Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
“Sire?” William strode into his lord’s chamber, noting that most of the household knights were already present.
Clutching a half-full goblet of wine, Henry was sitting upon his bed which had not yet been prepared for slumber.
The hangings were tied back and the day cover of grey and cream wolfskins was still in place.
“My father has made me an offer, Marshal,” Henry said without preamble, “and I have to decide whether to accept or throw it in his teeth.”
William scrambled for his wits. He was tired but knew he would receive no consideration for that. “What does the offer entail, sire?”
Raising his cup, Henry drank the wine to the lees and thrust it out to an attendant to be refilled. “He says that if I will cease making trouble and return to the fold, he will give me seventy pounds a day and stand the expenses for seventy knights for a year.”
William nodded and rubbed his brow. “What do the King of France and the Count of Flanders say?”
Henry made a flat gesture with the palm of his hand.
“That I should demand my rights in Normandy and take nothing less—but they would, wouldn’t they, because it’s in their interests to keep my family divided.
” He took the refilled cup and immediately gulped down the top third.
To judge by his flushed cheek and glassy eye, he would soon be too gilded to stand up, let alone make a decision.
“But they’re right too. It’s shameful that Richard and Geoffrey have territories to rule—and ruin in Richard’s case—but I have nothing. ”
“In time, my lord, you will have more than any of your brothers,” William pointed out.
“Hah! My father is not yet fifty years old. His father may have died at that age, but his grandsire kept his arse on the throne until he was almost seventy. How old will I be before I have my chance? Perhaps I won’t.
Perhaps I’ll die before the old miser if he hoards his life the way he hoards his power. ”
“King Philip and the Count of Flanders are right, sire,” said Yqueboeuf aggressively. “You should send your father’s heralds back with the message that you’ll settle for nothing less than the rule of Normandy.”
Henry chewed his forefinger. “You think so?”
“I do, sire. It is the only answer you can give.” The knight folded his arms and cast a challenge-filled glance towards William, daring him to contradict.
Predictably, the de Coulances brothers were nodding too, unconsciously echoing Yqueboeuf’s mannerisms. Several others muttered agreement, keen to endorse what looked like the prevailing opinion.
“Baldwin?” Henry turned to Baldwin of Béthune. “What do you say?”
Baldwin scratched his chin. “That you should keep negotiating, sire. I think it unlikely that your father will give you Normandy whatever you do.”
Henry scowled. “You do, do you?”
“You asked for my opinion, sire.” Baldwin stood his ground. His wide, candid gaze was disarming and belied the fact that he was one of the shrewdest knights in Henry’s mesnie.
Henry turned to William. “What should I do? Take my father’s offer, or tell him to go to the devil?”
William’s brow pleated in a frown. “What Baldwin says is true. Your father will not give you Normandy, or even part of Normandy, but your presence at the French court is causing him great discomfort and aggravation. He is unsure of you. He almost lost his crown last time you rebelled and you were only a youth then. How much more havoc could you wreak now you have come to manhood?”
“You think I could take him on and win?” Henry’s eyes gleamed at the prospect.
William shook his head. The notion of father and son facing each other across a battle field curdled his stomach.
“Your father won’t repeat the mistakes of nine years ago.
He will quash anyone he suspects before they can organise and apportion the blame afterwards.
But if you do take up arms against him, it is going to cause him a deal of trouble.
I would counsel you not go to war with him, but bargain hard for the best settlement you can achieve.
If he will not give you Normandy, then you should demand the trappings that would be yours if you were indeed its ruler. ”
Henry mulled the suggestion. “You’re as wily as a merchant, Marshal,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not born from burgher stock?”
“He certainly likes to keep their company,” Yqueboeuf sneered, referring to William’s friendship with several of the traders and brokers who serviced the court.
“You can learn a great deal from merchants,” William retorted. “You should ask something for the Queen’s household too,” he added to Henry. “That way King Philip will not feel that his family’s dignity has been slighted.”
Henry drained his wine. “A good idea.” His laugh was hollow. “One way or the other, I will make my father pay.”
William would have left then, but Henry was not ready to retire.
Like an exhausted child at a celebration he was querulous, excited, on edge, and dangerous.
He summoned a scribe and had him pen a letter to his father, setting out the terms by which he would agree to come to peace.
William listened to him pile on the demands and inwardly winced, knowing who was going to be blamed.
Henry seemed to be enjoying the list he was dictating to the scribe and kept looking to Yqueboeuf and the de Coulances brothers for encouragement.
“Our young lord likes your notion,” Baldwin murmured out of the side of his mouth. “Let us hope we won’t regret it.”
“What else could I do? He’s not in a mood to listen except to what he wants to hear.
It was better than urging him to war.” William dry-washed his face and wished he was a hundred miles away.
Henry’s musicians arrived, their faces puffy and pale from lack of sleep.
Knowing exactly how they felt, William watched them set up in a corner and bring out their instruments—a Spanish lute and an Irish harp.
He listened to the bleary plunk and twiddle of notes, and grimaced.
“Speaking of not wanting to hear, you should know that the rumours about you and Marguerite haven’t abated,” Baldwin muttered grimly.
“There are some in the mesnie who would do anything to see you fall. Yqueboeuf talks to the others about how concerned he is for the Young King’s reputation, but it’s his own rise and your fall that he’s courting. ”
“I do know of the rumours, but thank you,” William said quietly and gave Baldwin a bleak smile. “You’re a good friend.”
Baldwin shook his head and looked troubled. “Yes, but I can’t be everywhere at once,” he said. “Watch your back.”
It was dawn before Henry finally went to bed.
The messengers had been despatched to his father at first light, and as the cockerels of the ?le-de-France crowed on their dunghills, William made his way back to his lodging house, accompanied by Harry Norreis.
William was staggering with tiredness. All he wanted to do was collapse on a thickly stuffed feather mattress and sleep for ever, but there was little chance of that just yet.
“Harry,” he said with a jaw-cracking yawn, “next time we are on a tourney field, try not to be so exuberant about shouting my prowess abroad. There are some whom it offends, and while I do not give a cat’s tail for their sensibilities, it might be diplomatic for you to hold off for a while.”
Harry reddened. “I will do so if you wish it, sir, but those who are offended are naught but cowards and liars whose deeds will never match up to yours.” The auburn stubble on his jaw bristled with his indignation.
William found a weary smile. “Your faith commends you,” he said. “I am not certain that my deeds will ever match up to theirs though.”
Harry blinked and looked at him with the expression if not the wisdom of an owl. “Sir?”
William shook his head. “Go to. Seek your pallet for a few hours if you can. I have no doubt that we’ll be called to attend on the Young King the moment he wakes.
” He slapped Harry on the shoulder and, smiling, watched him shamble off towards his pallet in a corner of the downstairs room.
The knight always reminded him of one of the tenacious little terriers that delighted in shoving their heads down fox dens and badger sets and clearing out infestations of rats in barns, often at the risk of being bitten themselves.
He wondered how long it would be before one of his detractors referred to Harry as his lap dog.
On heavy legs he mounted the stairs to the bedchamber, set his hand to the latch and shouldered open the door.
Although outside a red autumn sun was rising out of the banks of the night, the shutters were still latched and the room was dark and imbued with the lingering smell of snuffed candles.
With foreboding but no surprise, William went to the windows, unfastened the boards, and let in the morning.
The light from the open window cascaded on to the bed, brightening the colours on the striped coverlet, picking out the lozenges woven into the woollen hangings.
It was neatly made and the pillows so plumped and smoothed that not a hint remained that anyone had ever slept there.
Clara’s travelling chest was gone from its corner, and with it the enamelled box he had given her to hold her combs and brooches.
He knew that she must have waited those few hours of his asking, for the brazier was still warm and there was a feel of recent occupancy, but she had not given him the leeway of more time.
Why should she? What would they have said anyway? It was over.
William unlatched his belt and dropped it on the floor.
With fumbling hands, he stripped to his shirt and braies and, groaning softly, flopped on to the bed.
Upon the pillow, a single fine, dark hair pointed up his loss.
Pinching it between finger and thumb, he held it up to the light and then scattered it free.
He supposed that she was right. He cared, he cared deeply, but not enough to abandon his post at court and chase after her to Le Mans to try and win her back.
He turned on his side, drew up his knees, and slept.