Free The Greatest Knight by Elizabeth Chadwick

breathing space was at a premium, the sight of couples furtively swiving was commonplace. Everyone knew it happened and if close to the activity, pretended that it didn’t—except for those who gained salacious pleasure from watching.
    The woman made a different sound, almost a yelp, and the knight’s breath caught, held, and then shuddered out of him. There was silence, then a long sigh. Coins clinked softly together and the woman left, an anonymous dark shape picking her way between the pallets of the sleeping men until moments later she stooped by one of them and lifted his blankets. Muffled by a greater distance, the sounds began again, while beside William, the knight began to snore.
    Thinking of the transaction that had just taken place and the new one in progress, William realised what that line on the Queen’s bedchamber floor had symbolised, why he wouldn’t cross it, and why she would never invite him to do so. The realisation relaxed his thoughts and he closed his eyes. The tension in his groin remained though—a dull, persistent surge that was not eased by the moans emanating from further down the line of pallets. Priests advocated will power and prayer to battle the lusts of the flesh. The Sire de Tancarville, of a more worldly and practical mind, had provided whores for his men, like the one going about her business now. For the soldiers lacking funds or fastidious like William, he had baldly suggested the common remedy. William resorted to this now, quickly and quietly. He was young and aroused and it took no time. There was guilt after the swift pangs of pleasure, but not as much as there might have been given other circumstances, and there was relief too. Soon he was as soundly asleep as his companions, and since his dreams had arrived early and troubled his waking mind, they did not disturb his slumber.

Five
    Lusignan, Poitou, March 1168
    Eleanor’s three sons had been riding their ponies all morning, practising at the quintain with blunted lances fashioned to their size and playing at jousts with the sons of the knights and lords billeted at Lusignan. The quintain post had been lowered to take account of the stature of the children and their mounts. Richard was proving more adept than Henry, although both lads possessed natural ability. There was intense rivalry between them. Resenting being younger than Henry, Richard had set out to prove that age was no indicator of skill. Henry was enraged at being defeated by Richard because it undermined his natal superiority and made him look less glorious in the eyes of the other children and their nurses who were watching from the sidelines.
    “That’s twelve to me and nine to you,” Richard declared, returning to the start of the quintain run, his teeth bared in a triumphant grin, a withy ring decorating the end of his lance. His pony was sweating hard, its sides working like bellows.
    “Ten.” Henry thrust out his lower lip. “I hooked the last one.”
    “Yes, but it dropped off, so it doesn’t count.”
    “Yes it does.”
    “I’m still winning,” Richard scoffed. “I bet I could beat you at swordplay too. William Marshal says I’m good,” he added, as if that clinched the matter.
    Henry glared at Richard. Praise from William Marshal was an accolade sought by Eleanor’s sons—not the courtly sort provided by William’s ready smile, but the approbation that sometimes showed in his eyes when one or all of them had been particularly good during battle practice. Not that William was their tutor or involved in any aspect of their training, but Henry, Richard, and Geoffrey often contrived to be around when William was honing his skills. They became his shadows; they tried to emulate, and sometimes, if he had the time and his mood was right, he would give them an impromptu lesson. “He says I’m good too,” Henry declared haughtily. He didn’t particularly want to fight Richard. His brother’s pure aggression made him a difficult opponent.