There was a collective in-draw of breath around them, followed by a sharp titter from Ranulf.
Robert raised an eyebrow. “Do you feel neglected, William?”
Now William couldn’t stop the blush, and the hearty laughter of the other men made him even more embarrassed. “It’s not a complaint, sir. Just…”
“You wish to be used. Or useful, at least.” Robert came closer, his lips quirking. “You are the oldest of the squires in my service. My absence these past years will not have been easy for you.”
William held his tongue. He’d heard tales of men who’d gained their spurs at the age of fourteen or fifteen, when they were scarce old enough to become a squire, and he’d dreamed of such an achievement for himself when he’d been younger. Those days were long gone. Now he just wanted the chance to become a knight. “I am impatient to prove myself to you, my lord.”
Robert’s eyes gleamed. “Patience is a virtue.”
“I fear I am not a truly virtuous man.”
A look of devilry came into Robert’s expression. “Then perhaps you need to be taught a lesson.”
William stepped back in confusion. “Forgive my forwardness, sir. I only wanted to get your attention.”
Robert gave him another sparking look. “You have it. Don’t waste it.”
* * *
You have it. Don’t waste it.
Over the next few days, William brooded over those words, held them inside like a gift he didn’t want to share. He did see the glances, though, and heard the men murmur about him, the hot-tempered squire who, on the first day of the lord’s return, acted like a boor—impulsive, with no regard for respect, only ever apologising after the fact.
One of the younger squires told him he admired William for his courage, but William found it hard to determine whether the lad was joking or currying favour with him, or both.
If anything, he worked harder. The training fights were the only occasions that allowed him to vent his temper, and Ulric worked him tirelessly, telling him that if he wanted to be a knight soon, he’d better work harder. William knew he was being teased, but it made no difference. It still stung, and he resented having given his peers that opening.
Worse was that Sir Robert sometimes watched him—in the great hall during meals or when William did his chores around the castle—but it was when he fought that Robert paid closest attention, and if William became aware of his lord’s assessing gaze (he often didn’t, because fighting absorbed him completely), he felt clumsy and slow and uncontrolled, and he could have screamed with frustration. He wanted to prove himself so desperately that whenever the chance arose, he ruined it, or wasn’t at his best, or the situation was so mundane it didn’t warrant any special attention. Nevertheless, Sir Robert did watch him, nurturing hope.
The preparations for the guests were in full swing days before anybody arrived. The servants worked tirelessly, the maids cooked and cleaned, presenting the estate in the best possible light for when the guests arrived, and the smells of cooking and baking emanated from the kitchen day and night. Meanwhile, the men planned the hunt, which in itself was an art.
It was unthinkable to disappoint the French guests with too little game, so the woodsmen and huntsmen spent days outside, tracking stag and boar, planning the route as well as the best place to pitch tents for rest and refreshments. All this would cost Robert a fortune from his own purse, but William knew how important these matters were for powerful nobles. He only looked forward to the chase and the kill. Both were opportunities to demonstrate knightly virtues and would be ways to win honour and maybe catch another noble’s eye. Every new knight needed a sponsor, and William hoped he would find favour with one of his lord’s visitors.
Everyone was excited the evening before the guests arrived, and with them news and ways to break the familiar routine. The squires and hearth knights in Robert’s service stayed up longer that night, and the drinks flowed more freely. When it came time to settle in for sleep, William lay on his bedding in the darkness and listened to the sounds that invariably followed. Girls from the village and some of the castle maids took the opportunity to earn a few coins by joining those who were awake or half-asleep.
Not far away, one such deal was struck in whispers. William heard the sounds of their coupling, little more than the rustle of clothing followed by harsh breathing and the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh. From the direction of the noise, the girl had straddled one of the squires, and from his grunts and the position of his bedroll, it had to be John. William couldn’t help but smile a little. John was famously well-endowed, and William didn’t think for a moment that the girl’s squeaks of delight were entirely put on.
A hand touched his thigh, moving up to his groin with obvious intent, and William became aware of somebody standing over him, or crouching. It was too dark to tell. “Leave me alone, I have no money,” he whispered and turned away, lying on his side to signal rejection. As much as some relief would be welcome with those sounds so close by, stirring his body into arousal, he couldn’t afford to pay for the pleasure.
But the hand persisted, and a body settled down behind him. Fingers found and freed his cock from the confines of his hose. William inhaled sharply. Not a woman’s hand. It was too strong, the skin callused and hard like that of a warrior. One of the knights? A squire? Whoever it was, the offer was unmistakable, and he couldn’t help but groan when that hand stroked him, a firm touch softened only by William’s half-drunk state.
He felt the hot tickle of breath on his neck while the other man stroked him. Acting on instinct, he reached behind to touch the hard shaft that eagerly pressed into his hand. Even through the thin covering of linen, William felt the thickness of the man’s cock, the heat of it. He could see nothing, couldn’t guess anything about the other man, but heard and felt and smelled him. The strokes on his own cock grew harsher, more demanding, and William struggled to give anything back, all intent ceasing under those touches too rough to enjoy fully. He winced, hissing out his breath, then took the hand from his cock and spat into the palm.
A rumble of laughter sounded in his ear, and William shivered. The man’s slick hand closed tight around William’s cock, then resumed its strokes. This time the action was slow and measured, the grip alternately hard then loose. William groaned now, his hips moving as he tried to impose a steadier rhythm, pushing his arse back to rub shamelessly against that hard prick.
Sweat beaded his upper lip and dampened his hair. A few feet away, John and his girl were approaching their climaxes. The girl’s moans intensified, became a thin wail, and John’s snarls of need snapped out of him at each thrust. William swallowed, his breath coming faster, rasping in his throat. The sounds of lust nearby combined with the firm grip on his cock, and the guilty, forbidden pleasure of not knowing who lay with him drove all rational thought from his head. The next thing he knew, he’d turned his head back and shared a kiss with the other man, tasting spiced wine and honey on his breath.
William pressed closer, pulling the man toward him, feeling all solid muscle and strength. Definitely a knight, though William no longer cared about the man’s identity. Not now, not when he was so close to release. Their mouths clashed, teeth and tongues and the wetness of saliva, the kisses fierce and breathtaking.
He realised he was making the same kind of sounds as John had only moments ago, but his own panted groans were muffled, suppressed by those searing kisses. He tensed, catching his breath, moaning into the knight’s mouth as he spilled his seed in a hot rush. Still the other man touched him, working his cock with slower strokes, licking at the corners of William’s lips, holding him while William gasped, heart racing, his mind lost.
At length he calmed, disentangled himself from the unknown knight and lay on his back. He felt as tired as if he’d been practicing for an hour in the courtyard and tried to control his breathing as Ulric had so often instructed them. The thought of Ulric was so unwelcome after what had just happened that William gave a soft
snort of amusement. He was still smiling as he drifted off to sleep, the languor of his orgasm warm in his body.
What seemed like mere moments later, he woke with a guilty start. He’d been so focused on his own pleasure that the other man had received nothing in return. William intended on remedying that lack, but when he reached out in the darkness, he found he was alone.
* * *
William woke again at the sound of the shutters slammed back against stone. Early morning sunlight streamed into the great hall, and groans of protest issued from the huddle of squires still abed. William yawned and stretched beneath his blanket, then memory caught up with wakefulness and he froze, his heart suddenly pounding.
Someone had given him pleasure last night, lain behind him and taken his cock in his hand and worked him to completion. Someone had kissed him. William peeked over the top of his blanket, remembering that rough touch and the steel of the other man’s body as they’d embraced. God’s teeth, he’d been drunk but not that drunk—he couldn’t have conjured his lover out of a dream. He slid a hand over his hose and felt the stiff stains in the woollen fabric. Definitely real.
Nearby, John stood and scratched his arse. “Great night,” he said, grinning at his fellows. “Had the miller’s daughter. She’s a saucy one, wet as the mill-race. Knows how to grind.” He thrust his hips to appreciative laughter from the other squires, and then he turned to William. “I wasn’t the only one busy last night. Who was your girl, Raven?”
William busied himself with folding his bedding, glad of the fall of tawny blond hair hiding his expression. “I didn’t ask her name.”
One of the other squires gave a malicious laugh. “You went with a whore, William? I thought you were too high and mighty for that. Thought you were saving yourself for a lady at the very least—maybe even a princess!”
“Ah, leave him be,” John said magnanimously. “William takes his training seriously. Isn’t Ulric always telling us not to dip our wicks if we want to do well in combat? ‘It saps a man’s strength and makes him weak.’” John imitated their instructor’s tone perfectly. “‘Take heed, lads—women are a necessary evil.’”
The other squire rolled out of bed. “I swear he’s one of those woman-haters. An unnatural man who prefers other men.”
William felt ice pierce his chest but remained calm. “That’s ridiculous. You know he’s got two young daughters he’s trying to keep pure from the likes of you. Apart from his girls, he hates everyone equally. I’ve even seen him kick his dog, and you know how attached he is to that mongrel.”
More laughter, and the conversation turned to the sighting of an immense boar on the far side of the forest. It was agreed that every effort must be made to lure the animal closer for the hunt, as killing such a large beast would surely fetch a great reward.
William joined in the discussion, his unease fading. Though he’d tumbled a couple of village girls in the past, his desires ran to male flesh. Such a sinful proclivity made life difficult but not impossible. When he was younger, he’d enjoyed mutual hand-jobs with other squires. He’d confessed to the castle chaplain, received a suitable punishment and accepted it was a natural part of growing up. But while John and the others had gone from jerking each other off to paying for whores, William longed not for the delicate softness of a woman but for the hard touch of a man.
A man like his lover of last night.
He glanced at his fellows, wondering which of them it had been. Not John, but who else? William struggled to recall any hint of affection from any of his companions. That one lad had praised him a few days ago. Perhaps it was him. But no—the hand that had gripped his cock had belonged to a knight, a man of experience. Maybe one of Sir Robert’s escorts from London had taken a fancy to him. The idea made his belly flutter with a mix of excitement and anxiety.
One of the serving maids, pink and breathless, ran into the great hall. “They’re coming—the noble guests—they can be seen on the road!”
William snapped out of his thoughts. “Everyone to the yard! Let’s give the French a hearty English welcome.”
Though impatient to be outside, he waited until the rest of the squires had gone ahead. A couple of servants scurried around the hall, making final checks. As the most senior of the squires, William felt he had a responsibility to ensure that his fellows presented themselves in the best possible light, and he collected up a few articles of clothing that hadn’t been tidied away. He dumped the clothes in the corner and hurried out into the open antechamber at the top of the staircase. After the light of the hall, the antechamber seemed dark, and he blundered into someone.
Strong hands grasped his arms. William tried to pull away, muttering, “Excuse me,” but then he registered the feel of velvet and fur beneath his own hands. He took a startled breath, suddenly aware of a warm, spicy scent far removed from the stink of sweat or the kitchen.
“Sir Robert!” Jerking out of the grip, William stepped sideways. His lord’s scent tickled at his awareness. In confusion, he began his apology all over again.
“Peace, William. The French come here as our guests, not as invaders. You don’t need to rush out as if obeying the call to arms.”
Robert sounded amused, and William’s mood sank. Yet again he’d managed to look foolish in front of the one man above all others he needed to impress. He gritted his teeth and mumbled, “Yes, sir. I didn’t want to be late to greet them, sir.”
“Don’t worry. You will make a good impression.” Robert laid his hand on William’s shoulder. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? The chance to impress.”
“You know what I want,” William said before he could stop himself.
Robert gave him a look. “Yes. I do.” He hesitated as if he would say more, but then he released William and turned away. “Join the other squires. I will be down shortly to welcome our guests.”
Puzzled by the exchange, William watched Robert stride away. His scent lingered, and a flash of memory caught William. His lover of last night had worn the same spicy fragrance. Or had he? William frowned and shook his head as he started down the staircase. It was the kiss he was remembering, nothing else—the kiss that tasted of honey and spiced wine.
Still, the idea of Sir Robert as his lover gave William a thrill of pleasure. His lord was a handsome man. It would not be a hardship to surrender to one such as him, though William would make sure the fight was equal until the final moments. The thought made his heart beat faster and brought a grin to his face, and William strolled out into the courtyard in good spirits.
Chapter Two
“Brother, this meat seems tough and overcooked, and its flavour does not suit this wine, which is a thin, indifferent sort of vintage. I’m afraid your wanderings in foreign climes have made you a poor host.”
William glanced up from the squires’ table in the great hall. He swallowed his mouthful of beef and braised greens and stared at Sir Robert’s younger brother. Stephen de Cantilou had not aged half as well as Robert and wore the marks of good living in the broken veins of his nose and the paunch that overspilled his belt. His thin, reedy voice shrilled through the chatter and the music, and both French and Englishmen paused to see how Robert would respond.
Stephen had been dropping insults all day the way a cow dropped dung. William had escorted him to the bedchamber set aside for his use, and Stephen had complained about its location, the hardness of the mattress, and the draught from the open window. Since the party had gathered for dinner, Stephen seemed to find fault with everything. He had already chastised John for looking at the breasts of a serving girl, and the girl herself had run weeping from the hall after Stephen had described in detail the hellfire that awaited her for showing an immodest amount of flesh.
But it was Sir Robert who bore the full brunt of Stephen’s ire. William felt the insults on behalf of his lord and longed to challenge the fat churchman to a fight. By the surly expressions around the room, it appeared as if Stephen was universally unpopular. Even the no
bles from Toulouse looked uncomfortable and disapproving of Stephen’s latest remark.
Robert took his time to reply, using a chunk of soft white bread to mop up the rich sauce smothering the beef. “It saddens me to hear that you dislike the wine. The Viscomte de Murat brought it as a gift.” Robert gazed at his brother. “Perhaps your palate has been spoiled these past five years.”
Stephen snorted. “From the tales I’ve heard, mine is not the only palate that’s been spoiled.”
Robert gave his brother a sharp glance. “If you had deigned to join me in the Holy Land, you might have found yourself more accepting of human nature.”
William grinned at the retort and hid his expression in a cup of ale.
“Alas,” Stephen said, looking pious, “my work as commissary for His Grace the Bishop of Poitiers forced me to abandon my plans to do God’s work amongst the heathens. But a good shepherd heeds the cry of his flock, and I am happy to have been of service to His Grace.”
Visibly annoyed by his brother’s prattling, Robert turned to Baron Albi, a cheerful, stocky man who’d earlier spoken to William about the rigors of the journey and his concern for the delicate stomach of his destrier. William had ventured an opinion on the best mix of feed for the war horse, and Albi had seemed delighted. Now the baron said something, leaning close to Robert, who smiled and nodded.
Stephen seemed to realise no one was paying any attention to him. Raising his voice, he bleated, “Of course, it was while in His Grace’s retinue that I had the good fortune to be introduced to His Majesty King Henry.”
Conversation faltered, and William put down his ale. Sir Robert broke off his discussion with Baron Albi and faced his brother. “You refer to Young Henry? His Majesty King Henry is the only man we owe allegiance to in this house. Young Henry may have been crowned the heir, but he cannot claim the full majesty of his father.”
“And yet it is to King Henry the Younger that I cleave,” Stephen said. “He has as much right to ruling this land as his father, for didn’t his father invest him with equal splendour?”
The Lion of Kent Page 2