Chapter 2 #2
“We left you a fine horse, Marshal!” shouted Adam Yqueboeuf, a belligerent, stoutly set young knight who disliked William and baited him at every opportunity. “Only the best for our lord’s favourite relative!”
Pretending indifference to Yqueboeuf’s taunt, William approached the stallion and saw from the sweat caking the line of the saddle cloth and breast-band that the others had probably had their turn at it.
Like a new whore in a brothel, he thought.
Used and overused on the first night until of no use at all to the last man in line.
In dismay he took in the laid-back ears; the tension in the loins; the way the grooms were holding tight to the restraining ropes.
“He’s wild, sir,” one of them warned as William approached side-on to the horse’s head so that it could see him.
Its hide shivered and twitched like the surface of a pool in the rain.
He reached out to pat the damp, gleaming neck and for a while quietly soothed the stallion, letting it drink his scent and grow accustomed to his presence.
“Wild?” he questioned the groom in a soft voice. “In what way?”
“He’s a puller, sir—bad mouth. No one’s been able to manage him.”
“Ah.” William glanced at his jeering audience and continued to stroke the destrier’s quivering neck and shoulder.
After a time, he set his hand to the saddle bow, placed his foot to the stirrup, and swung astride.
Immediately the stallion lashed out and sidled crabwise.
“Whoa, softly now, softly,” William crooned and gingerly set his hands to the reins, exerting no pressure.
Its ears flickered, and it continued to prink and dance.
William applied firm pressure with his heels and the destrier sprang across the ward towards the watching knights.
When William drew on the rein to pull him round the stallion fought the bit, plunging, sawing his head, and swishing his tail.
The audience scattered amid a welter of curses.
William had no time to laugh at them for he was too busy trying to stay astride a dervish.
Dropping the reins he grabbed the mane instead, gripped with his thighs, and clung like a limpet.
As soon as the pressure on its mouth relaxed, the horse quietened and after a moment, William was able to leap down from its back.
“Let’s see you win a tourney prize with that!” sneered Yqueboeuf from the corner into which he had leaped. Stone dust and cobwebs streaked the shoulder of his tunic.
William’s open smile was belied by the narrowness of his eyes and his swift breathing. “How much would you wager?”
“You’re a pauper, Marshal,” Yqueboeuf scoffed, dusting himself down. “What have you got that I could possibly want?”
“My sword,” William replied. “I will wager my sword. What will you put up?”
Yqueboeuf laughed nastily. “If a sword is what you want to lose, then I’ll put my own up against it—even though it’s worth more.”
William raised his brow but managed not to comment that half a sword’s value lay in the fist that wielded it. “Agreed,” he said curtly, and turning back to the horse set about removing the bridle and examining the bit.
The morning of the tourney dawned fine and bright and the Chamberlain’s company was up early.
“Where’s Marshal?” de Tancarville demanded, for the young knight’s tent was empty and his bed roll neatly folded up. The Chamberlain had half expected to find William still sleeping, as was his wont.
“Probably breaking his fast at one of the bakers’ booths,” said Gadefer de Lorys with a knowing roll of his eyes.
“No, my lord,” said a squire. “He’s been working half the night on a new bridle for his horse, and he’s gone to try it out.”
De Tancarville quirked a brow at the information. “Which horse did he take yesterday?” he asked de Lorys.
“The Spanish grey,” said the knight in a neutral tone. “He was late to the choosing and it was the only one left. It has a ruined mouth.”
De Tancarville frowned and hitched his belt in an irritated gesture.
“That’s unfortunate,” he said. “I wanted to give the boy a chance.” Glancing down the rows of striped tents and pavilions, he saw William striding cheerfully towards them and shook his head.
Predictably the young knight’s right hand was occupied by a large hunk of bread and his jaw was in motion.
He was wearing his padded undertunic so was at least part dressed for the joust and his expression was one of almost childlike delight.
Stopping short when he saw de Tancarville and de Lorys outside his pavilion, he hastily swallowed the mouthful he had been chewing and his gaze grew anxious.
“My lord, is there some trouble? Did you want me?”
“Only to wonder where you were, but I’ve been told you were tending your horse. I understand you had some difficulty with it yesterday?”
“Nothing that can’t be solved,” William replied enthusiastically. “I have let out the bridle by three finger-widths so that the bit’s lower in his mouth and not resting on the part that hurts him.”
“You’ll not have the control,” de Lorys warned, folding his arms.
“At least I’ll have a rideable mount. I’ve been out practising, and the change seems to work.”
De Lorys raised a sceptical brow and turned his mouth down at the corners, but held his peace.
“I did not mean for you to receive a bad horse,” de Tancarville said gruffly.
“It isn’t a bad horse, my lord,” William answered, smiling.
“Indeed, it is probably the best of all those given out.” He hesitated as he was about to duck inside the tent.
“I would ask you not to say anything to Adam Yqueboeuf about that. He has wagered his sword that I won’t win a tourney prize on Blancart, and I want to surprise him. ”
De Tancarville gave a snort of reluctant amusement. “William, you surprise us all,” he said. “I won’t say anything; it’ll be evident soon enough. Make haste now, or you’ll not be ready to form up with the rest of the mesnie.”
“Yes, my lord.” William crammed the last chunk of bread into his mouth, moistened it with a swallow of wine from the pitcher standing on his campstool and, chewing vigorously, beckoned a squire to help him arm.
Compared to William’s baptism in battle at the desperate, bloody fight for Drincourt, the tourney was a jaunt.
Death and injury were hazards of the sport, but the intent was to capture and claim ransom, not to kill.
His stallion was fiery and unsettled, but William could deal with that.
It was a matter of remembering to go lightly on the reins and do more work than usual with the thighs and heels.
When he lined up in close formation with the other Tancarville men, his heart swelled with pride.
He had chosen a place in the line well away from Adam Yqueboeuf, but each knight was aware of the other’s presence.
William did not allow himself to think of failure.
He would make gains today; his honour and his self-esteem depended on it, and he would rather die than yield his sword to a conceited turd like Yqueboeuf.
Their opponents were a medley of French, Flemish, and Scots knights, as eager for the sport as the Normans, English, and Angevins.
De Tancarville stayed at the rear of his mesnie.
For him the tourney was a place to meet friends and peers and display his largesse and importance through the number and calibre of knights fighting for him.
The sport was for the young and reckless whilst he and the other sponsors looked on.
At the trumpet call from a herald, the two opposing lines spurred towards each other.
William felt Blancart surge under him, the motion as smooth and powerful as a wave in mid-ocean.
He selected his target: a knight wearing a hauberk that glittered silver and gold like the scales of a carp, his warhorse barded in ostentatious saffron and crimson silk.
As the two stallions collided like rock and wave, crashing, recoiling, crashing again, William wrapped his fist around the knight’s bridle and strove to drag him back to the Norman pavilions.
“Yield!” William’s voice emerged through his helm in a muffled bellow.
“Never!” The knight drew his sword and attempted to beat William off, but William held on, ducking, avoiding blows, striking back in return, and all the time drawing his intended prize towards his own lines.
A second French knight who tried to help his companion was beaten off by Gadefer de Lorys.
William saluted in acknowledgment, ducked another assault by his now desperate adversary, and spurred Blancart.
“Yield, my lord!” he commanded again, dragging his victim far behind the Norman line.
The knight shook his head, but at William’s single-mindedness and bravado rather than conveying refusal.
“Yielded,” he snarled. “I am Philip de Valognes and you have my pledge.” He gave a lofty wave.
“You were fortunate to catch me before I had warmed to the sport.” His tone suggested that William’s vigorous assault and grim determination to hold on were not quite chivalrous.
“Release me and have done…and I would know to whom I have yielded the price of my horse.”
“My name is William Marshal, my lord,” William replied, his chest heaving, his fist still tight around the knight’s bridle. “I am kin to Guillaume de Tancarville, nephew to the Earl of Salisbury, and cousin to the Count of Perche.”
“And by the looks of you, one of de Tancarville’s young glory hunters without a penny to your patrimony,” growled de Valognes.
“Not until now, my lord,” William said pleasantly.
De Valognes acknowledged the quip with a snort of reluctant humour. “I will have my attendant bring the price of my horse and armour to the sharing of the booty,” he said.
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.