The Silver Falcon (55 page)

That evening, William and Marguerite discussed with the steward what penalty they should impose on the reeve, and they decided to banish him. Everyone in Roford needed to understand that William was a good lord who would not tolerate such injustice. Alice, who was not answerable for her father’s shameful behavior, was given the choice whether to go with him or stay at the manor as a maid.

“He needs me,” the child said diffidently. “He wouldn’t last long without me. I’ve taken care of him since my mother died. I can’t leave him alone.”

Marguerite found it hard to let her go, but William insisted, even though he felt sorry for the girl, too.

“You gave her the choice instead of deciding what was best for her. Now you can only let her go.”

From that day on, even as they carried out their duties as Lord and Lady Roford, William and Marguerite were closer than ever. Every evening, as they sat in front of the fire, exhausted, they would tell each other about the difficulties they had encountered that day and ask each other for advice.

William knew he still had a lot to learn, and Marguerite was an excellent counselor. Although he had not been born to his present position, as she had been, and had not been brought up to it, the behavior of the villagers had demonstrated to him that he was not one of them, either. He was a lord now, but he could not call on any family ties, not even his father, for neither his mother nor King John had ever given away the secret of his birth. He had not been granted the education necessary for becoming a lord. He had not learned to fight with a lance or a sword; he could not write, read, or do sums. So he had a great deal to learn before he would be able to hold his own among the other lords. At all costs, William wanted to avoid looking like an upstart.

He had the village priest come and help him do battle with letters, and he asked a young knight to make him familiar with weaponry.

The steward, whom he had mistrusted after the incident with the reeve, proved himself honorable and true. But it was Marguerite, more than anyone else, who turned out to be his indispensable teacher on the way to being a lord.

During the years she had spent at court as John’s ward, she had met many important knights, barons, and churchmen. And since then she had constantly questioned John about everything and everyone. She was very well-informed about the complex web of baronial fiefdoms and families.

Marguerite knew who was promised to whom, which families were close, and which ones hated one another and why. She had listened attentively when John talked over things with his men, and she knew which towns and estates were particularly important for this or that title or even for the crown. Moreover, she had an unerring instinct about which barons could be carefully cultivated and which were better avoided, which were chronically devious and which could potentially be trusted.

“Our king does not understand who wishes him well,” she explained to William one evening as part of a commentary on certain important connections between influential and less important families. “Unfortunately, he rather likes surrounding himself with men like your good friend Odon and doesn’t realize that they stay close to him only for their own reasons and would betray him at the drop of a hat if it was worth enough to them. He doesn’t believe that many lords flatter him and tell him what he wants to hear in order to win his favor. There are many men like Odon in his inner circle. They know how to exploit every situation to their own advantage and have no scruples about bringing misfortune down on others. That’s what makes them so dangerous. Odon was always trying to poison John’s mind against you. He did it well, I must admit. He kept making small insinuations about you, sowing doubt. As long as I was at court, I could spoil his little game. But now I’m no longer beside John, and Odon and other envious men can do us harm.”

She put her hand to her stomach and grimaced for a moment, as if in pain.

“What is it?” William knelt down beside her. “The child?”

He was all too familiar with the dangers of childbirth. Since Marguerite had told him that she was with child, he had been tormented by dreams in which he saw Enid and his son as he had found them.

“It’s nothing. Godith told me it often pulls a little as the belly grows. I’m fine.”

William nodded, but his fear would not be put aside. He had to protect Marguerite and their child.

He hardly went hawking these days, and he neglected the training of the falcons because he did not want to leave his beloved wife alone. But he missed the work and became more and more insufferable as a result. He would quarrel with Marguerite for no reason, only to go to her later filled with remorse, seeking comfort
in her arms. On several occasions, he tried to tell her about Enid—but how? With what words? If he himself couldn’t live with the fear, how could he burden her with it?

“You’ve worked very hard these last few months. You haven’t spared yourself for one moment,” he said, worried. “You should rest more.”

“But I feel wonderful. What would you say to my visiting the queen? She has a lot of influence on John. I’m sure it would be helpful to know she was on our side.”

“Absolutely not. You’re not traveling, not in your condition,” William insisted. The thought of not having Marguerite constantly by his side was almost unbearable, especially now. If he hadn’t left Enid alone, she wouldn’t have been murdered.

“But it’s months away,” retorted Marguerite, argumentative as a child that felt misunderstood.

“I won’t have it, and that’s that,” he shouted before striding out of the hall. She wouldn’t understand, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that she should stay with him so that he could rush to her aid whenever she needed him.

Once out in the courtyard, he reached into the purse he kept on his belt at all times and took out the enamel plaque. “I must stay near her. Nothing must happen to her,” he whispered, almost as if swearing an oath, and stroked the slightly irregular surface of the enamel.

That night, when Marguerite came into the room and lay down beside him, he had known her so fervently it almost made her afraid. When he noticed, he felt ashamed, mumbled something that might have been an apology, withdrew from her, and turned his back on her.

For the first time in years, he shed tears for his dead son, but he did not tell Marguerite why he was weeping.

Robert sighed. Once again, William had spent the entire day in silence. He thought he knew what was going through his friend’s mind, for more than once he had seen William look at the enamel plaque and seen his expression become distant. So he was not surprised, one day, when he came upon a puffy-eyed Marguerite sitting alone in the hall, with her embroidery frame in her lap, sobbing softly.

“Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?” he asked diffidently, kneeling before her.

Marguerite sniffed and shook her head.

“It’s William that’s making you suffer, isn’t it?”

At that very moment, William came out of the couple’s bedchamber, stormed across the hall, and disappeared into the courtyard without a word of greeting.

“Did you see his expression? He’s become so grim,” Marguerite protested. “Anyone would think he didn’t want me, or the child. I don’t understand.” She wiped her face in a movement that was almost childlike.

“There is a sad story in William’s past,” Robert began. “I think that’s what lies behind his mood, especially now, when you’re expecting a child.” He did not know whether it was right to talk to Marguerite about this. But then he started telling her what he knew about Enid’s death. “He buried them both himself, with his own hands,” he concluded.

Marguerite, whose eyes had widened with horror as she listened, started sobbing again, even though Robert had spared her the grisly details. “Oh, my poor William. Now I understand what has been tormenting him, and why he won’t let me travel to see Isabelle. He’s afraid for me and the child.”

“There is something else you should perhaps know. I think Odon had something to do with Enid’s death. William has no idea, and I think he’s better off not knowing. We’ll probably never know exactly what happened, and maybe it’s better that way. So let
him have a little time. When the child is born, I’m quite certain his mood will improve.”

Marguerite nodded pensively. “Thank you, Robert. You’re a true friend.”

Instead of returning to the mews, Robert took a horse and rode north. Marguerite and William were in love. They were made for each other, and yet their love caused him more pain than he could bear. He knew how William felt about her and could not blame him for it. Marguerite was worthy of love. She possessed not only outward beauty but also inner beauty; she was clever and cultured, friendly, sympathetic, and just.

Although the thought that he would never be able to have William for himself almost drove him mad, Robert wanted nothing more than William’s happiness, even if it meant pain for himself.

The more he thought about William, the harder his heart beat. He’s so handsome, thought Robert, and he noticed that he was becoming aroused. His feelings for William were false, unnatural, and forbidden, he knew, but at the same time they were so exquisitely pleasurable he could not see anything wrong with loving him. From time to time, however, his lustful thoughts made working with his friend nearly impossible. Whenever his desire got out of hand, he would slip away and ride the few miles to Guildford.

When Robert reached this lively town, he went to a place he knew well, where men who felt as he did met in secret. Driven by lust, he wandered around the latrines, enjoying the sensation of being examined and desired. Lascivious words reached his ears and brought his blood to a boil. Blushing guiltily, he admired all of the men until a tall one with strong arms and a prominent chin gestured that he was interested.

Robert burned with desire. All he could think about was finding relief. So he nodded and allowed the man to push him into a dark corner. Two more men, still flushed with sin, crept past with their heads bowed in shame. Their lust had been slaked, and now they belonged to the devil. Robert knew God would punish them for the sin of sodomy, the same as him. But he did not care; only his desire mattered. Whatever resistance he might have once put up had vanished.

Robert could hardly breathe when the stranger passionately shoved him against the wooden wall. The man lecherously pressed against Robert from behind, and his sweaty stench mixed with that of the latrine. Robert felt his smock being lifted up and shuddered. Guilt and fear blended with the rapture unlocked by this exquisite recklessness. Robert breathed faster as the stranger began to pant with pleasure, enjoying the force of his movements.

When it was over, and Robert’s lust was satisfied, he rushed away, filled with shame and remorse. He adjusted his clothes and ran to the nearest church as fast as his feet could carry him.

Once again he had given in to this unspeakable sin, even though he had sworn many times that he would never do it again. He threw himself to the ground in abject humiliation, weeping and praying fervently. His guilt tormented him more each time, but he kept returning to that place, obeying his disgusting urges. Robert wept with despair. He knew that bishops and other lords of the church, even kings, fell prey to sins of this kind, but even that gave him no comfort.