Devil's Brood (3 page)

Henry looked from one tense face to another and then, slowly and very deliberately, strode forward. Leaping nimbly onto the rock, he crossed without a misstep. Turning back to face the spectators, he said in a voice pitched loudly for all to hear, “Who will believe that liar Merlin now?”

There was a collective sigh as breathing resumed and the world of shadows receded before Henry’s scorn and certainty. Beaming, Rainald made haste to follow, as did the others. People trooped over Lechlaver, the depths of their unease revealed now by the intensity of their relief. Only the Welsh bystanders stayed on the other side of the shallow river, their disappointment etched in the down-turned mouths, the averted eyes. One youth could not endure to see Merlin shamed before these arrogant foreigners and called out in heavily accented French:

“You are not the king in Merlin’s prophecy, for you are not the conqueror of Ireland!”

Henry swung around to confront the young Welshman, and for a suspenseful moment, his audience wondered if they were to see his notorious Angevin temper take fire. But then Henry laughed. “If your Merlin thought anyone could truly conquer Ireland, lad, he was a poor prophet, indeed!” Adding under his breath to Ranulf as they resumed their progress toward the cathedral, “How do you defeat a people who lack the common sense to know when they’re beaten?”

Ranulf smiled, knowing that Henry was speaking, too, of the Welsh and his disastrous campaign of six years past. His ambitious plans to bring the rebellious Welsh lords to heel had come to naught, thwarted by the erratic weather, the rugged mountainous terrain, and phantom foes who refused to take the field, preferring hit-and-run raids, evasive maneuvers, and nightfall forays that recognized their weaknesses and played to their strengths. Faced with a rare military defeat, Henry had withdrawn his army back across the border and changed his tactics, forging an alliance with Rhys ap Gruffydd, the most powerful of the Welsh princes. So far this stratagem had proven successful; Wales was more peaceful than it had been in years.

Glancing over at Henry, Ranulf hoped that his nephew would apply the lessons he’d learned from the Welsh in his current battle with His Holiness the Pope and the mighty Roman Church. But it was just that—a hope—for he of all men knew how dangerously stubborn Henry Fitz Empress could be. There were faint bloodstains upon the tiles in Canterbury Cathedral testifying to that.

I
T WAS DUSK WHEN
the Bishop of Worcester rode through the gatehouse of the Cistercian abbey of Our Lady. Although a prince of the Church, Roger traveled without an entourage—only a servant, his clerk, and four men-at-arms, their presence required on the outlaw-infested roads. He did not think an ostentatious display was appropriate, for he was living in exile, having left England in protest over the English king’s contest of wills with Thomas Becket. Few had emerged unscathed from that cataclysmic conflict between Church and Crown, but Roger’s loyalties had been shredded to the bone. Becket was more than a fellow prelate and the head of the English Church; he was also a close friend. And Henry Fitz Empress was more than Roger’s sovereign; the two men were first cousins and companions since childhood.

Roger had been one of the few men who’d dared to tell the king the truth in the turbulent aftermath of Becket’s murder: that Henry might not be guilty of the actual deed, but neither was he innocent. But he had also been one of the bishops sent to Rome to plead Henry’s case before the Pope, denying that the archbishop had died at his order. Now he was once more thrust into the role of peacemaker, riding to Savigny’s great abbey to bear witness to this meeting between two papal legates and his cousin the king, knowing full well how high the stakes were for all concerned.

In addition to the two cardinals, a number of Norman and Breton bishops would also be present. By Roger’s reckoning, at least eight were men who could be expected to support the king. In truth, many of Becket’s fellow bishops had been less than enthusiastic soldiers in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s crusade to vanquish the English king, feeling that he’d been needlessly provocative and acrimonious, always scorning compromise in favor of confrontation. Until his ungodly murder had transformed him from often-irksome zealot to blessed holy martyr, Becket had found his strongest advocates among the bishops of France, his warmest welcome at the court of Louis Capet, the French king. Two of his most steadfast allies had been the Bishop of Rheims, Louis’s brother, and the Archbishop of Sens, who’d laid Henry’s continental lands under Interdict, and whose sister was Louis’s queen.

It did not surprise Roger that neither of these prelates would be present at the Savigny council, for he knew Pope Alexander wanted—nay, needed—to mend this dangerous rift with the most powerful monarch in Christendom, just as Henry needed to make peace with the Holy See. It would be a great pity, he thought, if Harry’s foolhardy pride thwarted that rapprochement.

Roger
was
surprised, though, by the absence of John des Bellesmains, the Bishop of Poitiers. He would have expected John to be there, come what may, for his friendship with Thomas Becket had gone back many years, begun in their youth as clerks in the household of the Archbishop Theobald. But Poitiers was the capital of Poitou, the domains of the Lady Eleanor, Henry’s controversial queen and Duchess of Aquitaine in her own right. Roger wondered now if Eleanor had deliberately kept Bishop John away from Savigny, knowing his sympathies lay firmly with the slain archbishop. If she had, then mayhap the rumors of her estrangement from Harry were not true.

But with Eleanor, there could be other reasons, other motives as yet undiscovered. Even though his sister Maud, the Countess of Chester, was one of Eleanor’s intimates, Roger had always been rather wary of his cousin’s queen, a woman who dared to meddle in those matters of state best left to men. And if Harry spun webs to make a spider proud, Eleanor could entangle archangels in her snares. Roger suspected that she intrigued even in her sleep.

The hosteller was waiting to welcome Roger, and grooms had materialized to lead their horses to the stables. After an exchange of courtesies, Roger was turning to follow the monk toward the abbey guest hall when his attention was drawn by a flash of color. Unlike the unbleached white habits worn by the Cistercian monks moving about the abbey garth, this man was garbed in a cope of bright blue silk, decorated with wide embroidered borders, and a matching blue mitre, the points ornamented with scarlet thread. The processional cope and mitre proclaimed him to be a prelate of Holy Church, and the fleshy, ruddy face was vaguely familiar to Roger, but to his embarrassment, the name eluded him.

Fortunately, his gaze then fell upon the bishop’s companion, a slightly built man, no longer young, starkly clad in the black cowl and habit of the Benedictines, abbot of one of Christendom’s great jewels, the island monastery of Mont St Michel, and a friend of long standing, both to Roger and his cousin the king. And as he warmly returned Abbot Robert de Torigny’s greeting, Roger recalled the identity of the mystery bishop: the abbot’s neighbor, prelate of the city across the bay, Richard of Avranches.

Bishop Richard wasted no time in breaking the bad news. “I fear your journey has been for naught, my lord bishop,” he declared dolefully, his sorrowful visage almost but not quite disguising the relish that people invariably take in being the bearer of evil tidings. “The king met this afternoon with the Holy Father’s legates, but it did not go well. King Henry balked at renouncing his Constitutions of Clarendon, and when no progress could be made on this contentious issue, he stalked out in a rage, saying he had matters to tend to back in Ireland.”

By now others had gathered around them. Roger recognized the abbot of Savigny, utterly dismayed that this disaster should occur on his watch. He was flanked by the equally flustered Bishops of Bayeux, Sées, and Le Mans, theirs the doomed expressions of men trapped between Scylla and Charybdis, owing their allegiance to Henry, and their obedience to Pope Alexander. Bishop William of Le Mans felt a flicker of hope, though, with Roger’s arrival, and at once entreated him to seek out his cousin the king.

“His Grace will heed you, my lord, for he has great respect for your good judgment. Surely you can convince him of the folly of abandoning the talks with the Holy Father’s legates?”

Roger was past the first flush of youth, and a day in the saddle had taken its toll; his back ached and his muscles were sore and cramped. He’d been looking forward to a bath and a nap before he changed his travel-stained clothing and presented himself to the cardinals and the king. Suppressing a sigh, he looked at the circle of expectant faces and agreed to do all in his power to keep his cousin from returning to Ireland.

Savigny’s abbot had turned his own quarters over to his royal guest, and Abbot Robert offered to show Roger the way. Observing the older man’s sedate pace and calm demeanor, Roger realized that he did not seem nearly as disquieted as the bishops. “I’d almost forgotten,” he said, “how well you know the king,” and Abbot Robert’s mouth hinted at a smile.

“I know this much,” he said amiably. “The king does not like to make war. But when he does, he does it very well, and sometimes the wisest tactic is a strategic withdrawal.”

“Indeed,” Roger agreed, and they entered the abbot’s great hall, overflowing with the king’s servants, household knights, barons, and clerics. Roger was running the gauntlet of greetings, had just reached the Bishop of Evreux, when the bedchamber door opened and Henry strode into the hall.

As usual, he did nothing to call attention to himself and his clothing would have been remarkably plain and unadorned for a minor border lord, much less the man who ruled the greatest empire since Charlemagne. But Henry had no interest in the trappings of power, only in the exercise of it. Nor did he need to strut and preen as Roger had seen other men of rank do, as Thomas Becket had done during his years as the king’s elegant, worldly chancellor. Yet Henry was always the focus of all eyes, even upon those rare occasions when his identity was not known. Even as a youth, he’d had it, the force that gave him the mastery of other men. It was as if he were a lodestone, a magnet that attracted light and luck, not metal.

That was so fanciful a thought that Roger laughed softly to himself as he moved toward his cousin the king. Henry was delighted to see him, reaching out to clasp Roger’s hand in both of his, forestalling a formal obeisance. “At last! I’d begun to fear you’d been waylaid by bandits or Breton demons!” Adding with a gleam of mischief, “Not that one so virtuous and worthy would have anything to fear from the forces of darkness. What evil spirit would dare to defy a bishop?”

“Your Grace’s faith in my sanctity is most heartening,” Roger said dryly, “given that some claim your lineage can be traced to the Devil.”

Henry’s grey eyes flashed, but with amusement, not anger. “Ah, yes, the righteous Abbot Bernard once declared that my lord father was the Devil’s spawn, or words to that effect. As I recall, my father laughed at him, much to the sainted Bernard’s indignation.”

Roger knew that story well; it was legendary in their family. The man Henry sardonically called “the sainted Bernard” was likely to become a genuine saint, as the Holy See had begun the canonization process. But impending sainthood had not tempered Henry’s disdain, for Abbot Bernard had been a bitter enemy of the counts of Anjou, claiming that the Angevins sprang from a depraved stock, doomed and damned. Roger did not doubt that Abbot Bernard was a holy man, blessed by the Hand of the Almighty, but neither did he deny that Bernard’s earthly behavior had not always been saintly. God’s Lambs were not always meek, mild, and forgiving, and for a moment, he thought sadly of his friend and martyr, Thomas Becket.

Shaking off the memory, he reminded himself that today’s needs must take precedence over yesterday’s regrets. Meeting Henry’s gaze evenly, he said, “I hear, my lord king, that you’ve a sudden yearning to see the Irish isle again.”

Henry’s expression was not easy to read, for he had the irritating ability to appear utterly inscrutable when it served his purposes. “Yes,” he said, “you’ve heard right. Come on in,” jerking his head toward the open bedchamber door, “and I’ll tell you of my travel plans.”

S
EVERAL MEN WERE GATHERED
in the bedchamber, only one of whom Roger was pleased to see, his uncle Rainald, Earl of Cornwell. The others—Arnulf, Bishop of Lieieux, Geoffrey Ridel, Henry’s acting chancellor, and Richard of Ilchester, Archdeacon of Poitiers—were trusted royal councilors, but they had also been avowed enemies of Thomas Becket. Fending off his uncle’s bear hug of a greeting, Roger acknowledged the bishop and archdeacons with cool civility, and then turned to face Henry.

“You are not truly ending the talks ere they begin, Harry?”

“Of course not.” Henry accepted a wine cup from Rainald, gesturing for Roger to help himself. “On the morrow, Arnulf will seek out the legates and offer to mediate our differences.”

“And what are those differences?”

“They demanded that I repudiate the Constitutions of Clarendon.” Henry’s smile was without humor. “And you know how likely I am to agree to that, Cousin.”

Roger did. Henry had attempted to define and clarify the ancient customs of the realm by putting them down in writing, a radical proposal to his conservative bishops, who had been accustomed to vague, ambiguous terms that could be accepted or repudiated as circumstances warranted. But they were practical men for the most part, well aware that there must be accommodation between Church and Crown; if the king refused to unsheathe his secular sword to enforce spiritual penalties, how effective would those penalties be?

Compromise was anathema, though, to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Thomas Becket had refused to accept the Constitutions in any form whatsoever, arguing that the Church, not the king, was the giver of laws. But Henry had forced the issue, for accommodation was possible only if there was trust on both sides, and Henry no longer believed he could trust his former friend and chancellor. Becket had eventually given in and ordered the bishops to accept the Constitutions, only then to repent and recant his sworn oath. Within less than a year, Becket had fled into French exile, and the Pope, reluctantly dragged into this dangerous dispute, had backed Becket’s position and came out in opposition to the Constitutions of Clarendon. The stalemate had endured for the remainder of Becket’s life, looming ahead of them now like an uncharted rock, threatening to sink all hopes of a peaceful settlement.

That would not happen, though, as long as Roger drew breath. He was going to steer this ship into a safe harbor if it was the last thing he ever did. “When I was in Rome last year to plead your case at the Holy See, I spoke at some length with several of the cardinals. I gathered that the Church’s objections to the Constitutions were not so much based upon the contents; they accepted your argument that the customs set down were indeed the traditional practices of the realm, more or less. Their concerns were with the oaths that you demanded of all the bishops. Never had such oaths been required by any of your predecessors. We balked at taking vows that might conflict with canon law, as you well remember, Harry. It was only when Thomas’s resolve briefly weakened, that we had to agree—”

“His resolve ‘briefly weakened,’ did it?” Henry echoed sarcastically. “That is a very kind way to phrase it, Cousin. I believe his exact words to you and the other bishops were, ‘If the king would have me perjure myself, so be it. I will take the oath he demands and hope to purge the sin by future penance.’”

Roger winced, sorry but not surprised that someone had broken the confidentiality of the bishops’ conclave; informants clustered around kings like bees at a hive. “I admit that was not Thomas’s finest hour and his behavior at Clarendon is not easily defended. But I need not remind you, Cousin, that your behavior has not always been defensible either. What matters is how we settle this issue now. Would you be willing to agree not to demand such an oath of your prelates in the future?”

When Henry nodded, Roger glanced toward the Bishop of Lisieux. He had no liking for the other man, but he did not deny that Arnulf was highly intelligent, well educated, and an accomplished diplomat. “That would be a beginning, my lord bishop.”