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 amused-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.