Time and Chance

  But there was no other way for Will to buy time. The de Lusignans had split up their men and prisoners into small groups and Will’s captors could not read or write. Nor could he, and it had taken them a few days to find someone they trusted enough to write to Countess Ela. By Will’s reckoning, it would take several weeks to get the countess’s refusal or counteroffer. At that point, he planned to assure them that his eldest brother would pay the ransom.

  Lucky for him that his father was two years dead, for Will could not see him parting with so much as an English farthing to rescue an expendable younger son. He’d made that abundantly clear at the siege of Newbury. His brother John would at least make a token offer; their mother would see to that. But John was always short of money and could not be expected to sell family lands for his sake. The game must still be played out, though, for the alternative was an unmarked woodland grave with none to mourn or pray for the salvation of his soul.

  Will was by nature an optimist, and at first he’d held fast to hope. All he had to do was avoid antagonizing his guards needlessly and wait for his injury to heal. Once he was strong enough, surely he could find an opportunity to escape. But after a week in captivity, he was no longer so confident. While he’d not been abused, neither had his wound been tended. He had done the best he could, fashioning a bandage by ripping off the legs of his braies and using the cord to fasten it. He’d even been able to find a flicker of humor in his predicament, for his cordless, torn braies kept sliding down to his hips every time he stood up.

  The humor had soon faded, though. His captors were understandably fearful of the English king’s wrath and dared not spend more than one night under the same roof lest their presence be betrayed to Henry’s spies. They put Will in mind of mice trying to avoid a stalking cat, scurrying from one burrow to another. Sometimes it was a castle of a de Lusignan ally or vassal; twice they’d had to sleep in the woods and once even in the nave of a small church.

  Not surprisingly, Will’s leg was not healing as it ought and with each passing day, the risk of infection grew greater. Will would far rather have died on the battlefield as his uncle had done than to die slowly and painfully from a festering wound. He had never been one to borrow trouble, feeling sure that life would invariably dole out his allotted portion. Nor had he ever been fanciful or readily spooked. But lying awake in the stable blackness, he found it alarmingly easy to imagine that Death was lurking in those gloomy shadows, no longer willing to wait.

  If only they would remain here for a day or two. Every hour that he spent in the saddle lessened his chances of recovery. That night, they’d dragged him into the great hall to show the castellan their prize, giving him a sudden sense of pity for the bears chained and set upon by dogs for the amusement of spectators. As he listened to their boasting, he could feel a slow anger stirring, embers from a fire not fully banked. They had ambushed a highborn and defenseless woman, their own liege lady, had slain men not wearing armor. His uncle had been struck down from behind. Where was the honor in that?

  He’d managed to contain his rage, to appear oblivious to the jeering and insults of those in the hall. He was never to know the castellan’s name, but the face he would not soon forget—florid and rotund, fringed with greying hair that reminded him of a monk’s tonsure, and eyebrows so thick the castellan seemed to be peering out at the world through a hedge. Will had good reason to resent the man, for he’d been the one to write the ransom letter to Countess Ela. He’d been sorry to see that the castellan had a young, comely wife, thinking that she deserved far better than she’d gotten. She was the only one in the hall who’d regarded him with a hint of sympathy, had even sent a servant over to offer him hippocras when the others were served. The wine had flowed like nectar down Will’s parched, scratchy throat, but then he’d had an unsettling thought: was this to be the last wine he ever tasted?

  The castellan had accorded his guests center stage long enough to let them brag of their exploits. Only then did he ruin their triumph by giving them his news. While the January rising against Henry Fitz Empress had been instigated by the de Lusignan brothers, they’d been joined by the Counts of Angoulême and La Marche, and Robert and Hugh de Silly. But Robert had ended up in one of Henry’s dungeons on a diet of bread and water and, according to the castellan, he’d soon died of it. Will was surprised by Robert’s rapid decline and death, for men could survive a long time on even such meager rations. He felt not a shred of pity for the dead rebel, though, and for the rest of his unpleasant evening in the hall, he consoled himself by imagining the de Lusignans in a sunless cell, sharing Robert de Silly’s unhappy fate.

  But if the castellan’s revelation had given Will some grim comfort, it had sent his captors into a panic. Will had watched them conferring amongst themselves, failing utterly to disguise their distress, and grieved that his uncle could not have been slain fighting more worthy foes than the de Lusignans and their dregs.

  A horse nickered softly nearby, as if acknowledging Will’s presence in the stable. Stretching out as much as his shackles would permit, he sought to ease his aching leg in vain; no position lessened the pain. He supposed their decision on the morrow would depend upon the state of their stomachs and heads. Panic-stricken they undoubtedly were, but they were also likely to be suffering acutely from swilling down enough wine to fill the castle moat. Asking the Almighty to inflict the torments of the damned upon them all come morning, he then said a brief prayer for his dead uncle, his ill-used queen, and the other men who’d died on the Poitiers Road. After gently reminding his Savior that his own plight was in need of redressing, he finally fell into an uneasy doze.

  One of his guards stumbled into the stable the next morning, wincing with each step, and Will decided his chances of spending another night here had dramatically improved. He was given water and sullenly assured that someone would remember to feed him, sooner or later. After that, he was left alone. He napped intermittently as the morning wore on and he was famished by the time another hungover captor brought him a bowl of stew and a loaf of stale bread. Not having a spoon, he ate with his fingers, concluding that it was better he not know the identity of the mystery meat coated in grease. He was using a chunk of the bread to sop up the gravy, trying not to think upon the tasty meals he’d enjoyed in Poitiers, when he heard soft footsteps in the straw outside the stall.

  The girl was young, with knowing dark eyes and a tempting swing to her hips. It took Will just a moment to place her in his memory; she served the castellan’s wife. She was accompanied by the same guard who’d fetched his food. The man still looked greensick, but seemed a little happier about this new duty.

  “My lady said even a poor wretch of a prisoner deserves God’s pity,” she announced in a disapproving voice that contrasted with the flirtatious look she gave Will through sweeping lashes. “This is for you.” Putting a large round loaf of bread down beside him, she sashayed out, batting those lashes at Will’s captor and drawing him after her with such ease that she looked back at Will and winked.

  Will sniffed the bread and sighed happily, for it was freshly baked, still warm, marked with Christ’s Cross. But as he started to tear off a piece, his fingers found an oddity. Squinting in the dim light, he discovered that a section of the loaf had been removed and then replaced, like a plug corking a bottle. Extracting it, he found that the center had been hollowed out to conceal strips of flaxen cloth and a rag saturated with an unguent of some kind. The smell was faintly familiar and he thought he caught the whiff of yarrow or perhaps St John’s wort. He leaned back against the wall, staring down at the bandages and ointment in his lap, and for the first time since his troubles began, his eyes misted with tears.

  NEVER HAD WILL KNOWN a spring to pass so slowly. April seemed endless, days merging one into the other until he no longer had a clear memory of any of them. At night he was so exhausted he slept like the dead and in the morning, he’d be hustled onto a horse again, once more on the run. But the wound in his thigh no longer
leaked pus or threatened to poison his body with noxious humors, and by May, he could put weight on the leg without pain.

  In May, too, their hectic, panicked pace eased up, for his captors learned that Eudo de Porhoët had rebelled again in Brittany and Henry had gone west to deal with this faithless vassal once and for all. No longer fearing the dragon’s breath on the backs of their necks, the men finally felt secure enough to slow their flight, and that also assisted Will’s recovery. Unfortunately, they had yet to drop their guard with him; he was always bound hand and foot on horseback, chained up at night. He was content to wait, though, for a mistake to be made. What else could he do?

  In mid-May, they lingered for an entire week at a castle held by a distant de Lusignan cousin. Will occupied himself by watching for their vigilance to slacken, by imagining the vengeance he wanted to wreak upon every mother’s son of them, and by giving fervent thanks to the Almighty and a Poitevin lord’s kindhearted wife for mercies he probably didn’t deserve.

  He was napping in a shaft of afternoon sun that had slanted into the stables when he was jostled by a prodding foot. Opening his eyes, he saw his captors grinning down at him and he was instantly awake, edgy and alert. There was a new face among them, vaguely familiar . . . one of Guy de Lusignan’s knights, a swaggering, scarred man named Talvas who’d been in the thick of the fighting on the Poitiers Road. Will hadn’t seen him since early April and he felt an instinctive prickle of unease, for he’d gotten the impression that Talvas was only too willing to dirty his hands on his lord’s behalf.

  Talvas was grinning, which unnerved Will even more. “I know how much you’re going to miss us all, lad, but we’ve come to a parting of the ways.”

  Will got slowly to his feet. “Are you going to let me go, then?” he asked with heavy sarcasm. To his astonishment, Talvas nodded.

  “Yes . . . as soon as the hostages can be exchanged.”

  “What hostages?” Will demanded, no longer trying to hide his perplexity.

  “Since trust is in such scant supply these days, making payment of your ransom was only slightly less complicated than laying plans for a new crusade. Each side had to agree to offer hostages, who are to be released concurrently as soon as you are freed and the money paid over.”

  Will stared at him, incredulous, still too wary for joy. “How much was I worth?”

  Talvas made a hand gesture that was, oddly, both playful and obscene. “Thirty pounds.”

  Will was dumbfounded. “Are you telling me that Countess Ela paid thirty pounds for my release?”

  Talvas gave him a quizzical look. “You have been kept in the dark, haven’t you, lad? The Countess of Salisbury was not the one to ransom you. It was the English queen.”

  THE GREAT HALL at Poitiers was packed with people, so eager to see that they were treading upon one another’s shoes and trailing hems, elbows digging into ribs, necks craning to watch Sir William Marshal welcomed by the queen. Eleanor smiled as he knelt before her on the dais, then beckoned him to rise and come forward.

  Will had practiced his speech dozens of times on the ride to Poitiers. Now every polished phrase flew right out of his head and he could only stammer like a green lad, thanking the queen in a rush of incoherent, intense gratitude.

  Eleanor mercifully put an end to his babblings and then subjected him to a scrutiny that missed neither the gaunt hollows under his cheekbones nor the stiffness in his step. “I would have you see my physician straightaway,” she decreed, in tones that would brook no refusal for she well knew how loath most men were to consult leeches. “Once he assures me that you are indeed on the mend, you may take some time to visit your family in England if you so wish. I shall expect you back by summer’s end, where a position will be waiting for you in my household.”

  If Will had been sputtering before, he was now stricken dumb. Eleanor leaned forward in her seat, saying quietly, “Did you truly think I would forget how you offered up your life for mine? I forget neither friends nor foes, Will, and I always pay my debts.”

  “Madame . . . you . . . you owe me nothing! It was my honor and my duty to be of service to you,” Will insisted, regaining some of his poise.

  She would have to provide him with another destrier and armor. Eleanor decided to put that task in Jordan’s capable hands. Will’s eyes were shining suspiciously, rapt upon her face. She’d been right in her assessment of him. Royal favor was the chosen coin of their realm and this young knight was shrewd enough to appreciate his great good fortune, upright enough not to hold it too cheaply. Courage, loyalty, good sense, and a wicked way with a sword—attributes worth far more than thirty pounds.

  “If you want to repay me, Will,” she said, “I ask only that you be as true to my sons as you’ve been to me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  July 1168

  Poitiers, Poitou

  THE SUN WAS SCORCHING, the air so still and sweltering that Eleanor felt as if she were suffocating. The sky was blanched whiter than bone, bereft of clouds and birds. People were gesturing, mouths ajar, their words thudding after her like poorly aimed stones. But the only sound she could hear was the wild hammering of her own heart, the pulsing of fear. Ahead was a clot of men, clustered in a noisy, shifting circle. Picking up her skirts, Eleanor began to run.

  The crowd broke apart as she reached them, scattering like leaves before the wind. Dropping to her knees beside her son, Eleanor eased his head onto her lap. Blood matted the brightness of his hair, freckles glowing like fever spots against the ashen pallor of his skin, and a reddish bubble of saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth. For a heartbeat of horror, she thought he was dead and her faith turned to ashes. But then she saw the reassuring rise and fall of his chest and her fingers found a pulse in his throat.

  “Richard,” she said, throwing out his name as a lifeline. “Richard, open your eyes.”

  His lashes quivered, then soared upward, giving her a glimpse of blessed blue-grey. “Am I hurt?” he asked plaintively and she choked back a sound that was neither laugh nor sob, but akin to both.

  “Not as much as you will be.” An empty threat and they both knew it. When had she ever punished him for showing too much spirit, too little caution? He was struggling to sit up and she hastily bade him to lie still, wiping away some of his blood with a hanging silken sleeve.

  Richard grimaced and then spat into the dust. “I bit my tongue.”

  “Better a bitten tongue than a broken neck,” Eleanor said unsympathetically. By now her physician had arrived, flushed and panting, vastly relieved to see his royal patient was conscious and complaining. Her uncle, Raoul de Faye, had gotten there, too, and she let him assist her to her feet, her eyes narrowing as she looked over at the men who’d failed to keep her son safe.

  “Whose horse was he riding?”

  The question was posed in level, measured tones, but it sent a ripple of unease up numerous spines. William Marshal stepped forward, shoulders squaring as if bracing for a blow. “It was mine, Madame.”

  Eleanor could not hide her surprise. “You, Will? You were the one who let a ten-year-old boy ride a battle destrier?”

  Will was almost as pale as his young charge. “It was my stallion,” he said hoarsely, “and my fault.”

  “It was not!” This indignant protest came from Richard. Ignoring the doctor’s futile attempts to restrain him, the youngster lurched unsteadily to his feet. “Will forbade me to ride Whirlwind! And . . . and I am nigh on eleven, Mama!”

  Eleanor glanced from one to the other, seeing the truth writ plain upon their faces. “It is commendable that you do not want blame to be placed unfairly, Richard. But you need not sound so proud of your disobedience. A borrowed horse is a stolen horse if taken without consent.”

  “Even if taken by the heir to Aquitaine?” Richard asked, with such overdone innocence that Eleanor had to smother a smile. As young as he was, her son knew full well that many of their society’s strictures would never apply to him. She was also amus
ed—and pleased—that he’d cast his identity in terms of Aquitaine, not England. But he needed to learn a lesson and she set about teaching him one now by going unerringly for the vulnerable spot in his armor.

  “Putting your own neck at risk is foolish but forgivable, Richard. After all,” she said dryly, “your father and I are fortunate enough to have sons to spare. A pity Will does not have stallions to spare. If you’d crippled or lamed his destrier by your recklessness, what was he supposed to do? Walk into battle? Mayhap ride pillion behind another knight?”

  Her sarcasm stung. For the first time, Richard looked genuinely contrite. Turning toward Will, he mumbled an apology that was awkward, unwilling, and heartfelt, and when Eleanor instructed him to accompany the doctor back into the castle, he did not object.

  “I will be there straightaway,” Eleanor assured the doctor. “Keep him in bed even if you have to bind him hand and foot.” She drew Will aside, then, for a brief colloquy, praising his honor while reminding him that any guardian of Richard’s needed eyes in the back of his head and a strong sense of impending disaster.

  Raoul had lingered and fell in step beside her as she moved away from Will. “That was a most impressive maternal lecture,” he said admiringly. “No one listening to it would ever guess that you’d committed the very same sin when you were . . . twelve, thirteen?”

  Eleanor gave him a speculative, sidelong glance and then an unrepentant smile. “Twelve,” she admitted. “I’d just as soon you forbore to mention that to Richard, though, Uncle. He needs inducements to mischief like a dog needs fleas.”

  “I am a safe repository for all of your guilty secrets,” Raoul proclaimed, with mock gravity. “Even the one I stumbled onto by mere chance this past week.”