The face was very familiar, but changed. Still William could not place it. Then his saw that there was an angry scar on the squire’s right ear, where the earlobe had been cut off. In a vivid flash of memory he saw a small piece of white flesh fall onto the heaving chest of a terrified virgin, and heard a boy scream in pain. This was Richard, the son of the traitor Bartholomew, the brother of Aliena. The little boy who had been forced to watch while two men raped his sister had grown into a formidable man with the light of vengeance in his light blue eyes. William was suddenly terribly afraid.
“You remember, don’t you?” Richard said, in a light drawl that did not quite mask the cold fury underneath.
William nodded. “I remember.”
“So do I, William Hamleigh,” said Richard. “So do I.”
William sat in the big chair at the head of the table, where his father used to sit. He had always known he would occupy this seat one day. He had imagined he would feel immensely powerful when he did so, but in reality he was a little frightened. He was afraid that people would say he was not the man his father had been, and that they would disrespect him.
His mother sat on his right. He had often watched her, when his father was in this chair, and observed the way she played on Father’s fears and weaknesses to get her own way. He was determined not to let her do the same to him.
On his left sat Arthur, a mild-mannered, gray-headed man who had been Earl Bartholomew’s reeve. After becoming earl, Father had hired Arthur, because Arthur had a good knowledge of the estate. William had always been dubious about that reasoning. Other people’s servants sometimes clung to the ways of their former employer.
“King Stephen can’tpossiblymake Richard the earl,” Mother was saying angrily. “He’s just a squire!”
“I don’t understand how he even managed that,” William said irritably. “I thought they had been left penniless. But he had fine clothes and a good sword. Where did he get the money?”
“He set himself up as a wool merchant,” Mother said. “He’s got all the money he needs. Or rather, his sister has—I hear Aliena runs the business.”
Aliena. So she was behind this. William had never quite forgotten her, but she had not preyed on his mind so much, after the war broke out, until he had met Richard. Since then she had been in his thoughts continually, as fresh and beautiful, as vulnerable and desirable as ever. He hated her for the hold she had over him.
“So Aliena is rich now?” he said with an affectation of detachment.
“Yes. But you’ve been fighting for the king for a year. He cannot refuse you your inheritance.”
“Richard has fought bravely too, apparently,” William said. “I made some inquiries. Worse still, his courage has come to the notice of the king.”
Mother’s expression changed from angry scorn to thoughtfulness. “So he really has a chance.”
“I fear so.”
“Right. We must fight him off.”
Automatically, William said: “How?” He had resolved not to let his mother take charge but now he had done it.
“You must go back to the king with a bigger force of knights, new weapons and better horses, and plenty of squires and men-at-arms.”
William would have liked to disagree with her but he knew she was right. In the end the king would probably give the earldom to the man who promised to be the most effective supporter, regardless of the rights and wrongs of the case.
“That’s not all,” Mother went on. “You must take care to look and act like an earl. That way the king will start to think of the appointment as a foregone conclusion.”
Despite himself William was intrigued. “How should an earl look and act?”
“Speak your mind more. Have an opinion about everything: how the king should prosecute the war, the best tactics for each battle, the political situation in the north, and—especially this—the abilities and loyalty of other earls. Talk to one man about another. Tell the earl of Huntingdon that the count of Warenne is a great fighter; tell the bishop of Ely that you don’t trust the sheriff of Lincoln. People will say to the king: ‘William of Shiring is in the count of Warenne’s faction,’ or ‘William of Shiring and his followers are against the sheriff of Lincoln.’ If you appear powerful, the king will feel comfortable about giving you more power.”
William had little faith in such subtlety. “I think the size of my army will count for more,” he said. He turned to the reeve. “How much is there in my treasury, Arthur?”
“Nothing, lord,” said Arthur.
“What the devil are you talking about?” said William harshly. “There must be something. How much is it?”
Arthur had a slightly superior air, as if he had nothing to fear from William. “Lord, there’s no money at all in the treasury.”
William wanted to strangle him. “This is the earldom of Shiring!” he said, loud enough to make the knights and castle officials farther down the table look up. “There must be money!”
“Money comes in all the time, lord, of course,” Arthur said smoothly. “But it goes out again, especially in wartime.”
William studied the pale, clean-shaven face. Arthur was far too complacent. Was he honest? There was no way of telling. William wished for eyes that could see into a man’s heart.
