able to redeem your finances.
If you fail…” De Tancarville shrugged and let the end of the sentence hang. He didn’t need to put it into words.
“Thank you, my lord!” William’s eyes were suddenly as bright as his helm. “I’ll prove myself worthy, I swear I will!”
De Tancarville grinned. “You’re a good boy, William,” he said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Let us hope that one day you’ll make an even finer man.”
William managed not to wince despite the lingering tenderness from his wound. It was a small price to pay; everything was suddenly a small price to pay. He would show de Tancarville that he was a man, not a boy, and capable of standing on his own two feet.
William eyed the stallion that two grooms were holding at the de Tancarville horse lines.
Its hide was the colour of new milk, its mane and tail a silver cascade.
Spanish blood showed in the profile of its head, the neat ears, the strong curved neck, deep chest, and powerful rump.
It should have been the first to be chosen, not the only one left.
William had been busy erecting his pavilion and whether out of spite, oversight, or heavy-handed jesting, no one had told him that the horse-coper had arrived and that the new destriers were being apportioned to their owners.