Free The Greatest Knight by Elizabeth Chadwick Page A

Henry had the advantage of two years’ growth and a longer reach, but he preferred things that came easily; that did not have to be fought for quite so hard. Richard had been a lot worse since the skirmishing in Poitou and kept talking about becoming Duke of Aquitaine and riding to war himself instead of following in the army’s tail. Henry couldn’t wait until he was King of England, Duke of Normandy, and Count of Anjou, but that was different.
    “Not as good as me.”
    Henry’s jaw tightened. “He didn’t say that.”
    “No, I did.” Leaping from his pony, Richard drew his practice sword from his belt. It was made of whalebone and the grip was bound just like a true knight’s with overlapping layers of buckskin. “Come on—or are you afraid?”
    The words goaded Henry. He always swore that he would not rise to Richard’s bait, but he always did. Giving his pony to a groom, he drew his own whalebone sword and prepared to do battle. Richard came at him like a fury, as if it were a fight to the death. Henry parried and tried to hold his ground, but Richard pressed him back towards the watching children, his eyes glowing with relish. With a thrust and a flick, he struck Henry’s sword from his hand. The suddenness of the blow stung Henry’s palms and fingers, but not as much as his pride. He made a sideways lunge for his dropped blade, but Richard got there first and brought the tip of his play sword to Henry’s throat.
    “Yield.” The gleam in Richard’s eyes was almost incandescent.
    Henry glowered at him. To complain that it wasn’t fair would only allow Richard to prove again and again that it was. “Yielded,” Henry muttered. Richard made his point by keeping the weapon at his brother’s throat an instant longer than necessary, then withdrew it and smugly sheathed it through his belt.
    “Just remember that you’ll have to kneel to me in homage when I’m King of England,” Henry snarled, fighting the shameful heat of tears.
    “I won’t ‘have’ to do anything,” Richard retorted. “And you won’t be able to make me.”
    “I will. You’ll only be a duke, after all.” Flinging away from Richard, Henry snatched his pony from his groom and heeled it towards the stables.
    The farrier had been reshoeing some of the castle horses and an acrid stench of hot metal and burning horn filled the air. Several animals were tethered to a hitching bar, awaiting collection and return to their stalls, among them William Marshal’s two stallions, Blancart and Fauvel. The latter was plucking in desultory fashion at a net of hay and resting on one hip, eyes half closed. Henry had ridden him several times. For a destrier he was good-natured and indolent. It took a sharp dig in the flanks to remind him that he was a warhorse at all. Blancart, however, was gazing around with pricked ears and flaring nostrils, every inch the stallion. Now and then, he sidled, giving a flash of his new iron shoes, and his tail swished like a fly whisk. He was saddled which meant that Sir William intended riding him before he was returned to his stall. Henry gazed at the horse, his winter coat now grown out and his hide the colour of damp cream silk. Richard kept talking about riding him; he had tried to do so several times but had been thwarted by a mingling of circumstance and the vigilance of others. Henry glanced around; the horses were momentarily unattended, the opportunity was God-given and it would be a sin not to take advantage. It would counter the recent humiliation tenfold and wipe the smug expression off Richard’s face.
    ***
    William was in the armoury having his hauberk mended and altered. Some links had been broken during a skirmish with the Lusignan rebels a fortnight ago. The damage had been simple enough to repair, but William had put on weight and muscle during the months since his knighting and the garment was now too snug across his chest.
    The armourer sat on a bench outside his workshop, making the most of