Career advancement for knights:
‘Then it is likely true,’ Alexander said politely, and used his eating knife to cut his own portion of food into bite-sized slivers. He did not want to appear too finicky, but he also wanted to show that he was aware of the manners of the court as well as those of the camp.
Many young knights had been invited to sit at William Marshal’s board. Alexander had fought against some of them in the course of the tourney. One or two he had defeated; with others, the encounters had been less conclusive. There was high talk and boasting, there was bragging of blood lines and much name-dropping. Each diner tried to outdo the man beside or opposite him, and the level of noise increased as the wine in the flagons was drunk down to the lees. Alexander sat amidst this social mêlée and realised that it was just as intense as the fighting had been in the afternoon, and the techniques were no different. The man who kept his head was the one who would win. And so he bit his tongue, and remained genial without voicing any boasts of his own. ‘
Alexander turned to William Marshal where he presided at the head of the table with men fortunate enough to already be members of his household. ‘I ask your permission to sing for my supper, my lord,’ he said with a graceful bow. The Marshal regarded him with a twinkle in his eyes, and amusement curving beneath his moustache. ‘For more than your supper, I think,’ he said. ‘Well then, Alexander de Montroi, show me what an accomplished courtier you are.’ He gestured to the harp. For an instant Alexander was overcome by panic as all eyes on the high table fixed upon him and were joined by stares both hostile and curious from the other trestles. A false chord twanged from the harp, setting teeth on edge and raising scornful eyebrows. Alexander cleared his throat and his mind, and willed himself to concentrate on the harmony of the harp and the song. It had to be right. Like the tourney field and the battle ground, there was no room for error. Judging his audience, he struck up a fighting tune about the joys of tourneying, written by the troubadour Bertran de Born. At first his throat was tight and he missed the occasional note, but as the song progressed and he gained confidence, the true, golden clarity of his voice shone through, and men ceased to exchange mocking glances. Before the applause had died down, he began another piece, this time bawdy, about a tourney champion suffering from ‘jouster’s wilt’ both on and off the field. The song was received with loud guffaws and cries that it be repeated. By the time Alexander had sung it again, twice over, his throat was aching, but he was riding on a tide of euphoria, for he knew he had carried the day. To prove that he did have gentler sensibilities, he finished his debut on a poignant composition.
Career advancement for ladies:
Why should you want him to notice me?’ she asked frostily. Aline shrugged and looked at her fingernails. ‘You were wearing a rut for yourself ‘ she said, but her words carried no conviction. ‘Besides, you have a royal protector now, one who enjoys reading books as much if not more than Hamon does.’ There it was, the crux of the matter, Monday thought grimly. Aline wanted her out of the way so she would not be a threat to her marriage. The knowledge hung unspoken between them. They avoided looking at each other, each aware of the resentment they would find. ‘And if he tires of me when I am no longer a novelty, what then?’ Monday demanded. ‘Either you must make sure that he does not or if you think you can only keep him interested for a while, then you must save enough in the good times to outlast the lean. But at the back of your mind, you know that already.’ Monday fiddled with the clasp of her cloak and knew that she had more cause to be grateful to Aline than to bear a grudge. Already on her middle finger, beside her silver ring and the one that had been her mother’s, there gleamed proof of John’s largesse in the form of another one of faceted gold set with three garnets. She knew from her life on the tourney field that such a jewel would purchase food and lodging for at least a month. He had promised her a Spanish mare to ride upon, and her choice of the mercer’s booths in Rouen to fashion herself fitting garments for the mistress of a prince. But there was more to her situation than just the garnering of wealth and knowledge. She only had to think of the wine poured out on her body to shiver with sensuous remembrance. ‘I know you mean well for me,’ she said, turning to Aline, ‘and it is of my own free will that I am doing this now. You have been very good to me, and I will always remember your care.’ Without warning, there were tears in her eyes.
Monday opened her mouth, but quickly closed it again. She had been rather taken with a soft wool in a deep, rosy pink, but knew better than to say so. She had learned that although John liked to give her gifts, they were always of his choosing. She was his pet. Pampered and indulged because it was his whim to do so. She knew that the wider she opened her eyes and the more dumbstruck she appeared, the better John liked it. He enjoyed her answering back to him in the bedchamber or in conversation only if she played the precocious child. The moment she sparred with her intellect or attempted to speak as an equal, his interest waned. ‘He dislikes clever women,’ she had been told by the wife of an official attached to his household. ‘They remind him too much of his mother, and she has never made a secret of the fact that Richard is her favourite, and John an inconvenience, born when her body should have finished child-bearing.’ That knowledge in mind, Monday played the game of daughter and child, and knew that she was a fraud. She also knew that she could not perform either role for much longer. They were in Rouen at the moment and it was past Michaelmas. Barring mishaps, Monday was certain now of what the spring of 1199 would bring. John selected the pink wool too, because Monday fingered it wistfully. Oh yes, she was learning all the ploys but felt cheapened by their use.
‘Countess Isabelle said as much to me before you sailed,’ Monday murmured. ‘And I agreed with her that you were not only ripe for promotion, but eager to settle down to the yoke of government.’ ‘You did, did you?’ ‘Of course I did. Men might think that they move the wheels of progress but frequently it is their womenfolk who grease them for ease. Now Isabelle will speak to William in the leisure of their own chamber, as I am speaking to you. And he will be in a good mood and agree with her that yes, Alexander de Montroi should have a tenancy of his own as soon as possible. Her thoughts enforce his own and make him all the more likely to set the wheels in motion.’ He raised one eyebrow, but there was a half-smile on his lips. ‘God preserve all men from the manipulations of women!’ he laughed.