The Scarlet Lion (30 page)

Twenty-four

WOODSTOCK, OXFORDSHIRE, NOVEMBER 1207

William had never been fond of the chase the way that other men were. When they gathered in enthusiastic huddles to discuss every twist and turn of the pursuit, every thrust of spear and flight of arrow, his attention would wander and his eyes glaze over. He enjoyed eating the fruits of the kill—he was extremely fond of roast boar with cammeline sauce and the cook at Striguil had a particular way with venison that made it worth a fifty-mile detour just for the pleasure of dining on the dish. However, he had a small army of huntsmen and foresters to bring such delicacies to his table. Chasing some poor dumb beast in order to put a blade through its heart was not a pastime he enjoyed.

   King John had desired to hunt and William had had no option but to join him and the rest of the court in the extensive deer park surrounding the palace. William did not have to be at the forefront of the chase though, and had dropped back off the pace. The halloo of the hunting horn sounded through the woods, made plaintive by distance. King John and his immediate party, which included several of William's Irish vassals, Meilyr FitzHenry amongst them, and William's own eldest son in his capacity of squire, had raced off in pursuit of a ten-pointed hart. William had let them go, retaining only his nephew and his knight Henry Hose as escort.

   "Not joining the fray, Marshal?" William de Braose joined him. His horse, a powerful grey, was sweated up and nervously sidling. De Braose was out of favour with John too. Ostensibly it was about the vast sums of money de Braose owed to the Crown for land grants, but there were undercurrents, some of them so murky that no sane man would dip his hand into them.

   "No," William answered wryly. "They are intent on their prey for the moment and I wouldn't want to distract them from their victim."

   De Braose grunted with caustic humour. "Me neither, but you're a brave man not to listen to what they're plotting behind your back."

   "They won't have time to plot anything in the thick of the chase. It's all about building patronage and alliances while making me know that I am as welcome as a leper at a marriage feast. The plotting will come later."

   "And it does not bother you?"

   "Of course it does, but I will not waste my energy at this stage on what cannot be changed."

   De Braose's mouth twisted as if he had bitten into a piece of bread and discovered it full of weevils. "Philip of Prendergast is wed to your wife's half-sister, is he not? These men are your vassals, and your kin by marriage. How can you let them plot treachery under your nose?"

   "Better that than leaving them to their own devices in Ireland. Besides," William added drily, "they haven't committed any treachery yet." He ducked as he rode beneath a low oak branch, then reined his courser in the direction of the far-away sound of the horn.

   "Perhaps not," de Braose growled, "but the stench of it would still outdo a fox den in the mating season." He clapped spurs to the grey and rode on.

   "What was all that about?" Jack Marshal asked.

   William glanced at his nephew. "The King desires to curb de Braose's power and influence the same as he desires to curb mine." He looked thoughtful. "De Braose is in debt beyond any means of getting out of it, and John is hounding him."

   "But de Braose is…" Jack began, then glanced at Henry Hose and changed what he had been about to say. "…is one of the King's staunchest allies."

   "An ally who has demanded far too much for services rendered," William said with a pointed look at his nephew. He knew Jack had been about to speak of de Braose's claim to have heard King Richard's deathbed statement naming John his heir. De Braose had also been in Rouen at the time of Arthur's disappearance and that was a subject no one mentioned.

   Far away, he heard the mort being blown. William did not have to add that he too was endangered by the wolf pack; the more so because he had brought his with him.

***
"See, Marshal, a fine ten-point hart!" John boasted as William
rejoined the hunt. "A pity you couldn't keep up with us for the
kill, but at least your son knows his part."

   William glanced at his heir. Will was carrying a spear. A hunting knife hung at his left hip, a finger smear of blood daubed his right cheek, and his eyes shone with exhilaration. He was surrounded by several of William's Irish vassals. Meilyr FitzHenry was openly smirking. The dead deer had been gutted and was being borne between poles carried by four huntsmen.

   "Your Irish lords are doughty huntsmen," John added with malice. "They don't hang back like finicky old women. What kind of leader shirks the fray?"

   "The kind whom men do not respect, sire?" Meilyr FitzHenry responded as if giving a civil answer to a genuine question. "In Ireland such a one would not last for long."

John looked amused. "What do you say to that, Marshal?"

"Nothing, sire," William replied evenly.

John looked disdainfully surprised. "Nothing?"

   "There is no point. Lord Meilyr is entitled to his opinion concerning leadership, but he knows that the hunt is not the same as the battlefield—or I hope he does, for his sake."

   An irritated expression crossed Meilyr's face. "You will not find me lacking in either skill," he said haughtily. "I remind you that I have dwelt in Ireland for more than thirty years, and you have not."

   William inclined his head. "Indeed, my lord, and I have dwelt at court for the same and you have not, so which one of us is a fish out of water?"

   Meilyr opened his mouth to retort, but John pre-empted him with a look and calming gesture. "This is neither the time nor the place for such debate and the dinner hour waits at the lodge. Let every man who took part in the hunting of this fine beast have a place at my table. Let those who stayed back find their hospitality elsewhere." As he spoke, John leaned to place an avuncular hand on Will's shoulder. The meaning, aimed at William, was explicit.
I have your son and under your nose I am making of him what I choose.

   There was a flurry of laughter at William's expense, some of it good-natured, but much of it tinged with malice. William absorbed the snub impassively, telling himself that at least he didn't have to sit at a table and be pleasant to Meilyr for the rest of the day, but nevertheless, he felt the cut, and he was filled with apprehension on Will's behalf.

                             *** On returning to the palace, William sought out Thomas Sandford, who had day-to-day custody of his second son. Richard was cheerfully polishing harness and talking to another squire as he worked. A soft fuzz of moustache and beard framed his developing features. William was both amused and envious. Growing a beard of any kind had been beyond him at sixteen.

   "You're doing a fine job," he remarked with a nod at the shine on the harness.

   Richard flashed a grin. "I don't want to be whipped for bad work." His voice had deepened several notches since the spring and was still going down.

   Thomas Sandford made a rude sound between pursed lips. "The reason you are polishing harness in the first place instead of riding with the hunt is in lieu of a whipping, and well you know it, lad." He cast an exasperated glance at William. "He put a dead rat in a lady's travelling satchel on the road here, and he skipped mass to attend a cockfight when I had given explicit orders that he be in church."

   Richard studied his shoes, his expression as modest as a demoiselle's. William tried to look severe, but couldn't prevent a smile tugging at his mouth corners. Thomas relented and, with a laugh, tousled Richard's bright hair. "Ah, it's the usual squire's mischief, and no real harm done," he said. "He has a good heart and he works well. As long as his head doesn't swell out of proportion to the rest of him with all the thoughts it contains, he'll prove a fine knight."

   Sandford's praise gave William a much-needed boost of pleasure. "When I was his age I was known as 'Guzzleguts' and 'Slugabed,'" he said. "And I had to endure a deal of jealousy and taunting from men who resented me."

   Sandford cleared his throat. "Well, life doesn't change much. I watch him as much as I can."

   "For which I'm grateful, if an accursed man's gratitude means anything."

   Sandford rubbed the back of his neck and looked embarrassed. He was a King's man, a royal servant and a healthy sense of self-preservation kept him circumspect.

"My other son…he is with the King much of the time?"

   "Of late, my lord, yes, but he is well into his training now. He's an expert carver at the table and the King often employs him for that."

   Richard set the harness to one side. "He's taken up with one of the court ladies, the one whose satchel I gifted with a rat," he volunteered.

   William raised an eyebrow. "Has he indeed?"

   "It's nothing," Sandford said. "All lads of that age have an itch in their braies."

   William eyed the knight. "True, but who is she and how is he affording her price? I certainly couldn't have paid for the services of such women when I was his age—assuming that we are speaking of a courtesan and not someone's wife or daughter?" He knew all about the court whores. They followed in the royal train: bright, gaudy butterflies whose task it was to entertain men who were absent from home for long stretches of time, or who had the financial means and the appetites but not the wives to relieve their lusts. Most of the women had expensive tastes in one form or another and would not be inclined to waste time on a boy of seventeen whose father might be a magnate, but one who was dangerously outside the royal favour.

   Sandford looked uneasy. "That I don't know. I assumed that perhaps he had some income from you. Also, the woman seems to find him engaging. I was under the impression it amused her to take an inexperienced but enthusiastic lad under her wing and teach him things. No harm in that."

   William remembered Isabelle's fears that their sons would be morally corrupted by life at court and their young lives twisted in directions that neither she nor William would have chosen for them. No court whore would take a squire between her legs out of charity. Whim was probably not the motive either. The court prostitutes were established courtesans of the shrewdest order and were only kind for money or power.

   "You'll only make things worse if you throw down a challenge to his manhood," Sandford warned.

   "You think so?" William gave an arid smile. "The way matters stand, I doubt it."

                             *** Lying on the camp bed in his pavilion, William abandoned the idea of sleep. He pillowed his hands behind his head and breathed slowly and deeply, relaxing his body even while his thoughts continued to dart and turn like shoals of small fish. Nights like this were more usual to him on battle campaign and he knew that providing he rested, he could do without the sleep. Knowing that he had Isabelle and their children waiting to welcome him home usually sustained him but now the security of his family was one of his darting thoughts. He feared for them. Meilyr FitzHenry had been casting him malicious smirks as if he knew something William didn't. William knew how vulnerable the Irish lands were. Jean was experienced but untried at the level William was demanding of him. Meilyr's capabilities were an unknown quantity. John's, however, were all too obvious. William shied from that line of thought because it led to anxiety beyond bearing. What he needed to do was concentrate on his own responses to the threats and therefore be prepared.

   He turned to considering his eldest son. What to do about Will? Let matters run their course? Pretend that as a father he did not see what was happening? Thomas Sandford said that every youth sowed wild oats, which was true, but not every youth did it at court in the company of whores and unsavoury hangers-on…and in the company of John himself, whose twisted soul had the capacity to bend others out of true. He thought of himself at that age. What would his father have done? Probably laughed and joined him in waywardness, purloining the woman along the way, and out-thinking everyone into the bargain.

   "What do I do?" he asked the canvas roof of his pavilion. The response was a soft spatter of rain and a flurry of chill November breeze.

   "My lord, did you speak?" His squire poked his head around the flaps.

   "Only to myself. Hand me my cloak, lad."

   "You're going out, my lord?" The youth's gaze widened with surprise.

   "Yes," William said. "Put up another bed while I'm gone. I may be returning with company."

                             *** William found his eldest son playing dice in a corner of the hall with a group of the King's mercenaries. A trestle from the earlier feast had been left in situ as their gaming board and their play was illuminated by half a dozen candle stubs rammed on wrought-iron spikes. A woman with cider-coloured braids and a figure-skimming gown of green samite was sitting in Will's lap. His tunic and shirt gaped at the throat and the woman's hand was very busy inside his braies. Will's face was drinkflushed and his eyes as glassy as those of a dead herring.

   William hesitated briefly, then squared his shoulders and strode forward to the company. "God's greeting," he said pleasantly enough, and gave a separate, businesslike nod to the whore whom he knew from long acquaintance if not by personal commerce. "Marie."

   She gave him a sultry look from eyes the deep brown of oak-gall ink and shamelessly continued to work her hand inside Will's braies. William considered her optimistic. The condition the boy was in, she had more chance of raising the dead than a cockstand.

   "Marshal," saluted the mercenary Gerard D'Athée, an unsettling combination of mockery and wariness adorning his blunt features. "Have you come to play dice with the dregs of the earth?"

   "Another time perhaps," William said with icy good manners. "I desire a word with my son in private—a family matter."