Chapter 4 #4
It was a good thing that William was not in the throw part of the game, or he might have missed his catch and dropped the youngest royal on his head. He spun round, John in his arms. “It doesn’t matter, madam,” he said, and thought how foolish the words sounded.
Her laughter caused his stomach to wallow. “I am sure that it does,” she replied, “unless you are like the King and do not care about appearance.”
“A tunic can be cleaned, madam,” William responded, seeking a diplomatic path through the dilemma she had created—whether to admit to being vain or slovenly, of which he was neither. “I was more concerned with comforting the Princeling.”
“He is a young man of many talents, madam,” chuckled Salisbury, standing by her shoulder. “Even I did not know he had this particular one, but I’m sure it will come in most useful.”
Eleanor pursed her lips. “Indeed,” she said softly, looking William up and down. “I am sure it will.”
Later in the evening there was singing and dancing and as the candles burned down, they were replaced by new ones.
The Queen had no intention of retiring early and seemed determined to prove that although she was a decade older than her husband, her energy was more than a match for his.
She flirted with the men both young and old, but was careful never to step outside the bounds of propriety, sharing her favours in equal measure, never lingering with a particular man unless he was old enough to be her grandfather.
Twice she danced with William and her hand, cool at first touch but warm beneath, pressed to his damp one as she moved lightly to left and right.
“Not only a skilled horseman and nursemaid, but a fine dancer too,” she complimented him with a smile. “What other talents do you hide I wonder?”
“None that you would find worthy, madam,” William said, trying not to sound callow.
“And how do you know what I would find worthy?”
He hoped the question was rhetorical, for he did not have an answer. Their hands met and parted on the diagonal: right to right, left to left.
“Perhaps in Poitou we’ll find out.”
She moved on to the next man in the line in a swirl of heavy woollen skirts, a flash of gold, and a smile over her shoulder, leaving William bemused, his senses reeling.
If the musicians hadn’t been playing their instruments, his swallow would have been audible.
Since the dance was progressive, he found himself partnering a plump, pale-faced child, chestnut-haired, brown-eyed, gowned in a dress that was lavishly embroidered with tiny silver daisies.
Princess Marguerite was Prince Henry’s nine-year-old wife and daughter of King Louis of France by Constance, his second queen.
The children had been married since infancy, a papal dispensation having been granted to permit the nuptials.
William could remember his father laughing about the event at the time and admiring the way King Henry had manipulated the Church and outmanoeuvred Louis, who had handed his daughter to the keeping of Henry’s court expecting many years of betrothal.
Instead there had been a rapid marriage, thus enabling Henry legally to appropriate little Marguerite’s dower lands on the Franco-Norman border.
William solemnly danced with the child and bowed formally to her when she moved on, treating her as he would one of the grown women.
Marguerite too cast a glance over her shoulder as the Queen had done, but her eyes and her smile were as innocent as the flower for which she was named.
Her look, her broad, toothy grin, relaxed William’s tension and enabled him to recover his equilibrium.
By the time he had danced with Eleanor’s small daughters, their nurses, and then a couple of Eleanor’s ladies, he felt much more at home in the company.
Between the dances, there was singing, a pastime that William loved.
He might not be able to read or write, but he had an excellent memory for tunes and lyrics, and his voice was clear, strong, and wide-ranging.
Modest in the exalted company, he let the other knights and ladies take their turn, but when Salisbury clapped him on the shoulder and pressed him forward, he took up the challenge, choosing a lay written by the Queen’s famous and infamous poet grandsire Guillaume, Count of Poitou: a song of springtime after winter and the frustration and pain of unrequited love.
Lest folk think him too bold, he sang then of the virtues of the Virgin Mary and finally a child’s ditty for Marguerite and the little ones, which involved hand-clapping at certain parts.
Throughout the singing, he was aware of Eleanor’s eyes on him, watching, assessing, peeling back the layers until he felt as exposed and vulnerable as a newborn infant.
“No talents that I would find worthy indeed!” she said to William, teasing laughter in her eyes as she finally chose to retire and bade goodnight to her guests. “Either you do not realise your own skills, or you are a shameless liar.”
William’s face burned. “Madam, I have never been called upon to sing in such exalted company before. I would not presume to know what you deem worthy, but if I have entertained you, that is the most I can hope.”
“Oh yes,” Eleanor murmured. “I have been most diverted, and who knows what hope might bring you, Messire Marshal.”
With a parting smile, she moved away to bid farewell to the next guest. William bowed, straightened, and then bowed again as Princess Marguerite held out her hand for him to kiss.
“I’m glad you came,” she said, “and I liked your songs. Will you sing again tomorrow?”
“If you command it, my lady.” He brushed his lips against the back of her small, soft hand, playing the role of courtier to the hilt for her amusement.
Returning to the great hall, William lay down on his pallet, his head light with wine and his thoughts whirling.
The restless stirrings of the other sleepers in the hall, the coughs and snores, the wandering of dogs, the drunks lumbering for a piss in the corner, prevented him from falling immediately into slumber even though he was tired.
The image of the Queen of England lingered in his mind’s eye.
Behind his lids, he pictured her turning from the barred door, gesturing to servants, dismissing the children into the care of their nurses.
He envisioned her maids removing her veil, unbraiding her hair, and combing it down around her shoulders in a heavy dark waterfall.
He did not for one moment believe that Eleanor had singled him out for special attention.
She had spoken to her other guests in similar wise; she had laid her hand on his uncle Patrick’s sleeve and smiled at him as if he were the only man in the room.
William knew there was a difference between play and pragmatic reality.
Queen Eleanor was inhabiting the role of the lady worthy of courtly love for her own diversion and amusement, and the men she attracted, himself included, were her victims, albeit willing ones.
His imagination took him to her bed. How big it was for one person, and how small she looked inside the shadows of the wool brocade hangings.
She was lying on her side, facing towards him, her elbow bent, her head propped on her hand, a beguiling smile on her lips.
He swallowed, his throat dry and his heart pounding.
His body was light except for the area of his groin which was beating like a lead drum.
Eleanor continued to smile, but she beckoned him no closer and he was aware of a reluctance to go forward.
It was as if a line were drawn on the floor, and he knew that if he crossed it and approached the bed, he would be destroyed.
William twisted restlessly on his pallet and opened his eyes, trying to banish the image.
He was met by the sight of the man beside him copulating with one of the castle whores.
They were rolled in the knight’s cloak; there was little to see, but the stealthy sounds they made and the increasingly rapid movements told their own tale.
William turned over and clenched his jaw.
There was always a lack of privacy for hearth knights and servants and at a great gathering like this where even breathing space was at a premium, the sight of couples furtively swiving was commonplace.
Everyone knew it happened and if close to the activity, pretended that it didn’t—except for those who gained salacious pleasure from watching.
The woman made a different sound, almost a yelp, and the knight’s breath caught, held, and then shuddered out of him.
There was silence, then a long sigh. Coins clinked softly together and the woman left, an anonymous dark shape picking her way between the pallets of the sleeping men until moments later she stooped by one of them and lifted his blankets.
Muffled by a greater distance, the sounds began again, while beside William, the knight began to snore.
Thinking of the transaction that had just taken place and the new one in progress, William realised what that line on the Queen’s bedchamber floor had symbolised, why he wouldn’t cross it, and why she would never invite him to do so.
The realisation relaxed his thoughts and he closed his eyes.
The tension in his groin remained though—a dull, persistent surge that was not eased by the moans emanating from further down the line of pallets.
Priests advocated will power and prayer to battle the lusts of the flesh.
The Sire de Tancarville, of a more worldly and practical mind, had provided whores for his men, like the one going about her business now.
For the soldiers lacking funds or fastidious like William, he had baldly suggested the common remedy.
William resorted to this now, quickly and quietly.
He was young and aroused and it took no time.
There was guilt after the swift pangs of pleasure, but not as much as there might have been given other circumstances, and there was relief too.
Soon he was as soundly asleep as his companions, and since his dreams had arrived early and troubled his waking mind, they did not disturb his slumber.