Devil's Brood (14 page)

A servant had fetched wine and bread to break their fast, and Henry poured a cup, carried it across the room, and handed it to Eleanor. “I want you to take Geoffrey with you when you go back to Poitiers,” he said, and she looked up at him in surprise.

“I thought he was accompanying you into Brittany. Has there been a change of plans?”

“Yes.” But he did not elaborate, instead began to buckle his scabbard belt, further proof that he had a journey in mind. Eleanor tugged at her hair, finding it caught under her hip; she’d braided it before going to bed, but Henry had unfastened it during the night. Drinking her wine, she wondered where he meant to go if not into Brittany.

The festivities at Limoges were over. The Kings of Aragon and Navarre had departed for their own lands, as had many of the attending barons and their ladies. John had been sent back to Fontevrault Abbey to resume his studies; his little bride-to-be would accompany Eleanor to Poitiers, there to be raised with Constance and Alys and Joanna. Only the Count of Toulouse still lingered, uncaring that none wanted him there, putting Eleanor in mind of a vulture hovering over carrion, awaiting his chance to swoop down to feed. She was sure he was up to no good, and she was glad she would soon be seeing the last of Limoges, glad she would be going home to Poitiers, favored of all her cities. Watching Henry as he moved around the chamber, she was jolted to realize that this might well have been the last time she’d share his bed.

“Where do you go from here, Harry?”

Before he could respond, the door swung open and Hal entered. “Why did you summon me so early, Maman?” he complained, yawning. “I’d hoped to remain abed for—” He stopped abruptly as Henry moved into his line of vision. His eyes cut from his father to his mother in the rumpled bed, and to Eleanor’s surprise, he flushed deeply. She was astonished; surely he could not be embarrassed by this proof that she’d spent the night with Harry? And then, as he gave her a look of silent reproach, she understood. To Hal, she’d been sleeping with the enemy.

“The summons was mine,” Henry said, regarding his son with a lack of emotion that Eleanor found troubling. “I am returning to Normandy this morn, and you are coming with me.”

Hal was still off balance, but he tried now to regain his footing by saying emphatically, “I think not.”

“You are not being given a choice.” Henry’s voice was toneless, and to Hal, his gaze was as piercing and predatory as those Iceland gyrfalcons he’d promised but would never deliver. Hal glanced back at Eleanor, seeking guidance. But this woman seemed like a stranger to him, clutching blankets to cover her nudity, her hair tumbling about her shoulders in wanton disarray, utterly unlike the coolly poised, elegant mother who was his lodestar and mentor. As their gazes crossed, she shook her head, almost imperceptibly, signaling that she did not know what his father intended.

“You need not look to your mother for assistance,” Henry said, still in that matter-of-fact manner that Hal found more disturbing than outright anger would have been. “It is only natural that a mother bird should protect her chicks, but when it is time for a fledgling to leave the nest, he is on his own.”

Hal was quick to seize his father’s metaphor and turn it back against him. “But that fledgling cannot learn to fly if his wings are clipped.”

“Clever lad,” Henry said softly, and it was not a compliment. “Lest you’ve forgotten, I warned you that you’d be on a short leash until you prove it is no longer needed. So for the foreseeable future, you’ll be closer than my own shadow. And since you’ve been keeping dubious company of late, I am dismissing those self-seekers and sycophants who are leading you astray, men such as Hasculf de St Hilaire, Adam d’Yquebeuf, and Juhel de Mayenne.”

Hal’s outraged gasp was audible to both his parents. “You cannot do that!”

“It is done,” Henry said tersely, and his son whirled to face his mother, an involuntary, stunned cry of “Maman!” escaping his lips.

Eleanor’s eyes locked with his, sending a message that was both reassurance and warning. “I understand your reluctance, Hal,” she said, “but you are not in a position to resist. You must do as your father commands.”

N
ORMALLY A KING’S LEAVE-TAKING
was a chaotic, noisy event, but those who’d gathered in the inner castle bailey to watch Henry’s departure were subdued and somber. Some of Hal’s knights lurked in the shadows, unwilling to call the king’s attention to themselves, but William Marshal strode out into the chilly March sunlight, a silent affirmation of loyalty to his unhappy young lord. Eleanor noted the gesture and approved. Marguerite and Hal were embracing; he brushed tears from her cheeks with his fingers before taking his stallion’s reins. His defiant gaze raked the bailey, finding sympathy from most of the onlookers, for this was Aquitaine; these were his mother’s vassals. Only the Count of Toulouse looked satisfied with his disgrace. As their eyes met, Hal leaned from the saddle and spat.

Seeing that they were about to depart, Eleanor moved forward, trailed by her uncle, constable, and Viscount Aimar. “My lord husband,” she said, “go with God,” and Henry acknowledged her farewell with a formal “Madame,” brushing his lips to her outstretched hand. Searching for his other sons, he found them standing on the steps of the great hall, and gave them a grave salute, then signaled his men to move out.

Hal had recovered his aplomb by now and he blew kisses to his wife, winked at his cousin Maud, and smiled at his mother before putting the spurs to his stallion. The last glance he cast over his shoulder, though, was a long, meaningful look aimed at William Marshal.

Marguerite had begun to sob in earnest, and Maud put a supportive arm around the girl’s shaking shoulders. But it was then that her eyes came to rest upon Henry’s queen. Eleanor was standing with her uncle Raoul and her son Richard, and as Maud looked at them, it seemed to her as if their faces were carved from stone. She instinctively made the sign of the cross to ward off a superstitious sense of foreboding, and then turned back to console Hal’s weeping young wife.

T
HE DAY WAS OVERCAST
and, at first sight, Chinon Castle seemed under siege by encroaching clouds. Gazing up at its mist-shrouded towers, Henry felt a weary sense of relief. He was back in his own domains now, back in the land of his birth and, as always, returning to Chinon was a homecoming.

As they approached the village, people crowded into the streets to watch, although theirs was a meager royal procession, disappointing for those yearning for spectacle or pageantry: travel-begrimed household knights, three solemn earls, and two troubled kings who’d barely spoken a word since leaving Limoges. Reining in before the stone bridge that spanned the River Vienne, Henry glanced at his son’s averted face. Hal had withdrawn into a cocoon of sullen silence. When compelled to acknowledge Henry’s existence, he did so with exaggerated deference, addressing his father as “my liege” in a voice dripping with sarcasm. Henry’s half brother Hamelin had done his best to restore family harmony, but his lectures on filial duty had fallen on deaf ears and Hal was soon treating his uncle with the same mocking courtesy he offered his father.

Henry was fond of Hamelin, but he’d never valued his brother’s advice, and so it was no surprise when Hal did not, either. He had more respect for the Earl of Essex’s judgment, and as they crossed the bridge, he debated asking the other man to try his hand at peacemaking. Essex was a renowned knight and Hal might pay more heed to his counsel. As difficult as it was for Henry to ask for help, he was realizing that with Hal, he needed all the help he could get.

Once they’d ridden up the limestone cliff to the castle, Henry hastened to his bedchamber. He’d gotten wet while fording a stream earlier in the day and his chausses were clinging clammily to his skin. Stripping them off, he rubbed his legs briskly with a towel while Fulke, one of his squires, rooted around in a coffer for dry clothing. His other squire, Warin, was supervising servants as they lugged a second bed up the stairs, for Henry trusted his son so little now that he insisted they sleep in the same chamber, thus guaranteeing that their nights would be as disquieting as their days.

An older man had just entered, bearing Henry’s favorite falcon on his outstretched arm, and Henry smiled, his mood momentarily lightening. “See that a chicken is fresh-killed for her meal,” he instructed the falconer, making up his mind to fly her on the morrow. The season was ending, but he’d still have a few more afternoons to rejoice in the pure joy of the open air, the boundless sky, and poetry on the wing. He was tempted to ask Hal to join him, but that was a fool’s fantasy. It would take more than a shared love of hawking to bridge the chasm yawning between them.

He was pulling on a dry tunic when the Earl of Essex sought entry. Henry waved him in without ceremony, for Essex was more than a loyal vassal. Eleanor had once compared Henry to a well-defended castle, claiming that he let some people into his outer bailey, very few into the inner bailey, and none at all into the keep. For whatever reason, he remembered that now, and acknowledged that Essex had earned access to the inner bailey. Somehow managing to circumvent those barriers set up after Thomas Becket’s betrayal, Essex had become a friend.

There was comfort in that realization, and surprise, too, for Essex was surely an unlikely candidate to become a king’s confidant. In so many ways, he was an anomaly. Tall and slender and fair-haired, he looked more like a court fop than a warrior, but his languorous manner could not be more deceiving; he wielded a sword with lethal skill, and was one of Henry’s most capable battle commanders. He held an English earldom, but he’d been raised in Flanders, growing to manhood at the court of the Flemish count, Philip. In the six years since he’d inherited his brother’s title and returned to England, he’d been besieged by ambitious mothers hoping to snare him for their marriageable daughters, but he’d shown no interest in taking a highborn bride. Only Henry knew that he’d given his heart to a Flemish mistress he could never wed, and doted upon an illegitimate daughter who could not inherit his lands. And he’d gained a well-deserved reputation for loyalty, despite being the son of one of the most treacherous, disloyal barons ever to draw breath, the worst of the lawless lords who’d ravaged England during those wretched years when King Stephen had fought with Henry’s mother, the Empress Maude, for the English crown.

Geoffrey de Mandeville could have taught Judas about betrayal and Herod about cruelty. He had abandoned King Stephen for the Empress Maude, deserted Maude to pledge his allegiance again to Stephen, and was contemplating yet another breach of faith when Stephen struck first, stripping him of his base of power, the Tower of London. As always, though, Stephen’s punishment was halfhearted and he’d allowed the earl to remain at liberty. He’d promptly rebelled and unleashed hell upon the innocent and the defenseless. Burning, pillaging, raping, his men devastated towns and churches alike, inspiring such fear that it was said the grass withered where he walked. He’d died assaulting one of Stephen’s castles, not long after he’d been excommunicated for seizing Ramsey Abbey. Since he could not be buried in hallowed ground, the Knights Templar had hung his coffin in a tree so as not to pollute the earth.

His son and namesake was allowed to inherit the earldom once Henry ascended the English throne, serving Henry faithfully till his death, when his title and lands passed to his younger brother, William. Geoffrey de Mandeville rested today in consecrated ground, the Pope having granted a posthumous absolution at his family’s behest, but his reputation could never be restored, and his name was still a byword for treachery and betrayal. Yet this same man had sired two sons of honor and integrity. Henry did not understand it, any more than he’d understood how John Marshal could have begotten a worthy son like Will. He could only be thankful for it.

“If you’d hoped for an idle afternoon, my liege, those hopes are about to be dashed.” Essex’s smile was wryly sympathetic. “Word of the king’s arrival invariably spreads faster than a summer brushfire, and the great hall is already filling with petitioners, claimants, plaintiffs, supplicants, and self-seekers of every stripe. Some have cases pending before your Curia Regis, others want you to resolve local disputes, and all of them are entreating that they be heard.”

Henry sighed, but he was accustomed to this, for a king’s time was almost as valued as his favor. “I’ll grant audiences this afternoon and hold court on the morrow,” he said, casting a regretful look in his falcon’s direction.

“The priest of St Maurice’s has asked to see you, too.” Knowing that Henry had paid for the construction of the church, Essex guessed that he’d take a personal interest in its progress. “Do you want to see him first?” When Henry nodded, the earl started for the door, then paused. “Shall I ask your son to join you in the hall?”

Henry hesitated. He knew that the earl was trying, in a more subtle fashion than Hamelin, to reconcile father and son. Would Hal be pleased by the invitation? But when had he ever shown interest in the more mundane duties of kingship?

“No, Willem,” he said, using the playful nickname he’d bestowed upon the earl in affectionate acknowledgment of the other man’s boyhood in Flanders—“Willem” being Flemish for “William.” “More likely than not, I’d have to command his presence, and that would defeat the purpose, would it not?”

Willem took his candor for what it was—a declaration of trust—and made a discreet departure, for he was wiser than Hamelin, knew better than to push. When the king was ready to talk about his son’s wayward behavior, he would pick the time and place.

Henry’s squires had been quietly conferring, for they were constantly engaged in a losing battle to make their lord look more regal, and they offered him now a choice of two short cloaks called rhenos, one lined with sable, the other with miniver. Henry cared only for staying warm in the great hall, and selected at random, then fended off their efforts to get him to change his plain green tunic for a more fashionable one with a diagonal neckline. When a knock sounded on the door, he seized the opportunity to escape their ministrations and strode over to answer it himself. He was expecting Willem and the priest of St Maurice’s. He was not expecting to see his son.

“May I come in?”

Henry stepped aside to let Hal enter, and his squires at once dived for the door, murmuring vague excuses as they fled. “Passing strange—people usually enjoy watching bloodshed.” Hal’s joke was a lame one, but it was a joke, nonetheless, and Henry’s initial surprise gave way to astonishment. They’d not been on speaking terms for days, and suddenly the lad was making jests? After considering his possible responses, he chose silence, waiting warily for Hal to reveal his intent.

Hal seemed ill at ease. Wandering about the chamber, he lavished attention upon Henry’s falcon before picking up one of the discarded cloaks. “May I borrow this sometime?”

“I thought you were aiming higher than a cloak,” Henry said coolly, and Hal let the garment slip through his fingers onto the floor.

“I hate this,” he blurted out, for the first time meeting Henry’s eyes.

“What do you hate, Hal? That we are estranged? Or that you were dragged away from Limoges against your will?”

“Both,” Hal admitted, with a flickering smile. “I have the right of it in our quarrel, Papa. But it serves for naught to fight like this. Even if we cannot agree, we need not turn words into weapons. I have said things in anger that I now regret, and I hope that is true for you, too.”

“This is a remarkable change of mood. Just a few hours ago, you were acting as if I were the Antichrist. If you have experienced a divine revelation, like St Paul on the road to Damascus, I will be most interested to hear about it.” Henry’s sarcasm was so sharp because he’d been affected in spite of himself by his son’s use of “Papa,” an echo of simpler, happier times.

Color rose in Hal’s face, but he did not look away. “I suppose I deserve that,” he conceded. “I ought to have found a better way to express my objections to the marriage contract. For that, I am indeed sorry.” Continuing quickly, “I do not want you to misunderstand what I am saying, though. I am apologizing for my bad manners, not for my protest. As for what caused my ‘remarkable change of mood,’ the credit—or blame—for that must go to Uncle Hamelin.”

At Henry’s obvious surprise, Hal could not help grinning. “I know how unlikely that sounds. But even a blind pig finds an acorn occasionally.”

“And what acorn did Hamelin dig up?”

“He reminded me of the date. Today is the fifth of March…your birthday.”

Henry was taken aback. “So it is,” he said, for he’d indeed been born on this day forty years ago at Le Mans. “It had entirely slipped my mind…”

“Mine, too…until Uncle Hamelin spoke up.” Hal was looking discomfited again. “He made me see that I owe you better than this,” he said in a low voice. “I hope that you can forgive my public rudeness. I promise you that it will not happen again.”

Henry wanted very much to believe him. “Yes, I can forgive you,” he said cautiously. “But you must understand, Hal, that nothing has changed and nothing will change until you prove to me that you can be trusted.”

“I know that. And I’ll not mislead you, Papa. Nothing has changed for me, either. I am never going to agree to the loss of Chinon and the other two castles. Nor am I going to stop demanding my just due as an anointed king. But in the future I will try to keep our quarrels private and I will accord you the respect you deserve as my father and my king.” Hal paused before saying hopefully, “Fair enough?”

Henry nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”

Hal’s relief was palpable. “I was afraid,” he said, “that you’d not believe me.” They regarded each other in silence for a few moments, neither knowing what to say next, fearful of taking a misstep onto such very thin ice. Reaching down, Hal retrieved the cloak from the floor rushes and fastened it around his shoulders. “Since we just agreed to a truce,” he said cheerfully, “that must mean that I can borrow your clothes, no? Now I’d best get down to the hall and find Uncle Hamelin. I am going to make him very happy by telling him that he single-handedly brought about our reconciliation!”

At the door, he halted. “There is one more thing, Papa. I need to request a favor.”

Henry said nothing, all his suspicions flaring up again. Hal did not seem to read anything ominous in his silence, though, for his smile did not waver. “It was not just my anger that has kept me so quiet since we left Limoges. I’ve been coping with a wretched toothache. It comes and goes, but is worse when I eat or drink.”

Henry’s response was skeptical, not sympathetic. “And I suppose you want to go into the village in search of a barber who’ll pull it.”

Again, Hal surprised him. “Good God, no! I’d not let a barber get within a mile of me with a pair of pincers.” He gave a shudder of mock horror. “I would like you to send for an apothecary. Surely there must be herbs that I can take to ease the pain?”

So Hal had not been conniving to leave the castle. Henry had rarely been so happy to be proven wrong. “Yes…cloves might help. I will tell the steward to fetch the village apothecary straightaway.”

Hal looked pleased. “Thank you. For this fine cloak, too.” He ran his fingers admiringly over the softly woven material. “I suppose you’ll want it back…eventually.” This time his smile was full of mischief, and it called up memories Henry had been seeking to suppress, memories of the boy who’d been so quick to laugh, to tease, so proud to be a crowned king, not yet corrupted by the siren songs of the French court.

Henry stood motionless for a time after Hal’s departure, deliberately calling up echoes of the Count of Toulouse’s warning.
They have played skillfully upon his lack of experience and his poor judgment.
He’d spoken a harsh truth when he’d told Hal that nothing had changed. But he could not deny that the faintest of sparks had been kindled, a feeble glimmer of hope in the dark that had descended upon his world at Limoges.