Chapter 24 #2
Eleanor pursed her lips and picked up her needle.
“That shows you how much you know of marriage,” she said, and her amusement was now tinged with asperity, “…and that you must have ridden around with your eyes closed for the last twenty years.” She gave him a shrewd look.
“I do not know how well informed your travels have been, but Marguerite is no longer at Philip’s court.
She wed King Bela of Hungary last year.”
The thought of Marguerite sent a pang of emotion through William like sudden pressure on a healing wound. “I hope that she finds happiness in the match,” he said, realising that he would probably never see her again.
“Oh yes,” Eleanor said acerbically, “there is always hope.” His face must have given something away, for her expression softened slightly. “It was a good match,” she said, “better than either of mine have been.”
William was spared from answering as a knock on the chamber door heralded his summons to the presence of the King, who had returned from his hunting trip. As he rose to leave and bent over Eleanor’s hand in farewell, she said, “Be careful what you wish for, William, for you might receive it.”
“I hope so, madam,” he said with a rueful smile.
Eleanor watched him bow from the room, still graceful as a cat despite his travel-tiredness.
“I am a good woman,” offered her youngest maid, Gersendis, hopefully.
Eleanor gave her a pitying look. “Not William Marshal’s sort of good,” she said as she resumed her sewing. Now and then her eyes went to the small ampoule he had given her and she thought about what he had said, and even more about the spaces between his words.
William was shocked to see how much King Henry had aged in the three years since they had parted company at his son’s tomb in Rouen.
Henry’s eyes were bloodshot, as if with too much wine or not enough sleep.
His complexion was wind-blown and ruddy from hard exercise, but he looked neither healthy nor robust. Prince John, now nineteen years old, had accompanied him on the hunt.
He possessed his mother’s high cheekbones and fine hazel eyes.
An attempt at growing a beard had edged his strong chin and petulant upper lip with a minimal dark grizzle.
“Hah!” Henry clasped William’s arm in a hard grip and raised him to his feet. “You’ve returned to me then?”
“It was my duty…and my loyalty, sire.”
“Loyalty,” Henry repeated the word as if he didn’t know whether to choke on it or roar with laughter.
“You always have the right words, Marshal, I’ll grant you that.
” He turned to his half-smiling youngest son.
“Loyalty is as valuable as gold,” he said.
“Especially loyalty like the Marshal’s. Remember it well. ”
“It can be bought with gold too,” John said, “or bought off.” He looked at William. “What’s your price, Marshal?”
William hesitated, tempted to tell John that it was more than a too-clever stripling like him could afford, but prudence curbed his tongue.
He reminded himself that his elder brother was one of the Prince’s men.
“That is between myself and your father, Lord John,” he replied, “should he wish to retain my services. What I did for your brother, I did for love, not gain.”
“But you will gain by it, won’t you!” the youth said with bright malice in his eyes.
“John, enough, stop teasing.” Henry raised an indulgent hand towards his youngest son. “Come, Marshal, share wine and tell me about the pilgrimage.”
It was very late when William returned to his tent, staggering through the cool spring evening, his way lit by stars and the soft flare of cooking fires.
Time and again he was stopped by men who wanted to greet his return and welcome him home.
He found the smiles, the right words to say; he managed brief conversations.
He had had a long apprenticeship in the art and even when less than sober could still hold himself together to play the game.
But it was wearisome and he felt a powerful sense of relief as he finally reached his pavilion.
His fingers, usually so swift and dextrous, fumbled at the flap ties and Eustace had to undo them for him.
“Never drink the King’s wine, especially after the Queen’s,” he told the squire. “They don’t agree with each other.”
“Like their owners,” Eustace said. “Have you eaten?”
William snorted at the first remark and waved away the second. “Less than I’ve drunk but more than enough if my gut’s the judge. All I need now is sleep.”
Eustace saw him inside the tent and loosely retied the flaps.
By a lantern’s dim glow, William lay down on his pallet, grateful to find that the squire had stuffed it with plenty of fresh straw.
But although he was exhausted, sleep was slow in coming and his brain, like his abused stomach, continued to churn and swirl upon its contents.
Henry had wanted to know about his pilgrimage, but in different substance to the Queen.
Not for him the colours and texture of the journey, but the stark facts succinctly given like a battle report.
The only images he demanded in detail were those of the laying of his dead son’s cloak at Christ’s tomb and the lighting of a candle for the young man’s departed soul.
William had given him what he required, as he had given Eleanor, but at cost to himself and with Prince John looking on and absorbing every word and nuance with the greedy eyes of a predator.
At least it was over now, he thought, trying to recover his mental balance as the tent whirled around him.
At least now that it was told, it could be put in a chest with the silk palls—always there, always a reminder, but not for daily inspection.
When William had done with his tale, Henry had asked him to stay, speaking of grants and riches that could be his for the taking of an oath of fealty while John looked on with a knowing smirk.
“I have an heiress in wardship,” Henry had said, “and I have been looking for a suitable administrator for her lands. She is of marriageable age. You can be her warden or her husband as you please.”
William closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his lids until stars came.
Her name was Heloise of Kendal and she held substantial estates in the north of England.
Henry had given him other wardships too, but they were insignificant when compared to the main one.
He had also granted him a piece of land abutting Heloise’s domains, to do with as he chose, although his homage for the land would be owed to Prince John who held it of his father.
William had accepted the grant, had drunk a toast of the King’s musty household wine, and sworn his fealty.
He had a new lord, a new cloak to put on, but whether it would fit him well was another matter.