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might have missed his catch and dropped the youngest royal on his head. He spun round, John in his arms. “It doesn’t matter, madam,” he said, and thought how foolish the words sounded.
    Her laughter caused his stomach to wallow. “I am sure that it does,” she replied, “unless you are like the King and do not care about appearance.”
    “A tunic can be cleaned, madam,” William responded, seeking a diplomatic path through the dilemma she had created—whether to admit to being vain or slovenly, of which he was neither. “I was more concerned with comforting the Princeling.”
    “He is a young man of many talents, madam,” chuckled Salisbury, standing by her shoulder. “Even I did not know he had this particular one, but I’m sure it will come in most useful.”
    Eleanor pursed her lips. “Indeed,” she said softly, looking William up and down. “I am sure it will.”
    Later in the evening there was singing and dancing and as the candles burned down, they were replaced by new ones. The Queen had no intention of retiring early and seemed determined to prove that although she was a decade older than her husband, her energy was more than a match for his. She flirted with the men both young and old, but was careful never to step outside the bounds of propriety, sharing her favours in equal measure, never lingering with a particular man unless he was old enough to be her grandfather. Twice she danced with William and her hand, cool at first touch but warm beneath, pressed to his damp one as she moved lightly to left and right.
    “Not only a skilled horseman and nursemaid, but a fine dancer too,” she complimented him with a smile. “What other talents do you hide I wonder?”
    “None that you would find worthy, madam,” William said, trying not to sound callow.
    “And how do you know what I would find worthy?”
    He hoped the question was rhetorical, for he did not have an answer. Their hands met and parted on the diagonal: right to right, left to left.
    “Perhaps in Poitou we’ll find out.”
    She moved on to the next man in the line in a swirl of heavy woollen skirts, a flash of gold, and a smile over her shoulder, leaving William bemused, his senses reeling. If the musicians hadn’t been playing their instruments, his swallow would have been audible. Since the dance was progressive, he found himself partnering a plump, pale-faced child, chestnut-haired, brown-eyed, gowned in a dress that was lavishly embroidered with tiny silver daisies. Princess Marguerite was Prince Henry’s nine-year-old wife and daughter of King Louis of France by Constance, his second queen. The children had been married since infancy, a papal dispensation having been granted to permit the nuptials. William could remember his father laughing about the event at the time and admiring the way King Henry had manipulated the Church and outmanoeuvred Louis, who had handed his daughter to the keeping of Henry’s court expecting many years of betrothal. Instead there had been a rapid marriage, thus enabling Henry legally to appropriate little Marguerite’s dower lands on the Franco-Norman border.
    William solemnly danced with the child and bowed formally to her when she moved on, treating her as he would one of the grown women. Marguerite too cast a glance over her shoulder as the Queen had done, but her eyes and her smile were as innocent as the flower for which she was named. Her look, her broad, toothy grin, relaxed William’s tension and enabled him to recover his equilibrium. By the time he had danced with Eleanor’s small daughters, their nurses, and then a couple of Eleanor’s ladies, he felt much more at home in the company.
    Between the dances, there was singing, a pastime that William loved. He might not be able to read or write, but he had an excellent memory for tunes and lyrics, and his voice was clear, strong, and wide-ranging. Modest in the exalted company, he let the other knights and ladies take their turn, but