The Greatest Knight Read Online Free Page A

would wash away the sour taste of what he had just been forced to do. The cloak was the thin end of the wedge. Next it would be his silk surcoat and his gilded swordbelt. He could see himself trading down and down until he stood in the leather gear of a common footsoldier or became his brother’s hearth knight, undertaking petty duties, living out his days in ennui, and growing paunchy and dull-witted.
    The cook tossed a handful of chopped herbs into a simmering cauldron, stirred vigorously, and glanced round at William. “I thought you’d be in the hall,” he remarked.
    “Why?” William took a gulp of the strong, apple-scented cider.
    “Ah, you haven’t heard about the tourney then.” The cook’s eyes gleamed with the relish of the informed in the presence of the ignorant.
    William’s expression sharpened. “What tourney?”
    “The one that’s being held in two weeks’ time on the field between Sainte Jamme and Valennes. The herald rode in an hour since with the news. Lord Guillaume’s been invited to take part.” He pointed his dripping spoon at William. “It’ll be a fine opportunity to build on your prowess.”
    A spark of anticipation blazed up and died in William’s breast. “I don’t have a destrier,” he said morosely. “I can’t ride into a tourney on a common hack.”
    “Ah.” The cook scratched his head. “That’s a pity, but surely my lord Tancarville will give you a warhorse for the occasion at least. He’s taking as many knights as he can muster. Why don’t you ask him?”
    The spark rekindled, making William feel queasy. If he did ask and was refused, he would have no option but to return to England, his tail between his legs. To ask at all was humiliating, but he had little alternative. Besides, his pride had already taken a fall; it couldn’t sink much lower. Gulping down the cider and leaving the food, he hurried to the hall.
    The news of the tournament had created a festive atmosphere. William stood on its periphery, his emotions finely balanced between hope and despair. Going to his sleeping space, he sat on his pallet and began checking over his equipment: his mended mail shirt, his neatly patched gambeson, his shield and spear and sword. The squires sped hither and yon on errands for the knights as if their legs were on fire.
    Men came up to him, slapped his back, and spoke excitedly of the tourney. William laughed, nodded, and worked at concealing his anxiety. Buffing his helmet with a soft cloth, he wondered if he should have spent the coin from the sale of his cloak on a passage home instead of a horse. His mother would be overjoyed to see him, and perhaps his sisters, but he harboured doubts about his brother John. The latter had been furious that William and not he had been chosen to go for training to Normandy. Instead John had remained at Hamstead, his likely fate that of service to their two older brothers, Walter and Gilbert, from their father’s first marriage. As it happened, Walter and Gilbert had both died, leaving John to inherit the Marshal lands, but that did not mean John would forget old jealousies and resentments.
    Their younger brother Henry would not be at Hamstead as he was training for the priesthood and like William was expected to have fledged the nest for good. Ancel, the youngest, a wiry, freckled nine-year-old when William had last seen him, would be of squiring age now, although his training would probably be at John’s hands, God help him.
    William polished his helm until it glittered like a woman’s hand mirror. He didn’t want to return to his kin in an impoverished state, but he very much desired to see them, even John. And he wanted to pay his respects to his father whose funeral mass he had been too far away to attend.
    “You look troubled, William.”
    He raised his head and found Guillaume de Tancarville standing over him, hands at his hips and amusement crinkling his eye corners. He was sensitive about his receding hairline and