complex, subtle concoction of half-truths and lies, telling them much and giving them nothing.
One evening in late July four months after the ambush, the de Lusignan brothers returned to the castle where they had first brought William. Amalric's greeting was strained and it was plain that while he would do his duty and aid his overlords, he was fearful too. De Tancarville had brought fire and sword to Poitou and prudent men were keeping their heads below their battlements.
Under the watchful eye of a Lusignan serjeant, William was unsaddling the spavined nag they had given him to ride, when a youth stuck his head round the stable door to say that William was summoned to the great hall. "There's a messenger arrived on the business of the Queen Eleanor," the lad announced, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist before loping off.
"Hah!" declared the serjeant. "Looks as if someone's finally decided you're worth something."
William's heartbeat quickened. He tethered his horse, avoiding the snap of its long yellow teeth, and headed for the hall at a swift limp.
The messenger he recognised as Father André, one of Eleanor's chaplains. As a priest, his spiritual calling gave him a certain (although not guaranteed) immunity and he was more easily able to venture where a sword-wearing man could not. The chaplain's eyes widened and William became conscious of the sorry vision he must present. Four months of continuous wear had rendered his garments so filthy that they could have stood up by themselves. His hair was overlong and matted, his beard thick, and both were infested with lice; his braies were held up by strips of leather and frayed string.
"My son..." he said, shaking his head. "My dear, dear son..." Pity and concern creased his blunt features.
Falling to his knees, William bowed his head. "Thank God." His voice cracked as he fought not to weep. "Tell me that you are here to ransom me?"
"Indeed, my son, that is my purpose." The priest's tone was gentle with compassion. "Queen Eleanor has redeemed your price in full. On the morrow you are free to leave."
The words were the sweetest that William had ever heard. The lump in his throat made speech impossible. Father André set his hand to William's sleeve and gently raised him to his feet. "Although not as free as you might choose," the priest added with a smile. "The Queen desires words with you on your return."
***
William stepped into the steaming bathtub and hissed at the scalding heat. A swift command from the lady Clara hastened a serving girl to the tub with an extra half-pail of cold water. Now that he had been ransomed and was no longer a prisoner, the laws of hospitality declared that he must be treated as a guest—perhaps not a welcome one, but the courtesies still had to be observed. Since Eleanor herself had paid his ransom, William's importance had suddenly risen dramatically and neither the Lusignans nor Amalric were about to return him to her clad in filthy rags and looking like a scabrous beggar. He had been brought to the domestic chambers above the hall and the women instructed to tend him and find him fresh raiment.
The bathwater was already turning a scummy grey. Clara brought a jar of soap and some stavesacre lotion to deal with the lice. Sitting on a stool to the side of the tub she set about ministering to him, efficiently barbering off his beard and cutting his hair before rubbing the pungent stavesacre lotion into his scalp.
William was embarrassed. "You do not need to do this, my lady, I can see to these things myself."
Her lips curved in a half-smile. "I do not need to, but I wish to."
"May I look a gift horse in the mouth and ask why?"
She slowed kneading his scalp. "Because I was angered and ashamed by the way they treated you," she said. "I do not like to see suffering. I would have done more for you if I could, that first time."
"I am very grateful, my lady, for what you did do."
"It was little enough." Her breathing hesitated,
One evening in late July four months after the ambush, the de Lusignan brothers returned to the castle where they had first brought William. Amalric's greeting was strained and it was plain that while he would do his duty and aid his overlords, he was fearful too. De Tancarville had brought fire and sword to Poitou and prudent men were keeping their heads below their battlements.
Under the watchful eye of a Lusignan serjeant, William was unsaddling the spavined nag they had given him to ride, when a youth stuck his head round the stable door to say that William was summoned to the great hall. "There's a messenger arrived on the business of the Queen Eleanor," the lad announced, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist before loping off.
"Hah!" declared the serjeant. "Looks as if someone's finally decided you're worth something."
William's heartbeat quickened. He tethered his horse, avoiding the snap of its long yellow teeth, and headed for the hall at a swift limp.
The messenger he recognised as Father André, one of Eleanor's chaplains. As a priest, his spiritual calling gave him a certain (although not guaranteed) immunity and he was more easily able to venture where a sword-wearing man could not. The chaplain's eyes widened and William became conscious of the sorry vision he must present. Four months of continuous wear had rendered his garments so filthy that they could have stood up by themselves. His hair was overlong and matted, his beard thick, and both were infested with lice; his braies were held up by strips of leather and frayed string.
"My son..." he said, shaking his head. "My dear, dear son..." Pity and concern creased his blunt features.
Falling to his knees, William bowed his head. "Thank God." His voice cracked as he fought not to weep. "Tell me that you are here to ransom me?"
"Indeed, my son, that is my purpose." The priest's tone was gentle with compassion. "Queen Eleanor has redeemed your price in full. On the morrow you are free to leave."
The words were the sweetest that William had ever heard. The lump in his throat made speech impossible. Father André set his hand to William's sleeve and gently raised him to his feet. "Although not as free as you might choose," the priest added with a smile. "The Queen desires words with you on your return."
***
William stepped into the steaming bathtub and hissed at the scalding heat. A swift command from the lady Clara hastened a serving girl to the tub with an extra half-pail of cold water. Now that he had been ransomed and was no longer a prisoner, the laws of hospitality declared that he must be treated as a guest—perhaps not a welcome one, but the courtesies still had to be observed. Since Eleanor herself had paid his ransom, William's importance had suddenly risen dramatically and neither the Lusignans nor Amalric were about to return him to her clad in filthy rags and looking like a scabrous beggar. He had been brought to the domestic chambers above the hall and the women instructed to tend him and find him fresh raiment.
The bathwater was already turning a scummy grey. Clara brought a jar of soap and some stavesacre lotion to deal with the lice. Sitting on a stool to the side of the tub she set about ministering to him, efficiently barbering off his beard and cutting his hair before rubbing the pungent stavesacre lotion into his scalp.
William was embarrassed. "You do not need to do this, my lady, I can see to these things myself."
Her lips curved in a half-smile. "I do not need to, but I wish to."
"May I look a gift horse in the mouth and ask why?"
She slowed kneading his scalp. "Because I was angered and ashamed by the way they treated you," she said. "I do not like to see suffering. I would have done more for you if I could, that first time."
"I am very grateful, my lady, for what you did do."
"It was little enough." Her breathing hesitated,
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