Chapter 9 #2
The brightness of Henry’s tears gave way to a different sheen, one that was vindictive and glittering with ambition.
“My mother is going to get Geoffrey and Richard away to safety and then she’ll join us.
We have allies only waiting the word to rise against him…
in England too. The Earls of Leicester and Norfolk are with us, and the King of Scots and his brother. ”
Although he felt an initial shock at the revelation, William had been expecting something of the sort.
Recently a steady trickle of messengers had been visiting the Young King’s chambers, some at very unsociable hours.
William could not read and wasn’t a party to what their letters contained, but he had seen the way their contents set the Young King on edge and, even if he couldn’t understand the written word, he well recognised many of the seals, including those of Leicester and Norfolk.
There had been clandestine meetings with Eleanor too, to which he had not been a party, but of which he was well aware.
Filled with misgiving, he kept pace with his young lord but wondered how this could end without all sides losing.
They reached Argentan, a blood-red sunset turning the trees to black behind them and the keep’s great walls punching towards the dying light.
The porter hurried to admit them, and the constable came in haste, taken by surprise at the sudden appearance of the Young King and his conroi.
Servants were sent running to the kitchens and the laundry chests and a chamber was swiftly prepared.
Questions filled the man’s gaze, although he asked none and the look on Henry’s face kept the constable’s lips sealed except for the remark that it was always a pleasure to receive the King’s eldest son.
“I hope that you’ll remember those words,” Henry said, looking round. “I’m expecting the arrival of some of my wife’s kin. I want them welcomed and brought to me the instant they ride in.”
“Yes, sire. May I enquire how many?”
Henry shrugged. “Probably half a dozen and their retinues.”
The constable blenched, partly at the notion of having to cater for another host at short notice, partly at the fact they would be French and thus the natural adversaries of Normandy—even if they were Henry’s kin by marriage.
“They won’t be staying and neither will I,” Henry snapped. “You need not concern yourself on that score.”
He retired to the room that had been rapidly prepared for him and, touching the linen bedsheets, made a face.
“Cold as a witch’s arse,” he said and turned to warm his hands at one of the braziers that had been kindled in an effort to banish the dank chill from the room.
Having departed Chinon at speed, Henry was without the usual comforts of his baggage train—the hangings, the candelabra, his own sheets and bedcovers, silver-gilt cups and platters, and had perforce to use the equipment supplied by his host.
William set out his own kit by the side of his pallet and drew his sword to check the blade for nicks and rust. It was a comforting ritual; something to ground him when the terrain underfoot was shifting like grains of sand on a dry beach.
The detail that Henry was expecting members of the French court had surprised him.
The steps of the dance had quickened, and if he didn’t want to fall by the wayside, he would have to pick up the pace at once.
Dismissing the constable’s servants with a flick of his fingers, Henry paced over to William. “Marshal, I have a boon to ask of you,” he said.
William sheathed his sword and propped his scabbard against the wall.
Close now, he could see the smudged shadows under the Young King’s eyes and the sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat.
In spite of his misgivings, William was swept by a wave of tender concern.
“You have no need to seek boons of me, sire,” he said, opening his hands.
“Anything you command of me I will perform to the best of my honour and ability.”
Henry nodded. “I know that, but this is not a command and I ask out of friendship and respect.”
William could have said that it made no difference, that a request from Henry was as good as an order, but it would have been ungracious; and the way the young man spoke the words, the look of uncertainty on his face, the combination of reckless courage and charm, made William realise why, even through the exasperation, irritation, and impatience, he had taken an oath to stand beside him unto death.
Therefore he remained silent, his expression solemn and filled with waiting.
“I cannot lead men in battle unless I am a knight.” The tightness of Henry’s jaw made hollows in his cheeks. “I…I want you to confer it upon me.”
William inhaled sharply. To one side he was aware of Baldwin de Béthune and Adam Yqueboeuf staring with open mouths. “Me, sire? You want me to confer your knighthood?” For once, William’s aplomb deserted him. “Would not the King of France be better, or one of his lords?”
Henry shook his head impatiently. “No, I want you to do it. Why should you be so surprised? You have the renown, and the respect of all your peers. My mother loves and trusts you.” His complexion flushed. “It means more to me that you belt on my sword than any Frenchman, no matter his rank.”
“Then I would be honoured to knight you, sire,” William said hoarsely. He bent his knee and bowed his head, but Henry immediately bade him stand.
“I should kneel to you,” he said. “You have trained me to arms, you have stood at my side even when I haven’t deserved it.
You show me what courtesy should be.” He knelt before William, the gesture dramatic but sincere.
William sought for something to say but this was new territory and he had no precedents to guide him.
“Sire, you imbue me with virtues that I am not sure are mine. Please.” Stooping, William drew Henry to his feet and gave him the kiss of peace.
For a moment the young man gripped his arm.
To the others it looked like a soldiers’ clasp but William could feel the desperation in the touch.
Henry wanted to be considered a man, capable of ruling, a fledged knight, a fine general on the battefield, a king.
All those things he might become in time, but, for the moment, he was borrowing the robes of such men to clad a fickle, untried youth.
As his young wife had done, he was asking William for reassurance.
Unqualified, shouldering his own burden of expectation, William borrowed a stranger’s robes too—and gave it.