The Silver Falcon (52 page)

Bathed, his face shaved smooth, William felt a little better, but in the strange clothes John had sent him he felt as if he had slipped into someone else’s life. Soon he would no longer be a commoner. Not that he would no longer be accountable to anyone—there was always a feudal lord who stood one step higher. Even King
John had sworn an oath of fealty to King Philip of France in return for his lands on the mainland and therefore owed him service. But as lord of a manor, William would have power over many people: peasants, laborers, servants, huntsmen, artisans. They and their families would be dependent on him. While in the tub, he had already begun to consider the steps he would take in Roford.

The River Eden flowed past the village on its way east. Was it capable of driving a mill? A mill could not only grind flour but also drive the hammers for a smithy, or even make felt.

“Are you ready?” Robert’s question roused him from his reverie. “The king is waiting for us at the table.”

William nodded with a heavy heart.

“Shall we go then…my lord?” Robert went on, smiling mischievously.

“Let’s go,” said William. He would soon have to get used to being called “my lord.” But right then he could not manage more than a wry smile.

Marguerite had made her apologies and did not join them for the meal. William was thankful. It would have been too difficult for him to chatter with her about trivialities while he was longing to hold and kiss her and swear eternal love.

John, in high spirits, drank thirstily of the wine on offer and grew more and more expansive; William just sat there in silence, chewing his meat as if it were a piece of shoe leather.

William did not tell Robert about the meeting with Marguerite until the following morning.

“You really do love her, don’t you?”

William nodded mutely.

When they entered the intimate hall of the manor house, John was talking animatedly with the steward.

“Ah, the groom.” He welcomed him joyfully when William approached. “Isn’t he handsome?” He looked around. “Is the bride ready, too?”

“She’s ready, sire, but she’s weeping bitter tears,” the steward told him.

“Can anyone understand women?” growled John. “First they say yes, and then they say no. They’re always changing their minds. I’ll tell you this right now, William, only a liar would claim it is easy to be a good husband. I know whereof I speak. I wasn’t married once before for nothing.”

“Sire, if she doesn’t wish it, perhaps we shouldn’t,” William stammered.

“What foolishness is this?” exclaimed the king, his face turning red.

“Forgive me, sire. I didn’t mean to anger you.”

“Spare me and come along now. I do not intend to spend tonight here as well. Let her come to the church,” demanded the king, leading the way.

William followed him with his head bowed. Robert hurried after him, too.

Out of the corner of his eye, William saw Marguerite approach her uncle. He looked down. It was too painful to look at her. The torment clutched at his throat and stopped him from thinking clearly. His head felt empty and dull.

The priest was standing at the door of the church, waiting for the bride and groom. William stood in front of him and waited to be led to the bride. He looked around cautiously, but he could not see her anywhere. She was probably intending to make a grand entrance. It was not until the king led Marguerite toward him and she took up a position beside him that he understood that Richard de Hauville’s daughter was none other than Marguerite.

But his bride was not laughing. She was not even smiling, and she did not seem to be reeling with happiness, as he was. A tear ran down her cheek. Why was she weeping? Didn’t she want him?

“I’m sorry,” he said uncertainly.

Marguerite just sniffed. Perhaps she had been hoping for a better match? Much as he wanted her for his wife, the thought of possessing her against her will was abhorrent to him. But he didn’t want to give her up, either. Perhaps he would be able to convince her if they spent more time together. It was a fact that marriages among people of their rank were normally arranged for practical reasons, not for love—though love did occasionally come later as a gift from God.

And so he accepted the marriage with a clear, almost hard-sounding, “Yes.”

When it came to Marguerite, however, only a faint sob passed her lips. Upon an emphatic nod from the king, the priest took this as acceptance.

Once the blessing had been spoken, William gently kissed his new bride on the cheek. He did not dare kiss her on the mouth; he did not want to push her.

“We can leave, sire,” Marguerite said impassively, not looking at John. “I’m sure the queen is waiting impatiently for you.”

“And you’re yearning to be alone with your husband, it seems to me. For tonight is your wedding night,” the king said teasingly. He burst out laughing when she blushed, turned away in embarrassment, and stalked off proudly.

William decided to avoid her for the time being, so as not to provoke her any more. He would give her time, though he was disappointed. He had assumed, after the kisses they had exchanged the previous year, that she loved him, too.

Robert felt a twinge of jealousy, but he could not help feeling sorry for William. It was impossible to ignore how Marguerite’s rejection made his friend suffer. To see William so desperate hurt him more
than his own sorrow. Marguerite was the only one who could make William happy, and until that moment in front of the church, Robert had believed she longed for nothing more than to be his wife. Now, however, as they rode to the king’s hunting lodge, she was several lengths ahead of William and did not even glance at him.

Robert spurred on his horse to catch up with her and asked what had happened to make her spurn William.

“I thought he loved me,” she blurted out. She looked frightened, as if she had said something shocking. “I wanted to die when he confessed that his heart was plighted to another.” The tears glittering in her eyes made her look like a child, and Robert was moved.

“I can’t believe it,” he retorted. Why would William have said something so stupid? He loved Marguerite; Robert was absolutely sure of it. He nodded at the unhappy bride and reined in his horse until he was back alongside William.

“I always thought you loved her,” he said, bewildered.

“And I do,” replied William in a voice that came from the heart and rang with sincerity. “But I hate the thought of marrying her when she doesn’t return my love.”

“So why did you tell her your heart belonged to another?” Robert looked at him questioningly.

“I didn’t know she was the bride.”

“Then you’d better explain yourself as soon as you can, my friend. She was weeping because she thought you didn’t want her.” Robert smiled at him encouragingly even though he felt raw inside. “Come on, she’s waiting.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Plagued by sadness aroused by his friend’s joy, Robert watched William spur on his horse and hurry toward Marguerite. “You deserve to be happy, my friend.”

When they arrived at the hunting lodge, the young queen rushed out to meet them.

“John, my beloved royal husband. I’ve missed you, all alone in my bed,” she said seductively and loud enough that his followers heard, too.

Marguerite giggled with embarrassment. They had cleared up the misunderstanding, so she gave William a private but no less flirtatious glance that made his heart race.

“Marguerite, how lovely to see you here. I’ve missed you so,” Isabelle said joyfully.

“My lady, may I introduce my husband, William?” said Marguerite once he had dismounted.

“Your husband?” Isabelle’s eyebrows rose. She giggled and looked curiously at William.

“My lady.” He bowed deeply before the queen. By the time he looked up again, she had already linked arms with the king and Marguerite and pulled them both away.

“Did you ever allow yourself to dream you could be so happy and come so far?” asked Robert.

William shook his head.

“Let’s go into the hall,” Robert suggested. “There’s bound to be something to eat there, and I’m ravenous.”

As they entered the smoke-filled hall, William accidentally jostled a broad-shouldered knight, but his mumbled apology almost stuck in his throat.

“Can’t you look where you’re going?” snarled Odon. When he saw who had bumped into him, he went on. “What are you doing here?”

Before William had a chance to answer, the king called him.

“William, come here. You have a place of honor at my table today.” John bared his teeth in a smile, and he suddenly looked so like his father that William was reminded of old King Henry.
What would he have said to the idea that William would be sitting at the royal table today?

“I simply can’t give up the company of your charming wife just like that. I’ve become too accustomed to her and her constant questions over the years,” he said, provoking Marguerite with a wink and roaring with laughter when she put her hands on her hips in protest.

Odon stared at William, openmouthed and speechless.

“Come, Lord Roford,” Robert said to his friend, with a mocking grin directed at Odon. “The king awaits you.” Then he turned back to Odon and, quietly triumphant, said, “It didn’t do you any good to poison that falcon. William became a royal falconer anyway. From now on you’d better keep your distance.”

Odon seemed ready to boil over at Robert’s impudence, but not a word passed his lips.

“Robert,” said William, who had heard his friend’s words. He waved Robert over. “Come now.” It did not please William to see Robert and Odon pitted against each other. If there was to be an argument, Robert would get the worst of it, just as he had before. It was better to stay out of the way of a man like Odon. A fight was worthwhile only if one could win it.

Countless meat and fish courses were brought forth during dinner, all with delicious sauces, but William could hardly swallow a single bite. Whenever he looked at Marguerite, his stomach turned over. This wonderful woman was his. He rubbed his hands together, but they remained ice-cold; he could not even warm them up on his cup of hot mulled wine.

The king insisted that William and Marguerite stay with him for Christmastide; he even had a separate room prepared for them so that they could spend their wedding night together in privacy. While the table was being cleared and everyone headed off to sleep, John winked at him conspiratorially and wished him a good night.

With nowhere else to sleep but on the hard floor of the hall, Odon stared into the darkness in a rage and gritted his teeth so hard his jaw began to ache. William did not deserve the position of royal falconer, with lands and a wife that were simply not right for a commoner. Why was the fellow so lucky? Odon trembled with fury until one of the maids pressed close to him.

“If you’re cold, my lord, I know something that will help.” She came even closer, threw her arms around his body, and slipped her hand into the opening of his shirt.

Odon gave in to his sudden arousal, rolled over on top of her, and pushed her shift up without even looking to see who she was. It did not matter. William was up there in a clean room with his wife, enjoying his wedding night, while he had to make do with the filthy floor of the hall. What use was it to him that his wife was more beautiful than William’s? Odon hated Maud, though he still desired her body as much as ever. But William evidently loved his wife, and she seemed quite besotted with him, too. Jealousy and hatred merely increased Odon’s arousal.