Chapter Text
Royal Will
‘Lord Ulrich von Lichtenstien is no Lord. Lord Ulrich does not exist. He is an impostor, a peasant who has been deceiving everyone. A thatcher named William, from Cheapside.’
His first reaction is shock. How on earth can it be true, that the young lord who has dominated the tournaments for most of the season is in fact a peasant? That can’t be true. But he knows better than to doubt his herald’s information. The man is paid to be impeccably informed.
His second reaction is anger. He’s a royal, with a royal’s temper, and the noble pride that’s been drilled into him since birth does not take the news well.
A peasant. A peasant dared walk among the nobility, claim to be one of them. A peasant dared the joust, dared conquer the joust and make fools of all of them. A peasant dared...
‘...dared to show you mercy. Dared to respect your choices when no one else would.’
The whisper in his mind silences his anger, memory taking the place of fury.
The tournament at Rouen. He’d worked long and hard to create the identity of Lord Corville. It was the only way he’d be able to compete, and he wanted to test his mettle in the joust.
Being an unknown, he was required to fight his way up the lists before he could cross lances with any of the former champions. He was rather eager to face Adhemar, a knight reputed to be one of the best in the lists.
He’d watched the other competitors, the other no-names like himself, of course. It was only prudent. And, like most of the attendees, he’d noticed the young Lord Ulrich von Lichtenstien. Antique armor and a flamboyant herald made an interesting contradiction. His manner spoke of a young knight of low-level nobility who’d probably taken up his father or grandfather’s armor to prove his worth. He wouldn’t be the first such. Nor the only one here at the tournament. The joust was a common proving ground for low-level knights and third sons.
He wasn’t well-trained, that much was clear. His style was rough and unpolished. But he was strong, he was focused, and he had all the hallmarks of a potentially great jouster, with a bit of seasoning.
He hadn’t considered Ulrich much of a challenge. Too green. He’d been trained by the best, of course, as a Prince. Still, he hadn’t been disappointed to find himself crossing lances with the young man.
After the first pass, he’d revised his opinion. Unpolished or not, Ulrich certainly was a challenge. He hit hard, and his aim was devastating. He’d noticed that Ulrich didn’t raise his chin like most jousters, but he hadn’t considered the advantage of it. Until he faced the man.
The second pass had started smoothly, but halfway down the list his horse hit a rough patch of sand, breaking stride just slightly. The break caused his shield to drop a fraction, leaving his chest exposed. In another case, he wouldn’t have worried overmuch, as most knights would have looked up at that point. But Ulrich wasn’t most knights.
The lance slammed into him like a hammer-blow, like a siege engine against the gates, right where he’d become vulnerable. And in the impact, he knew.
The cracking of the lance was echoed by a crack inside him, pain shooting through his chest. He knew at once that it was a bad injury. And that another such blow would kill him.
A wise man would have yielded then and there. But he had his pride. Too much to simply surrender the field. Not enough for him to convince himself that he could handle another of Ulrich’s lances.
Stopping the other at the midpoint to talk was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It was also his only hope. He stopped, flipped his visor up and addressed the young man. “Lord Ulrich...I’m through.”
Instead of mockery, there was pity, regret, in the young man’s expression. No sneers, only understanding. Courtesy. It made the next words easier somehow. “I’ve never...not finished before.”
And Ulrich could have demanded his forfeit. Or could have shrugged him away. Instead, he’d nodded solemnly.
They’d readied themselves for the final bout. He’d known he could no more land a blow than he could endure one, not with his breath seizing in his chest. He’d also known that most knights would deliver a touch for the win, regardless. He could only hope that the touch would not be forceful enough to cause greater damage, or unhorse him. That would kill him.
He rode, at half speed because a full gallop was more than he could handle, and lifted his lance in surrender, bracing himself for impact.
An impact that never came. Ulrich matched him, movement for movement, turning surrender and loss into a draw, rather than forcing the win. They both knew he would withdraw and the victory would go to Ulrich regardless, but the fact that the young knight did not force his advantage…
It was a rare knight who would allow mercy to overcome victory. He resolved to look up Ulrich again when he had recovered.
Recovery had been long and tedious. But it had happened, eventually. He’d used the excuse of conditioning to resume his role as Corville and seek out the nearest tourney. It was a small one, only a few dozen competitors and limited rules, but that was all to the good. He wasn’t reckless enough to dare a larger competition so soon. Besides, Adhemar and Ulrich were both competing. And after so long abed, he wanted his match with the one and a rematch with the other more than ever.
He’d been preparing for his bout with Adhemar when he’d seen the man’s herald go running over, alarm on his face. Minutes later, Adhemar withdrew from the field, and his heart sank.
For Adhemar to withdraw with no contest meant one of two things. An emergency on his lands that required his immediate attention, or…
Or he’d been revealed. Discovered. His identity known.
He’d waited, hoping against hope that he was wrong. But he’d seen Ulrich’s herald go wandering over. He’d seen the look of alarm that crossed the man’s face, his rush towards the announcer, followed by a mad dash over to his lord. And he’d known.
He was revealed. It was over.
He’d just begun to turn away and resign himself to the situation when Ulrich had spurred his horse. From the look on the herald’s face and the faces of the squires, none of them had expected it. In fact, it took him a precious second to realize that Ulrich was, indeed, riding the list against him.
He'd laughed and grabbed the lance his squire handed him, amazed at his good luck. He didn’t know whether Ulrich had discounted his herald’s news, or disbelieved it, and he didn’t care.
It ended with a draw. But he finished the bout still upright and uninjured in his saddle, and he counted that well enough done against the man who’d devastated him before. And well enough done given that it was his first tourney since he’d been injured.
He met the young knight at the center of the list, as before. “Well met, Lord Ulrich.”
The young man hadn’t smiled. Instead, his voice was low. “You as well...” A second’s hesitation. “Your Majesty.”
He’d already been unmasked, there was no point in hiding it. He stripped away his helmet and headgear, ignoring the gasps from the sidelines as his face was revealed. “You knew me, and still you rode?” A brave man. He could have him arrested for that, even if he wasn’t British.
Judging by Ulrich’s face he knew it as well, the penalties for endangering royalty. But the young man sat his saddle and stood his ground. “It is not in me to withdraw.”
Oh, and saying that to his face, especially after the last time they’d met in the list...oh, that was brave of him. Brave enough to bring a smile to his face in spite of the grim reminder. He gave the young knight a pointed look. “Nor me. Though it happens.”
Ulrich took the rebuke well, only dipping his head in acknowledgment. Then they parted ways.
He withdrew his name after that. There was no point in staying. Though he also sent orders that Adhemar was to be recalled to the front as well. The man had exposed him, after all, and royal prerogative allowed him that bit of petty revenge.
He’d enjoyed keeping track of the tournaments after that, watching as Ulrich became a name to be reckoned with, sweeping the field in several contests. He’d resigned himself to hosting the Great Tournament in London before the beginning of the season, but he’d started looking forward to it as Ulrich’s reputation gained prominence.
He’d even allowed Adhemar back. Yes, he’d known Adhemar was violating all the codes of conduct in order to be sent back, but he wanted to see those two cross lances. He’d heard rumors of a fierce rivalry, and a woman involved, and he wanted to see it play out. It promised to be the most amusing diversion he’d had in seasons.
And now it had come to this. Ulrich revealed as an English peasant with ideas above his station. His victories a mockery of noble pride and status.
Except that he remembers Ulrich’s mercy, and the respect the young man had shown him in the lists. Those were not the acts of a man who wished to mock tradition. His behavior had been far more honorable than many whose blood earned them the right to bear arms.
Nobility of nature...it had made knights and lords of lesser men before. And he was the Black Prince. Heir to the throne of England.
He could do it. Give William Thatcher a title and a knighthood. He just needs a good reason.
He remembers William’s kindness to him on the field of honor. One might argue that as a debt, but it would also be argued that a peasant should never have been there in the first place, and thus the debt was meaningless.
Unless, of course, the young man did have a claim to the field of honor.
Being the heir to the throne means he is required to uphold his family’s virtue in public. However, he knows well that every royal line has daughters married off to lesser men for money or alliance. And even more royals have by-blows, sons and daughters born to the distaff side, bastard children. Royal custom keeps track of these lines for three or four generations, then lets them lapse, unless the line has proved worthy of note and recognition.
How fortunate that he’s been researching the lost branches recently, while crafting the identity of Lord Corville.
He summons his personal scribes and historians. “Tell me what you know of the man William Thatcher.”
“He is base-born. A peasant. Yet he has held his own on the field of honor this last season. He first rode in France, and has done well in the lists since. He is reputed to have some skill with the sword as well as the lance.”
“There are rumors that he is courting a young noble by name of Jocelyn, and has found favor with her, though her father is in negotiations with Count Adhemar for her hand.”
So that rumor is likely true, that there was a woman at the heart of the rivalry.
“He is reported to be well-spoken, and graceful enough. If there is fault in his conduct, it is that he allows his servants too much familiarity.”
“His prowess at arms is proven, but he has been reported to comport himself well at the feasts, those that he has attended.”
He stops them. “Indeed. All these points are well spoken. And I would add to them this: Twice he met me in the lists and crossed lances with me. Both came to a draw, but once it was by his courtesy, and the second he rode knowing my name and visage.”
There is a murmur at that. He lets it run it’s course, then continues. “It has come to my mind that such character and bearing are not those of a peasant, however humble his birth might be in truth. That he has stood and defeated men who possess birthright and training to the lists, and triumphed in spite of his origins...I cannot believe that such carriage is base-born at it’s root.”
He taps the parchment that holds his previous notes. “It is in my thoughts that such nobility of character must have it’s base in blood. And for it to endure so well, even in a man born a Thatcher, I cannot but believe it to be of the highest grade, to have survived so long a dilution, though it was not revealed before.”
“You think the man of royal stock, Majesty?”
“I do.” he nods. “As such, his conduct, and the conduct of those who have accused him, is in my purview. I do not intend to shirk my duties, but I wish to be prepared. Therefore, I require of you to find the line from which he descends, and ensure the records are informed with all speed. I will not have a scion of nobility thus maligned.”
He knows his scribes and historians will make the proper connection. There is no way to trace a line as he demands, but there is little to no difficulty in tacking names onto a lost line. And after the recent practice they’ve had in creating Lord Corville, there should be no trouble.
The scribes and historians bow and gather up their records. By tomorrow, he knows he’ll have all the proofs he needs that William Thatcher is a long lost son of a distaff line of some king who is only remembered in history books.
It’s not enough. He wants to do more.
He thinks, then summons a squire. “You have heard the news from the lists. Tell me...is there truth to the rumor of a match desired between a young maid of the court named Jocelyn and the man who was known as Ulrich?”
The squire nods. “Yes Your Majesty. ‘Twas all the talk of the servants, some time back. ‘Tis said they quarreled, and he proved his regard by submitting to a severe loss in the lists, only to emerge victorious after she bade him seize the title.”
“Interesting. And you think the match a sound one?”
“Were he not a thatcher, I’d say it a good one, my lord.”
“If that be true, then I require that you fetch the young lady for me.”
The squire leaves, and he busies himself with sending for a light repast. Only an hour later, the young woman is shown into his presence, dipping a deep curtsy. “Rise.”
She does, but keeps her eyes downcast.
He offers her a place at table, then speaks. “It has come to my attention that you are acquainted with the man who called himself Lord Ulrich, and is in fact a peasant.”
“I am well acquainted with him, my lord.”
“Well enough to know the truth of him?”
“He did tell me, my lord, some time ago. I had asked him to prove his regard by losing in the lists, and when he had done so, I dared to ask him why his squires called him William, for my maid had told me of it. And he was gracious enough to answer it, and willing to release me from his regard if I no longer wished his company.”
“And you stayed?”
“I did. If I may speak plainly...” She glances up, and he gestures for her to continue. “Perhaps his birth is not noble, and his blood is base, but his manners are far more fair and worthy of regard than many of those whose names entitle them to greater renown. Thatcher he may be in birth and blood, but if nobility of word and deed were to become a title, his would be only narrowly separated from your own.”
Bold words. He likes it. And he likes her. She is a pretty young woman, graceful and well-spoken. “You love him.”
She looks away again, blushing. “I do, my lord, with all my heart.”
“And yet, your father has you matched in prospect with Adhemar.”
She flinches. “He does, and the match is hardly a pleasing one to me, though I will be dutiful if I must.”
“Indeed. And if it were to be established that young Thatcher is not so unworthy, would you be willing to claim his suit?”
Her eyes leap to his face, and he sees hope there before she remembers her proper manners. “I would indeed, my lord.”
He considers. He has a fondness for matches made in affection. There are few enough of them among the nobility. And he will admit that he likes the young Thatcher, and if he is going to make the man a lord, he might as well do the thing completely.
Besides, Thatcher has had his test and passed, but he believes that women should prove themselves to those they wish to name their lords. An unfaithful wife is a troublesome thing.
“If you are truly sincere in your regard, then this I charge you with. Tomorrow, seek the father of William Thatcher, who lives in Cheapside, and bring him to his son. Convince him of your sincerity of attachment, and I shall intercede with your own lord father, if such is still your will and his by the end of the day.”
“I will, most willingly, my lord.” Hope shines in her face, making it radiant. “Most willingly.”
“Then it is good to make preparations.” He dismisses her. She rises gracefully, then offers him a deep-swept curtsy.
“Thank you, Your Majesty, from the bottom of my heart and his, I am sure.” And she goes.
He spends the rest of the day, and the night, making plans.
***RW***
He plans his arrival at the stocks carefully. Well after William has been bound over, and a crowd has gathered. He has his own opinions, but he wants to see what happens.
Servants might be faithful to a man who gives them hope and good courtesy, but will they follow a disgraced prisoner with the same loyalty? If William can inspire such devotion, then he’s truly worth the trouble.
He is. And he does. He watches from the front of the crowd, masked by his long hooded mantle, as William’s ‘squires’ and ‘herald’ move to his defense. The smith takes up a hammer, the burly man a stave. The red-haired man screams threats and stands to fight, even with the stones thrown his way.
The herald speaks, and his words possess the eloquence to calm even this mad crowd, spoiling for a fight and for punishment.
Loyalty indeed. He could not name more than a handful of his own men who would offer such devotion. Many follow him and serve him for his title and his station, and few would desert him for fear of accusations of treason, but only his personal guard would give him such regard. Which is why they are his personal guard. Watching, he suspects he knows who will become William's personal servants, should his plans come fully to fruition.
He waits for the herald to finish, for the crowd to calm, then signals his men, stationed around the circle and cloaked like himself.
Cloaks go back, swords are drawn, and the crowd pulls back in surprise. Three men and one woman up on the scaffold freeze in wariness, but none of them run.
He pulls back his own hood, and watches the way the men tense. They step out of his way readily enough but he thinks, by the look in their eyes, hope and fear together, that they might attack him and damn the consequences if he hurts the boy in the stocks.
Just as well he has no such plans.
He steps up, mounts the stockade and leans against his knee until he can look the thatcher in the eye. William flushes with shame, and well he might, in such a position.
He smiles. “What a pair we make. Both of us trying to hide who we are, both unable to do so.”
It’s obvious that his words are unexpected, from the way the thatcher twitches his head back and blinks at him with wide eyes.
He looks around, at the men and the woman standing guard, even with his presence, or perhaps because of it, then turns back to the man in front of him. “Your men love you. If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough.”
And it would. Rare is the man who can earn devotion from his servants, particularly to this level.
He smiles again. “But you also tilt, when you should withdraw, and that is knightly too.”
Such courage deserves reward, not scorn.
He stands and flicks a cold gaze at the man in charge of the stocks. “Release him.”
The man jumps to obey. The 'squires' leap to aid their friend, their lord in all but name.
He spins, looking out over the crowd, tugging the mantle of royal authority about him. This is the important part, and his voice rings out over the assembled masses with all the power of his birthright behind it.
“Though he may appear to be of humble origins, my personal historians have discovered that this man is descended from an ancient royal line. This is my word, and as such is beyond contestation.”
He knows Adhemar has watchers in the crowd, to report on William’s humiliation. Just like he knows Adhemar visited the cells last night and beat an unarmed and bound man.
He turns to where the men are helping the young man forward on unsteady legs. “Kneel.”
Thatcher looks terrified and confused, and well he might. But his herald has hope in his eyes, and whispers comforting words as he helps the man he swore service to to kneel.
He draws his sword, sees William flinch, and gives the young man a smile, full of warmth. “And now, if I may repay the kindness you once gave to me...”
He lifts the sword, takes up the mantle of authority once again. “By the power granted to me by my father, the king, and by all the witnesses gathered here today...” Specifically his men, knights and nobles themselves. “I do hereby dub you Sir William Thatcher.”
The young man’s face is priceless, full of shock and gratitude. He imagines that it has been a trying day for the new knight. And yet…
He hauls the young man to his feet, a familiarity permitted by knighthood and their shared royal blood (supposedly). “Can you joust?”
William blinks at him. “What?”
“Can ye joust?” He smirks. “There’s my tournament to finish. Now, are you fit, or shall the forfeit stand?”
He knows what his response would be, what any true noble’s response would be, and William doesn’t disappoint. A fierce light chases all the uncertainty out of his eyes. “Oh, I’m fit.”
He hasn’t had food or water, and he’s been stuck in the stocks for hours, but the fire in his eyes is brilliant.
He grins, already looking forward to what’s to come. “I’ll have your opponent informed of it. You look for his shield in the lists.”
He leaved William to the care of his people, now his servants, squires and herald in truth, and returns to the castle, where he sends messengers to Adhemar and Jocelyn. And if he’s feeling a little smug when he sends the message round to Adhemar...well, royal privilege.
The final match is set for afternoon, as it must be to give both combatants time to prepare. He takes his midday meal in his chambers, and invites his Lady to attend the match with him. She’s not a great fan of jousts, but that hardly matters. She accepts his invitation, and the little entertainment it can afford her, if for no other reason than to see the man who has captured his interest.
The stadium is packed by the time he arrives and is announced. As well it might be. He spots Adhemar at one end, pale and drawn under his helmet. At the other end, William is being buckled into the last of his armor, a fierce light in his eyes. He watches the newly knighted young man swing into the saddle, and reminds himself to talk to the lad about that. Either his strength is more formidable than it appears in the lists, or his armor is unusual. He’s heard rumors that the girl-smith who accompanies him had a hand in his armor, and he’s curious.
Lighter armor, especially if it could retain it’s durability, would be a distinct advantage in more arenas than just the joust.
The warning toll sounds for the beginning of the match. Jocelyn is nowhere to be seen, and he wonders how she fares with finding and persuading the Thatcher. Hopefully she, or they, will arrive before the joust is ended.
He delays for a time, but the people are getting restless, and so he finally signals the beginning of the joust.
The first pass starts well, but William reels at the impact, and he winces in sympathy. Even more so when the dust clears and he sees the length of broken lance sticking out of the young man’s shoulder.
The blacksmith pulls it, and from his seat he can see the point where a blunted lance should be. The lance-cap hid it, but that apparently shattered, and that cannot have been an accident.
Fury roars up in him, restrained only with effort. That Adhemar dared use such underhanded tactics in his tournament...he vows the noble shall pay for that slight to his favored knight, and the insult to his own honor. Even if he wins this match, Adhemar will have cause to rue this event.
He’s tempted to call the match, but he stays his hand. He cannot keep delaying the tournament. Besides, William’s honor, so newly revived, must be considered too. And the young knight is already having his horse led back around to the starting point. He knows, without even having to ask, that William will not yield. Not here. Not now. And most certainly not to Adhemar.
The second pass goes badly. William drops the lance before the clash even occurs, and his face is white within his helmet. Adhemar’s second strike has done more damage, unless he misses his guess.
The herald hurries over to request time to check his lord. That is permitted in the joust, one call by each rider, and he gives it immediately. Both riders move off, And William scarcely gets off the list before his squires begin unbuckling his armor.
It’s clear he’s hurt, his shoulder pierced deep at the very least. From the way he struggles to stay in the saddle, he’s likely injured more than that.
Movement in the Royal Box surprises him and he turns to find Jocelyn and her maid, together leading an older gentleman into the box. The man seems nervous, head turning side to side.
“Beg pardon, Your Majesty.” Jocelyn speaks quietly. “I’ve come as you commanded, and I wish to present to you John Thatcher, father of Sir William Thatcher.”
The elder gentleman tenses. “Majesty?” The maid guides him around, and he offers an awkward bow. “I do apologize for the intrusion...”
“It is not necessary. You are here at my request after all. Your son is quite the young man.”
“He is.” John Thatcher smiles proudly, then turns his head but oddly enough, does not look towards the list. “I am supposed to meet him here...”
“Come and sit.” Jocelyn guides him to the bench that has been left vacant for them. She then turns back. “He is blind, Majesty. I pray you forgive any rudeness he shows you.”
That explains much. “No matter. He is welcome.” The words relax both Jocelyn and John Thatcher.
“She’s here William!” The shout causes his attention to return to the list, where William’s herald is racing up to his lord, excitement in his posture. He doesn’t hear what else the man says, but William’s gaze snaps to the Royal Box. It’s clear the instant he sees his lover, and his father. Pain is erased by determination. He looks back to his squire and the lance he’s holding and says something.
Time is almost up. William is still unarmored and unarmed. He cannot in good conscience delay the final round, but then the herald sprints up to the Royal Box box and vaults up with a shout. “Good people, I’ve missed my introduction! But...I pray you hear it now...” The herald glances at him for approval. So does the master of the lists.
It’s unusual, yes, but not against the rules. He nods and the master of the lists steps back. The herald smirks and goes on. “...for I would lay rest to the grace in my tongue and speak plainly.”
The man actually has the audacity to step up onto the arm of his chair. He can’t bring himself to be anything other than amused. Audacious the man would have to be, to become the herald of a peasant masquerading as a noble. And besides, Bards, Heralds and Jesters all are known for their lack of respect for propriety. It is part of their value. This one might be more unconventional than most, but that only makes him one of the better heralds he’s witnessed on the jousting field.
The herald speaks more, but his attention is captured by what’s happening on William’s side of the lists. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can see well enough. It looks as though the Thatcher has refused his armor. And as for the lance...unless he’s mistaken, the red-haired squire is actually lashing the lance to his arm with strips of leather.
Clever. A wound to the shoulder can sometimes hamper a man’s grip. He’s seen it happen before. And again, there’s nothing in the rules about this. Most jousters would never think of lashing a lance to their arm, not wanting the impact to shake them from the saddle.
Even if it were against the rules, he’d allow it. After all, a sharpened lance is most definitely against the rules, and turnabout is fair play.
He does worry about the lack of armor though. If Sir William is struck without his armor, the blow will likely be fatal. But that is the young man’s choice. And having experienced wearing armor with a cracked chest, he can understand why the young man would want it off. It’s ridiculously dangerous, but then again, when has the young Thatcher been anything other than recklessly brave?
The crowd roars as the herald finishes his speech and jumps down. Conveniently, the preparations have been finished on Sir William’s end of the list. Beside his Lady, Jocelyn looks worried, as well she might. If she knows anything of jousting, then she must know the danger Sir William has placed himself in.
The flag waves, the riders start. Adhemar looks like grim death in his dark armor. William, on the other hand, looks like fire embodied, fierce determination sparking in his eyes, hair and shirt flattened back in the wind of his ride. Lance up and steady, in spite of the pain his shoulder must give him.
Perhaps it’s the shock of Sir William’s fearlessness, to ride unprotected into this battle, or perhaps it’s something else, but Adhemar’s nerve visibly breaks. He falters, and in that instant William dodges his lance with a subtle shift of his shoulder and slams his own lance home.
The lance shatters under the blow, and Adhemar goes flying. Almost literally, tossed from the saddle to do nearly a full somersault before crashing face first into the dirt, his lance unbroken.
The crowd roars. William’s squires race out from their end of the lists, cheering in wild abandon as they embrace the young knight. And while royal dignity may prevent him from leaping about and shouting like a peasant, it doesn’t stop him from surging out of his seat with a roar of approval. He even allows himself, in the heat of the moment, to pull his Lady close for a resounding kiss.
It’s not as though anyone is paying attention to him anyway. Not with Lady Jocelyn jumping out of the box and meeting Sir William in the middle of the list for a searing kiss of their own. Lady Jocelyn’s maid is occupied with telling John Thatcher of his son’s victory, and his current engagement with the young lady. John Thatcher is busy gazing sightlessly at the field, tears etching his weathered face. Everyone else is busy cheering the young knight, raised from ignominious disgrace to become the most unlikely of victors.
He notices, with grim amusement, that no one seems to be rushing to Adhemar’s side. Not even his own herald and squires. In fact, Adhemar’s herald is clapping from his station, joining in the celebration of his master’s victorious opponent.
He’ll have to look into the man. It’s possible that the herald is one he should add to his court. And if he truly intends to elevate Sir William, then good servants will be needed. Servants who will not scorn a man who started as a commoner.
But that is a matter for later. For now, there are other things to attend to. Young William will need a surgeon, sooner or later. And there is the matter of the presenting of the awards, and the celebratory feast, which will celebrate more than one thing if he has anything to say about it.
And, at some point, he’ll have to explain to his father, the king, exactly what he’s been doing.