Chapter 10
Ten
The trees were in full pale green leaf as William rode along the dust-whitened lane towards Hamstead.
The twitter of birdsong, the soft plod of shod hoof, and the creak of harness and accoutrements were pleasant sounds, but to William they were an uncomfortable reminder of the day his uncle Patrick had been murdered by the Lusignans.
That too had been a soft, spring day with everyone off their guard.
Not that he expected to be attacked within sight of the family keep, but memory did not answer to reason and he rode in his hauberk with his sword belted at his hip and a mace pushed through his belt.
He had left the Young King at Westminster with his father, attending a synod convened by the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Father and son had been on the best of terms, laughing at each other’s jests, clapping each other’s shoulders like old friends.
No one would suspect there had been a deep rift between them, or guess that their quarrel had caused a vicious, bloody war.
But William only had to see smoke rising from a burning midden pit to remember the villages in flames as the bitter dispute ravaged the land and plagues of mercenaries despoiled and plundered at will.
The sight of a dead ox or sheep would clench his gut even before his nostrils drew in the stench.
Every castle he passed left him pondering ways to besiege it and bring it to surrender.
William was pragmatic; he had not flinched from deeds of fire and sword, but there was a price to pay and it lay heavy on him now.
Louis of France had welcomed Young Henry with open arms; had given him a seal of his own, generous funds, and together they had coordinated an attack on Henry’s father.
Richard and Geoffrey had arrived safely at the French court to join the rebellion but their mother had been captured as she rode to join them, disguised as a man, and was now under house arrest at Salisbury.
The Young King had threatened to hew England to pieces in order to free her.
Richard had been vociferous in his declarations to do just that, for the bond between him and his mother was particularly close.
However, the practicalities had proven more difficult than the rhetoric and the English uprising had been left to the likes of the Earls of Leicester and Norfolk with aid from the Scots, who were always willing to stir the pot.
The unrest had been widespread but the justiciar, Richard de Luci, had managed to contain it, the rebels had been routed, and their leaders captured.
In Normandy too, despite modest successes and French support, the rebellion had failed.
The best that could be salvaged was the King’s concession that his eldest son should have an income of his own, rather than be dependent on begging at his father’s purse strings.
Young Henry had been given two castles in Normandy and an annual income of fifteen thousand Angevin pounds.
Richard was to have half the revenues of Poitou and Geoffrey the same for Brittany.
But the Young King had been forced to acknowledge his father’s right to make provision for John as he deemed fit, and Queen Eleanor remained a prisoner in Salisbury.
As William approached Hamstead he tried to set aside thoughts of the war, but it was difficult since his brother had fought in it too—on the King’s side.
He hoped that John would understand, but a nugget of uncertainty caused him to pull back on the bridle even while he urged his palfrey onwards.
Confused, the horse champed the bit and baulked.
Rhys uttered a startled expletive as his horse collided with William’s mount and he had to rein back to avoid the irritated lash of a hind hoof.
William apologised. “I was thinking back instead of going forward,” he said.
“Never wise to do that,” Rhys replied in his sing-song French.
“No,” William agreed wryly. He looked at the small Welshman. Since his thoughts were on the recent war, it was a natural progression to mention Rhys’s former lord. “Richard de Clare was in Normandy fighting for King Henry,” he said. “Were you not tempted to return to him?”
Rhys screwed up his face. “I thought about it, sir, especially when things were going badly for us, but I knew that I’d be jumping out of the cauldron into the fire.
Lord Richard came to fight for King Henry because he was ordered—because it was his duty and he’s a man of honour.
But he’s back in Ireland now, and Ireland was the reason I left his service. ”
William nodded at his servant’s reply. He had encountered de Clare briefly during the peace negotiations.
There had been a few new scars, and the auburn hair had begun to salt with grey.
Despite a leg wound that was slow to heal, the lord of Leinster and Striguil had been full of vigour.
In some ways, Richard de Clare reminded William of his own father.
There was that same incisive, ruthless streak combined with charisma and vision—and so much vitality that only the energy he threw into warfare seemed able to calm it.
“Lord Richard wouldn’t want to be away from the Princess Aoife and his children for too long, especially now she’s borne him a son and heir.”
William raised an eyebrow. “You keep abreast of his doings then.”
Rhys glanced over his shoulder towards William’s modest baggage train and the quiet, dark-eyed woman straddling one of the pack horses. “My wife’s like all women—no interest in men’s disputes, but likes to know the cosy fireside details.”
William laughed quietly at his groom’s eloquent expression. His heart was lightened by Rhys’s domestic observation and he urged his palfrey towards Hamstead with restored buoyancy.
William watched the toddler struggle out of his mother’s arms and, squealing with joy, make a beeline for her pet mouser.
The sleek tabby cat sprang from floor to sideboard and, curling its paws into its chest, regarded the infant disdainfully out of slanting golden eyes, the tip of its tail twitching.
The squeals became less delighted. The infant reached upwards, fat fists opening and closing. “Cat,” he shouted. “Cat, cat, cat!”
“He has our father’s determination and the temper of the King,” John Marshal said smiling with paternal pride.
William grinned. “You mean he bites the floor rushes when he is denied?”
“As near as makes no difference.” John eyed William. “I never believed those tales about King Henry doing that. I’ve seen him in some rages this past year, but never rolling on the floor.”
“Neither have I, but if true, he would do it for the effect it had on the witnesses, not because he was suffering from a fit of uncontrollable fury.”
“Cat!” The toddler’s scream was ear-splitting.
Flushed with chagrin, Alais hastened to distract her son with a morsel of honeycomb but he was having none of it and continued to yell.
William stooped to seize a fistful of his nephew’s smock and swung him aloft.
The infant stared at him in astonishment, pink mouth frozen open and the wail locked in his throat.
“If you are going to be my squire in years to come, you’ll have to learn the meaning of courtesy,” William informed his nephew, “and that some things are out of bounds, no matter how much you scream.”
“You didn’t teach your other pupil very well, did you?” John said acidly. “The tantrum he threw was beyond belief.”
William swung his nephew up on to his shoulders and wrapped his hands around the chubby feet, which were encased in soft, sheepskin slippers.
“I agree the Young King threw a tantrum, but it wasn’t beyond belief and in part he was justified.
Crowning him was like giving him a chest full of treasure and then telling him that he couldn’t open it and have any of the contents. ”
John was unimpressed. “Yes, and what would he have done with those contents? We’ve heard about his extravagances. It is said that were he given all the revenues of Normandy, he’d find ways to spend them in a week.”
“You shouldn’t listen to every piece of gossip you hear.” William swept the child down from his shoulders and swung him gently just off the floor. The baby laughed, exposing two rows of perfect white milk teeth. “He’s a fine, sturdy lad,” William said to Alais to change the subject.
She reddened with pleasure and smiled back.
Childbirth had ripened her curves. A wimple respectably covered her chestnut braids and although she wore no wedding ring, several others adorned her fingers, including one set with a fine ruby.
“He is a handful,” she said, “a proper boy, into every sort of scrape and not yet two summers old.” Her voice glowed with pride.
She touched William’s arm. “Whatever his father says, you will make a fine tutor for him when he’s old enough to be a squire, nor will it harm him to have an uncle well placed at court. ”
John coughed. “I do not call being tutor to a fickle young spendthrift and protégé of an imprisoned queen being well placed,” he said disagreeably.
“But things change.” Alais squeezed her lover’s arm. “Don’t be so crabby. William’s not here for long and you are brothers.”
“That’s no recommendation for harmony,” John growled but, at her glare, added, “I am pleased to see him, but that doesn’t stop us having our differences, and I can still be concerned for the future.”
William shrugged. “Plan for it by all means, but don’t let it trouble your sleep.”