would not think it to look at the pair of you. You are…?”
“William Marshal, madam, nephew to my lord the Earl of Salisbury.”
Her smile grew less wide, although it remained. “Ah yes,” she said in response to the latter statement, but did not elaborate on whether the news was to William’s advantage or detriment.
“Can I ride him?” The bright-haired boy pointed to Blancart, his hand already reaching for the reins in a way that told William the child was confident and accustomed to getting his own way.
In spite of his awe for the boy’s mother, William shook his head and held him off. “He would run away with you…sir,” he replied. “He’s a difficult horse to handle.”
“I’ve ridden warhorses before.” The boy thrust out his lower lip. “My mother’s knights always let me ride theirs.”
“But you know your lady mother’s knights and their horses,” William replied. “You do not know me or mine.”
The older boy smirked at his brother, plainly delighted at William’s rebuff. “I’ve ridden destriers too,” he bragged, puffing out his chest.
“So have I,” piped up the youngest one, not to be outdone. “Lots of times.”
Their mother fought a smile. Her hand ruffled the red-haired child’s head in a tender gesture. “Enough,” she said. “Messire Marshal is right to deny you. A warhorse is no toy and skill like Messire Marshal’s does not come of the moment but is won by long hours of training.”
William looked at the upturned faces and remembered himself and his brothers as children watching their father and his knights at practice. He recalled the desire, the longing, the bright, starry feeling in the gut—and the frustration, and saw it mirrored in these three boys who could have been himself and John and Henry. “Perhaps another time,” he said. “I have a second stallion who is quieter than this fellow.”
“I don’t want to ride a quieter stallion,” the bright-haired boy declared, his fair skin flushing. “I want the best.”
“Richard.” Eleanor’s voice sounded a warning. “Where are your manners? You are no longer a small child, so do not act like one.”
“But I am a prince,” the boy replied, casting his mother an oblique look through long lashes, plainly testing the boundaries.
“Even more reason to mind your manners.”
“My father doesn’t.”
“Your father is not always the finest example of a prince,” she retorted waspishly.
“I only said I wanted the best.”
Eleanor’s lips twitched and William saw the glow of affection in her eyes. He suspected that this particular son could wrap her around his little finger.
“Blancart wasn’t the best to begin with,” William said. “In fact no one wanted him because he pulled too hard on the bridle. Sometimes you have to work long and hard to fashion the raw material into the best.”
The Queen tilted her head and gave William a feline stare. “And is that what you are, Messire Marshal?” she asked huskily. “The best?”
William cleared his throat. “I fear I am still very rough around the edges, madam.”
“And I fear that you are too modest. Deeds may speak more compellingly than words, but I believe that words have their place too. A man who has both is gifted indeed.” Inclining her head, she turned away to her waiting attendants and retainers. The boys followed her, both of the older ones looking over their shoulders, the red-haired one in particular with calculation in his blue-grey eyes. He hadn’t given up yet.
William placed his hand on Blancart’s withers and leaped to the saddle. There was a starry feeling in his gut just now, but it was more concerned with the Queen of England than his jousting. Why on earth, he wondered, would Henry want to flirt with mistresses when he was wed to a woman like that?
***
That night, Eleanor appeared formally in the hall with her husband. She and Henry sat side by side and performed their public duty as two halves of one
“William Marshal, madam, nephew to my lord the Earl of Salisbury.”
Her smile grew less wide, although it remained. “Ah yes,” she said in response to the latter statement, but did not elaborate on whether the news was to William’s advantage or detriment.
“Can I ride him?” The bright-haired boy pointed to Blancart, his hand already reaching for the reins in a way that told William the child was confident and accustomed to getting his own way.
In spite of his awe for the boy’s mother, William shook his head and held him off. “He would run away with you…sir,” he replied. “He’s a difficult horse to handle.”
“I’ve ridden warhorses before.” The boy thrust out his lower lip. “My mother’s knights always let me ride theirs.”
“But you know your lady mother’s knights and their horses,” William replied. “You do not know me or mine.”
The older boy smirked at his brother, plainly delighted at William’s rebuff. “I’ve ridden destriers too,” he bragged, puffing out his chest.
“So have I,” piped up the youngest one, not to be outdone. “Lots of times.”
Their mother fought a smile. Her hand ruffled the red-haired child’s head in a tender gesture. “Enough,” she said. “Messire Marshal is right to deny you. A warhorse is no toy and skill like Messire Marshal’s does not come of the moment but is won by long hours of training.”
William looked at the upturned faces and remembered himself and his brothers as children watching their father and his knights at practice. He recalled the desire, the longing, the bright, starry feeling in the gut—and the frustration, and saw it mirrored in these three boys who could have been himself and John and Henry. “Perhaps another time,” he said. “I have a second stallion who is quieter than this fellow.”
“I don’t want to ride a quieter stallion,” the bright-haired boy declared, his fair skin flushing. “I want the best.”
“Richard.” Eleanor’s voice sounded a warning. “Where are your manners? You are no longer a small child, so do not act like one.”
“But I am a prince,” the boy replied, casting his mother an oblique look through long lashes, plainly testing the boundaries.
“Even more reason to mind your manners.”
“My father doesn’t.”
“Your father is not always the finest example of a prince,” she retorted waspishly.
“I only said I wanted the best.”
Eleanor’s lips twitched and William saw the glow of affection in her eyes. He suspected that this particular son could wrap her around his little finger.
“Blancart wasn’t the best to begin with,” William said. “In fact no one wanted him because he pulled too hard on the bridle. Sometimes you have to work long and hard to fashion the raw material into the best.”
The Queen tilted her head and gave William a feline stare. “And is that what you are, Messire Marshal?” she asked huskily. “The best?”
William cleared his throat. “I fear I am still very rough around the edges, madam.”
“And I fear that you are too modest. Deeds may speak more compellingly than words, but I believe that words have their place too. A man who has both is gifted indeed.” Inclining her head, she turned away to her waiting attendants and retainers. The boys followed her, both of the older ones looking over their shoulders, the red-haired one in particular with calculation in his blue-grey eyes. He hadn’t given up yet.
William placed his hand on Blancart’s withers and leaped to the saddle. There was a starry feeling in his gut just now, but it was more concerned with the Queen of England than his jousting. Why on earth, he wondered, would Henry want to flirt with mistresses when he was wed to a woman like that?
***
That night, Eleanor appeared formally in the hall with her husband. She and Henry sat side by side and performed their public duty as two halves of one
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