Sir William’s red cheeks pinched at his father’s words. ‘I had to do something. Abergavenny would have already been lost if I had not acted,’ he said indignantly and swept his father’s hand from his tunic. ‘Though fear not, dear father, if it comes to it I will allow the wolves to dine on my flesh and let you scamper to safety.’
His father’s eyes narrowed at his son’s insult. ‘I allowed you to take control of Abergavenny and Brecon. How can I trust you to rule those lands, not to mention mine in England after me, if you can’t even despatch two children and a priest –’
‘I killed the priest,’ Sir William interrupted.
‘Without almost causing a war on the March,’ Lord Bramber ignored his son’s words. ‘Your actions have brought unnecessary attention to our family and worse, they give credence to the claims of this boy Geoffrey.’
‘I killed the priest as you told me,’ his son snarled. ‘No-one else knows that the boy’s parents were married. No-one will believe them.’
‘Strongbow obviously does, and so might the king. Do you think Henry wants our family to have more power than he or his brute of a son? If he hears of this episode he will investigate the reasons and claims. He will seek to curtail our power. That bastard Ranulph de Glanville will make sure he knows, and if not you know his nephew, Hubert Walter, will certainly find out. At best we will be in hoc to the king for granting us our Welsh lands. At worst, he will come down on the side of that Geoffrey, and Abergavenny will be lost to us for ever. And all because you couldn’t execute a simple task I would expect an esquire to accomplish,’ he added, his voice dripping with scorn.
Sir William cursed loudly and thumped his fist into the wall. ‘It’s not like you’ve done anything…’
‘Keep your voice down, boy,’ his father hissed and looked over his shoulder into the hallway where the oak doors or the great hall lay open. The feast to celebrate the new king’s ascension had not yet begun, but everywhere there were servants going to and fro. There were enemies and allies with ears open for news to use to their advantage. He walked across the cold little room, used to store benches in preparation for the feast, and slowly closed the door. He didn’t say anything when he turned back. Instead he locked his eyes on his son, staring at him as a physician would a badly injured limb. ‘So where did you find your Danes?’ he finally asked, his voice even. ‘I don’t imagine you travelled all the way to Ireland or the Scottish lands to hire them?’
‘In Wales,’ his son told him. ‘Jarl Sigtrygg attacked Nedd Abbey while I was there. Instead of fighting him over a few trinkets, I offered him some silver to do the job.’ He did not add that he had spent a small fortune buying their freedom from Richard de Grenville. ‘Danes are cheaper than Gascons.’
‘At least Gascons are discreet,’ Lord Bramber replied. ‘At least Gascons don’t try to burn down half of Westminster. At least Gascons don’t try to murder Richard de Clare of Striguil in full view of the king and his court.’ He turned his back on his son and walked towards a small table where his cupbearer had left a jug of wine. Without offering any to his son, Lord Bramber filled a mug and drank long and slowly, running the day’s events over in his mind. The stupid boy had acted without thinking when he had hired the Danes to do his dirty work, and that was not in keeping with the position and power of the Lord of Radnor, Bramber, Builth, Barnstaple and Totnes, and a hundred other minor manors strewn across the kingdom. A great baron of England did not use a hammer when a dagger was the obvious tool for the job.
‘Strongbow will go back to Wales,’ he told his heir. ‘He will fear another attack.’
Sir William smiled. ‘Perfect, I’ll leave immediately. I can intercept him at…’
‘Be quiet,’ Lord Bramber interjected. ‘You and your Danes have caused enough problems. I will fix this situation and you will watch and learn and do everything that I tell you to do as soon as I say it. We are in greater peril than you seem to realise.’
His son looked at him with a mixture of anger, impatience and disbelief. ‘All I want is my mother’s estates.’
‘We shall see. You have coin with you?’
Sir William nodded slowly and suspiciously.
‘Fetch it,’ his father replied, ‘and let us see how much King Henry values his most amiable subjects.’ His son looked at him in confusion. ‘First lesson: a king can be bribed like any other man.’ With that he turned on his heel and marched from the empty room towards the great hall of Westminster.
His son tarried longer, watching as his father faded into the stream of servants in the corridors outside the hall. He hated the thought of buying the king’s support, especially as it meant that he had failed for the second time to kill his cousins. He allowed his anger to get the best of him.
‘Thomas!’ he shouted.
‘Lord?’ his page skidded to a halt at his master’s heel. Sir William did not turn to look at the boy.
‘Sir Anthony de Sherley is in the stables. Find him and tell him to go to Jarl Sigtrygg – he will know where he is. Sir Anthony will tell the Dane that I will require his services for more time than I initially believed. He is to tell Jarl Sigtrygg that he will only receive payment when he completes the task.’
‘Yes, Sir William.’
‘And, Thomas…’
‘Yes, Sir William?’
‘Do not let my father know what you are up to or I will have the skin off your back.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ the page answered as he scampered off.
Sir William scowled and followed his father towards the hullabaloo stemming from the great hall. Two men in the lion surcoat of Anjou guarded the entrance, but they barely moved as he passed through the vast oak doors and down the stairs into the colossal room. An army of fawning followers, certainly over a thousand, paraded their wealth and importance in the belly of the hall. They ate and drank. They swapped stories, made pacts, and negotiated marriages while, to Sir William’s right, the King and his son shared the dais with the bishops and great lords of the realm. Flowers, tapestries and candles added to the colour and each nobleman sought to outdo his peers with ever more gaudy clothes and arms, showing off more followers and giving grander gifts in celebration of the crowning. Steaming food and fires mingled with body heat to create a stale, humid atmosphere in the hall. Here, every man was a rival or a vassal, blood and marriage ties were currency and knights’ fees gave authority. Sir William de Braose could almost taste ambition and the threat of violence issuing from the great men and women in the hall of Westminster. He could taste the power.
‘First, we must make our introductions,’ his father said as he appeared at his shoulder. Sir William felt a hand on his back and took a step forwards, Lord Bramber at his heels. He was being herded towards the dais where King Henry sat enjoying a joke with a knight in a green surcoat. Behind the warrior was a long line of men in a hundred different motifs and badges of nobility, all awaiting a private audience with Henry. The greatest men of the kingdom had come to Westminster to show their loyalty to the crown of England and Sir William was suddenly nervous. He had met the king several times before, but had never spoken to him. On every previous occasion he had deferred to his father’s lead and he suddenly felt ill prepared for the task at hand. He cursed Lord Bramber for forcing him to face the king and tried to remember the lessons of his youth; how one greets a king, court procedure and practice. He was so preoccupied, his eyes taking in his suzerain lord, that he did not see a long hand slide across his chest to prevent him from reaching his target.
‘Where do you think you are going, young man?’ a haughty voice asked. ‘Not to greet the king, I would suggest; not without my say-so.’ The tall man who had spoken did not so much as look up from a long, curling piece of vellum which he scrutinised closely.
‘Sir Theobald,’ Lord Bramber chirped from behind his son, ‘my son wishes to congratulate the king…’
‘Kings, I think you mean,’ the man said as he allowed the parchment to wind up in his fingers. With
his other hand he called a monk to his side, issuing swift and silent orders before finally turning to look at the father and son before they were able to circumnavigate his reach. ‘Kings,’ he repeated and nodded to Lord Bramber. ‘What a peculiar world we live in. Don’t you think?’
‘We wish to talk with the Old King,’ Sir William stated confidently.
‘I wouldn’t call him that if you want to find favour, young man,’ Sir Theobald retorted with a twitch of a grin. ‘But I do understand your eagerness to approach him. My brother was telling me only this morning that you are having rotten luck maintaining your late mother’s estates in Wales. Is it on this subject that you wish to converse with our noble lord?’
‘I have never heard of Hubert Walter being wrong about anything,’ Lord Bramber said with some annoyance, ‘but on this count your brother is indeed misinformed. Of that I assure you, Sir Theobald. My son and I simply wish to congratulate King Henry on a splendid occasion which will live long in the memory.’
Theobald nodded and smiled, never taking his eyes off the younger man. ‘It is proper to approach the King’s Steward if you require access to either of our kings.’
‘You seemed busy…’ started Sir William.
‘I was, have been and still am, but I can always find time for men of your standing.’ It did not escape either father or son’s attention that Theobald stressed the word can.
‘I’m in a hurry, Sir Theobald,’ Lord Bramber whispered.
A huge smile broke across the steward’s face. ‘As am I,’ he exclaimed loudly. ‘There are many, many people who wish to meet the king today,’ he waved a hand at a long line of supplicants, ‘and there is so little time to allow everyone to do so. For instance, do you know that there was an incident down by the river earlier today? The Sheriff of London says he wants to investigate, and of course that meant that the Lord Constable was equally as interested, even if it was only to discover why the sheriff was so concerned about a fire in a whorehouse. So everything has been moved forward to allow them to talk to our kings,’ he shook his head in mock disappointment. ‘So little time.’ The tall knight tapped Sir William on the chest with the rolled-up piece of parchment. The red-cheeked youth looked as if he would strike out at the steward, but his father stepped between the two men.
‘We have been friends for a long time,’ the elder man laughed and leant forward to embrace the steward. As he drew back, Sir William saw Theobald expertly conceal a small purse amongst his robes.
‘Not only are you a close friend of my own family, but of King Henry,’ Sir Theobald said, ‘and I am sure that he would want to see you as soon as possible.’ With that he spun on his heel and walked towards the dais. ‘Follow me,’ the tall man instructed. Every eye in the long line of lords and knights watched Lord Bramber and his son as they followed the steward towards the front of the great hall. Was it jealousy that Sir William saw in their eyes? He smirked at one fat baron from Somerset and enjoyed his angry, impotent glare. William liked having the attention of the lords of England on him despite the presence of two kings.
A single long digit indicated where Theobald wanted the two men to stand. ‘Be ready to attend upon the king,’ he added as he walked away.
‘Kings, you mean,’ Sir William sniggered, but Theobald seemed not to hear as he disappeared amongst the flamboyantly clothed knights who encircled Henry FitzEmpress awaiting a moment to attend upon the powerful monarch. ‘How much did you give him?’ he asked his father.
‘A pittance in comparison to what the king may demand of you,’ the elder man said through pursed lips. ‘You should have killed Alice and Geoffrey in the wilderness when you had the chance. Which reminds me; we must talk about your infatuation with your pretty cousin, boy.’
Sir William inhaled sharply, ready to respond, but the incongruous sound of hooves clashing on stone stopped him. All the men waiting to speak to the king went quiet and turned to see what had made the sound. At the far end of the hall a knight in full battle dress allowed his stallion to stomp angrily, scattering dried reeds. The man’s helm was huge and ornate, crowned with a long flowing ribbon of blue and white squares which matched his surcoat.
‘What is he doing?’ Sir William asked.
‘Sir Robert de Marmion, the king’s champion,’ his father told him, ‘is a nobody from Lincolnshire, but his wife is a niece of Melisende of Jerusalem.’ He shook his head. ‘The two with him are the Lord Marshal and Humphrey de Bohun, the Lord Constable.’ Everyone in the hall had now turned to look at the fully armed men who threw an ornate armoured glove onto the ground before the open doors of the great hall.
‘Who here denies my Lord Henry’s right to the crown,’ Marmion called timidly. ‘Who here denies his right to rule?’ Hidden below a great helm, Marmion’s voice sounded tiny. ‘Who?’ he screeched as he attempted to make himself heard through his metal hood. To make matters worse his attempts to draw his sword from his side failed when his right elbow became entangled in his blue and white cloak. Muffled laughter began from the people in the great hall of Westminster, Sir William among them.
Up on the dais the newly crowned Young King Harry climbed to his feet with a face like thunder. ‘God’s teeth, Marmion. You are supposed to be intimidating,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll send you back to Scrivelsby on a mule and play champion myself if you can’t perform your duty.’
‘My- my Lord,’ the knight on horseback stuttered as he kicked his horse into action, trotting the stocky mare in two swift circles around the hall. Suddenly Marmion’s voice seemed twice as loud, brash and full of vigour as he called for any man brave enough to take his sword in hand and fight him. Most realised that it was the barrel-chested Lord Constable – on foot and leading Marmion’s horse – that was shouting the champion’s challenge at the assembled Lords of England. To complete the farce, on his last circuit of the hall Marmion’s mare lifted her tail and defecated before the dais.
The Young King threw his hands in the air in exasperation and whispered loudly that the whole occasion had been ruined by Sir Robert de Marmion. ‘Come forward, then,’ he added lifting his gold goblet in mock salute to his champion’s bravery as was expected of him. He took a long drink and held the cup out for the mounted man to accept.
Robert de Marmion nervously removed his helm, revealing a mousy-looking man, and took the king’s cup. With a deep breath he swallowed the remainder of wine within and then held the cup aloft. ‘Long live Harry, our king, and his father, Good King Henry,’ he shouted. He had been expecting a loud acclamation but instead he received an embarrassing silence.
‘Come on, you cretin,’ Sir Humphrey de Bohun said as he led Marmion’s horse from the hall. The hubbub of talk and laughter resumed with Old King Henry’s bombastic roar of mirth loudest of all.
‘He will see you now,’ Theobald’s hand dropped onto Sir William’s shoulder. ‘You are in luck he is in a good mood after that farce.’
The steward led the two men through the throng of people towards the dais where the king slugged from a carved wooden mug, disdaining the ornate gold and silver goblet before him on the table. Sir William felt the apprehension rise in his chest again. He could feel his father’s presence at his back and noted that he continued to hide behind him. Steeling himself, he promised to not let his father’s fears overtake his own ambitions for his estates in Wales.
‘Well, well, well,’ the Old King said as the trio stopped before the dais. ‘What do we have here? Lord Bramber, you old scoundrel, and your son…’ His voice drifted as Theobald took one stride forward and leant across the table to whisper in the king’s ear. As he did so, Sir William studied Henry FitzEmpress, King of England and Suzerain Lord of everything between the Pyrenees and the land of the Scots. He was scruffy, though dressed in the finest clothes that money could buy, and in his hand was an open leather book, in what language he could not tell, for he could not read a word. Sir William greedily eyed the six gold rings inlaid with rich stones which, he assumed, the king had removed
from his fingers and laid out in a straight line on the table before him. Two were especially lavish; the first bore a large ruby and was tessellated with golden lions while the other was emerald and bore the papal seal. The king himself was less memorable than his affectations. Of average height and cursed with limp red hair, he could have been mistaken for the son of a tanner or a smith. But there was strength in his arms and bawdy, hoarse voice.
‘My steward tells me that you wish to discuss a delicate subject,’ the king said to Sir William. ‘So,’ he added, his eyes shining malevolently, ‘please, do tell all.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Marshal as he dropped onto the bench beside Raymond de Carew at the back of the great hall of Westminster. It was the first time that the Raymond had heard the knight use bad language of any kind.
‘What did the King tell you?’ Raymond had to shout despite his friend sitting close by his shoulder. The great hall was awash with noise from the hundreds who crowded in to feast and celebrate the ascension of the Young King Harry. All the great men of England, as well as many from the continent, had come to commemorate the coronation of his heir. There was no-one from the Welsh March other than Strongbow and Raymond; the men from the frontier were considered too rowdy by the Angevin court, too set in the dangerous old ways of the Norman marauder.
‘…but I wanted my arms on every wall, not yours.’ The Young King’s petulant cry penetrated the din, ‘and two tourney days, not one.’ Whatever was his father’s response, Raymond could not hear. Marshal had heard the arguments between the two before and so he ignored the exchange, breaking a leg of lamb away from the rest of the carcass and tearing at the flesh with his teeth.
‘King Henry wants me to take Prince Harry on as my apprentice,’ he said as he chewed. ‘It is a great honour, I suppose, to join his mesnie household,’ he grimaced, ‘but I can already imagine the youngster parading me around at every tournament in Flanders like his own personal trophy.’
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