Devil's Brood (74 page)

He stopped, though, when Sancho called out, “Wait, my lord! Do you not want the sword of Roland?”

Hal spun around. He’d forgotten that the sword reputed to have been wielded by the legendary French hero was kept at Rocamadour. Retracing his steps, he took the weapon from Sancho, his fingers lingering upon the blade as if it were a holy relic. “Durandal,” he said softly. “That is what he named it.”

Sancho no more believed this was Roland’s sword than he believed in the bona fides of all those fragments of the True Cross; he’d once taken part in a scheme to dupe gullible pilgrims into making offerings at a manger said to contain some of the holy straw that had cradled the Christ Child. This experience had convinced him that people were as simple as sheep, and he included Hal in the flock. He was in good spirits, though, for they were all going to profit handsomely from their haul at Rocamadour, and in truth, he felt a little sorry for this pampered young lordling. If a man was going to follow the brigand’s road, he ought to enjoy it, and from what he could tell, Hal had less joy in his life than these shriveled, stiff-necked Black Monks.

“Why not take it?” he suggested, seeing how Hal was caressing the sword with his eyes. The lad might as well be hung for a goat as a sheep, he thought, and managed to keep himself from slapping Hal on the back when the young king unsheathed his own weapon, then reverently slid the celebrated sword of Roland into his scabbard.

T
HE WALLED TOWN OF MARTEL
was only eight miles north of Rocamadour, and Hal heaved a sigh of relief when its seven towers finally came into view. His abdominal cramps had gotten more severe, and by the time they reached Martel, his bowels had become so loose that he’d had to make several quick stops by the side of the road. Colic and diarrhea were such common ailments, though, that the teasing he had to endure was offhand, and he was thankful for that; he’d always prided himself on his sense of humor, but this spring it had definitely begun to unravel around the edges.

They were lodging in a fortified manor house in the center of town; known as the Maison Fabri, it was a substantial stone three-story building overlooking the marketplace. Once Étienne de Fabri had escorted Hal up to the best bedchamber, he wasted no time in stripping off his hauberk and soiled clothes, then ordered a bath. He felt a little better once he was clean, but his stomach roiled at the mere thought of food, and he settled instead for wine flavored with comfrey root, a reliable remedy for his malady. Lying back on the bed, he soon fell asleep.

When he awoke, he was momentarily disoriented, not remembering where he was. “God help me,” he groaned, “if it is morning already,” and his squires responded with laughter.

“Nay, my lord. Dawn is hours away. But you have a visitor.”

Hal squinted up at them in disbelief. “There is only one person in the world I am that eager to see. So unless you’ve awakened me to welcome my queen, the pair of you will need to find a new lord on the morrow.”

They greeted that sally with even louder laughter, and Hal sat up with another groan, thinking that he must teach his household to take his mock threats more seriously, but knowing he would not, for he’d realized very early in life that he’d much rather be loved than feared. “I am awake…I think. Just who is this distinguished guest worthy of disturbing my sleep?”

“Sir Baldwin de Bethune and Sir Hugh de Hamelincourt, my liege.”

Hal smiled, for both knights were friends as well as liegemen, and it pleased him greatly that they had responded so promptly to his summons. “Well, send them in,” he said and winked at his squire. “You’ve been reprieved, Benoit, need not seek a new lord, after all.”

Benoit was beaming. “They were not traveling alone, my lord,” he said, and nodded to the other squire, who swung the door open wide.

Hal caught his breath as Will Marshal entered the chamber, flanked by Baldwin and Hugh. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he started to get to his feet, and was startled when the room began to spin. He grabbed for the closest arm, and it was only after he’d straightened up that he saw it was Will’s. The other men had discreetly withdrawn, leaving them alone.

“The sight of you gladdens my eyes,” Hal said huskily, “indeed it does.”

“Sit back on the bed, my liege. I was told you’d been ailing?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Hal assured him, but took Will’s advice and sat down again. “Germany must have agreed with you,” he joked, “for you are looking sleek and well fed.”

Will could not return the compliment, for Hal had lost so much weight that his cheekbones stood out in sharp prominence, making him look almost gaunt, and his fair skin was splotched with hectic color. “Let me get you some wine,” he said and busied himself in pouring drinks for them both, using that time to disguise his concern.

“So…” Hal said happily, “you decided you did not need that safe conduct after all.”

Will blinked in surprise. “I have one, my liege. Your lord father was good enough to grant it.”

Hal’s mouth dropped open. “You are serious? Jesus wept, if that is not just like my father! He has his bishops cast me out into eternal darkness and then he gives you permission to fight with me.”

Will handed him a cup, his eyes searching Hal’s face. “You were not excommunicated. The old king instructed the bishops to pass sentence upon all the men who’d stirred up dissension between the two of you, but he told them not to include you in the damnation.”

“For true, Will?” Hal had not realized how nervous he was until that fear was suddenly lifted. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, and then grinned. “No, I guess now I will not! What about Geoffrey? Was he spared, too?”

“I do not know,” Will admitted. Reaching into his tunic, he drew forth two sealed parchments. “The French king gave me this for you, my lord. And this one is from your lady, Queen Marguerite.” His eyes met Hal’s levelly, but Hal did not take up the challenge; he was the first to look away.

Hal could feel heat rising in his face, heat that had nothing to do with his fever. An awkward silence fell. What did Will want? An apology? Fair enough if it would mend this rift between them. “I am sorry,” he said carefully, “for any misunderstandings we may have had. I want us to put the past behind us, Will, to start anew. Can we do that?”

This was, Will realized, as close to an apology as he was going to get. “Yes, my liege,” he said quietly, “we can do that,” and was rewarded with a radiant smile, the smile of the young lord he’d loved and tutored and protected for so many years.

Hal got to his feet again, somewhat unsteadily, and embraced the older man. “Welcome back, Will,” he said, and laughed joyfully. “Welcome home.”

H
AL HAD RELUCTANTLY AGREED
to spend the next day in bed, but that night he insisted upon joining the others in the great hall. A hunting party had been successful, and they were able to feast on venison, washing it down with prodigious amounts of wine. Hal merely pushed the meat around on his trencher, but he drained his wine cup often and discovered that it was as effective a restorative as comfrey root. The other men were drinking freely, too, and the atmosphere in the hall soon became boisterous and rowdy.

Will Marshal was one of the few who stayed completely sober. At Hal’s insistence, he’d eaten with them at the high table, but once the dishes were cleared off and the tables removed, he slipped away and sat down inconspicuously in a window-seat, where he was soon joined by Peter Fitz Guy and Baldwin de Bethune. Without speaking, they watched the antics upon the dais, where Hal was bantering with Duke Hugh and Count Raimon. Hal was very animated, laughing often, making such expansive gestures with his wine cup that he was in danger of dousing the knights crowding around him.

“Is he drunk?” Baldwin sounded uncertain, for he could not remember ever seeing Hal totally in his cups.

“I think it is the fever more than the wine,” Will said, low-voiced, and then frowned at a loud burst of profanity coming from a corner where the routiers were dicing.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, Peter dropped his voice, too. “We scraped the bottom of the barrel for that lot,” he said grimly. “I tell you, Will, it grieves me to say this, but these past weeks I’ve felt as if I were riding with an outlaw band.”

Will looked at him intently. “Why have you stayed, then, Peter?”

“For the same reason that you came back, old friend.” After a moment, Peter said softly, “God help us all.” Although he smiled, it was not a joke, and Will and Baldwin knew it.

W
ILL WAS UP EARLY
the next morning, breaking his fast with a plentiful helping of soft cheese and sops of bread soaked in wine. He was soon surrounded by friends, and they began to tease him about his ravenous appetite, doing their best to act as if things were as they’d once been, back in those halcyon days when they’d been so proud to serve the young king, so proud to be known as his knights, and the world seemed full of such shining promise.

“My lord…” Hal’s squire materialized at Will’s elbow, asking for a private moment, and as soon as Will led him aside, Benoit blurted out that Hal had a bad night, not falling asleep until dawn was nigh.

“The doctor said I must give him a potion of comfrey root and costmary every two hours, but I have been unable to rouse him, and I do not know what to do. Should I let him sleep?”

Will knew what the boy really wanted—someone to assume a responsibility that was too heavy for such narrow shoulders. “I’ll come up to his chamber with you and see how the king is faring this morn,” he said, and Benoit’s face glowed with the intensity of his relief. As they mounted the stairs, Will assured the squire that Hal was on the mend, and he was convincing for he believed it himself. Hal was young and healthy and there was no reason to think he would not soon recover.

The chamber was stifling, so hot that Will strode over to the window and flung the shutters wide. His nose wrinkling as he breathed in a fetid, rank odor, he crossed swiftly to the bed. The sheets were soaked in sweat and the stench grew stronger. “My lord, you must wake up,” Will said firmly. When he got no response from the man in the bed, he touched Hal’s shoulder and drew a sharp breath, for his skin was searing to the touch. “My liege…Hal!”

Hal mumbled incoherently, turning his head away from the light, and Will reached for the sheet, pulled it back. Benoit had followed him to the bed, and cried out at the sight of the blood and feces, his face twisting in horror. Will swung around quickly and grasped his arm.

“You must not panic, Benoit. I need you to keep your head. Do you understand me?” And when the boy nodded, he released his grip, saying as calmly as he could, “Good lad. Now I want you to fetch the doctor straightaway.”

Benoit nodded again and fled. Will could hear the thudding of his feet on the stairs. Once he was sure that help was on the way, he leaned over the bed again. “The bloody flux,” he whispered. “Ah, Hal…” But his throat had constricted, making further speech impossible.

H
AL HAD BEEN BLESSED
with bountiful good health as well as beauty and had only vague memories of childhood illnesses. He was dimly aware now that he was very sick. He’d drifted far from familiar shores, his dreams shot through with swirling hot colors and hazy forebodings. He wanted only to sleep, yet people would not let him alone. They kept poking and prodding him, swathing his body in cold compresses, trying to get him to swallow bitter-tasting liquids that he did not want to drink. He’d thrashed about in bed, seeking to evade these unwelcome ministrations, but they persevered and he was too weak to resist.

Delirium was not unlike drowning, for he was caught up in a riptide carrying him farther and farther from reality. And when he finally regained consciousness, he had to fight his way back to the surface, gasping for breath as he broke free of the feverish currents dragging him down. The light was unbearably bright, even after he filtered it through his lashes. Gradually the room came into focus. Two of his friends, Robert de Tresgoz and Peter Fitz Guy, were slumped on a bench by the bed, and his squire Benoit was seated cross-legged in the floor rushes; he wondered why they all looked so miserable. When he opened his mouth to ask them, though, the words that emerged from his throat were so slurred that even he could not understand them.

The sound was enough to jerk their heads up, and the next moment, they were gathered by the bed, all talking at once. They were not making much sense to Hal. Benoit kept murmuring “God’s Grace” as if he had no other words, and Peter seemed to be blinking back tears. But Robert was acting the most strangely, wanting to know if Hal could recognize him. Hal thought that was a very odd question, for he’d known the Norman knight for most of his life. He opened his mouth again, meaning to assure Rob that he was too ugly to forget, but he was surprised to discover that speaking demanded more energy than he could muster. When he flinched away from the sunlight flooding the bed, one of them hurried to close the shutters, and the chamber was soon a scene of joyous confusion as other men crowded in.

Hal felt a great relief at the sight of Will, sure all would be well now that the Marshal was here. He was not as pleased to see the doctor, looming over the bed like an avenging angel, for he recognized the man as his chief tormentor, the one who’d kept pouring vile potions down his throat, who would not go away.

“God be praised, the fever is down,” the doctor announced, but he sounded so triumphant that Hal thought he was claiming more credit than the Almighty for that benevolence. Doctors were like that, he knew. It was always their doing when a patient recovered and God’s Will when he did not. He could not summon up the effort to tease the physician, though; since when did talking tire a man out so? He was finding it hard to stay awake, but he was loath to slip back into those disquieting dreams, and when his eyes met Will’s, he silently entreated the older man to keep vigil whilst he slept. When Will brought a stool close to the bed and sat down, he smiled. Will had understood. Bless him, Will always understood.

W
HEN HAL AWOKE HOURS LATER,
he was disappointed that he was still as weak as a newborn cub. He must have been at death’s door, for certes. He was astonished to learn that this was Sunday; he’d lost three full days of his life! He remembered some of it now—the sharp pains in his belly, the endless bouts of diarrhea, the nausea. No wonder he felt as flat as a loaf of unleavened bread. He’d have to be patient as he got his strength back, and patience came no easier to him than it did to the rest of his family.

His stomach was not ready to cooperate, though, and when they tried to feed him egg yolks mixed with cumin and pepper, he promptly vomited them up. He could not even keep wine down, and the doctor had to settle for mixing galingale and yarrow in spring water, then feeding it to Hal one small spoonful at a time. At least he was no longer passing clotted blood, doubtless because he had nothing left to void. But he sounded like a croaking crow and looked like a corpse waiting to be sewn into his shroud, complaints his friends were happy to agree with. He thought they were much too eager to regale him with accounts of his suffering, gleefully describing how he had been “sweating like a Southwark cut-purse caught by the Watch” and “spewing your guts out” and “shitting a river of blood.”

When the doctor made ready to bleed him, that brought back another unpleasant memory, and he grumbled that “I dreamed I was stabbed by a lunatic with a knife, but it was really a leech with a lancet!” The knights all laughed, but the doctor ignored his protests and deftly opened a vein in his arm, explaining needlessly that it was done to drain away the noxious humors that caused fever.

Knowing full well that bloodletting was an approved method of treating numerous ailments, Hal thought the doctor sounded like a prideful buffoon, but it was probably not wise to vex a man with a blade in his hand and so he submitted grudgingly to the treatment, although he noticed that he seemed much more light-headed after the procedure.

The men around his bed were members of his inner circle; most had been with him since his coronation at age fifteen. His gaze flickered from one familiar face to another. Will and Baldwin de Bethune and Simon de Marisco and Roger de Gaugi and Robert de Tresgoz and Peter Fitz Guy. A man could not ask for better friends. He’d been told that they’d rarely left his side during the worst of the crisis. He wished he could thank them for their devotion, but knew they’d be flustered and discomfited if he did, for banter and sarcasm were the only languages spoken in their realm.

At the moment, they were harassing Rob, entertaining Hal with exaggerated accounts of Rob’s erratic behavior in the last few days. It seemed that he’d recalled some folklore that a fever could be cured by the liver of a beaver, and he’d been flailing around on the riverbank as long as there was light, trying to catch one. When Hal asked if this was true, Rob confirmed it with a sheepish grin, insisting that beaver liver, if fried with onions, could heal the worst fever. He would have elaborated upon this miracle remedy if Will had not seen the greensick look on Hal’s face and hastily cut him off.

Hal could bring up only yellowish bile, for he’d not been able to eat for days. His friends were clustering around him, offering wine and putting wet compresses on his forehead and rushing off to see if the doctor thought he ought to be bled again. “Go away,” he groaned, “you’re worse than a mother abbess with one novice nun,” and they laughed uproariously, for these glimmers of humor were surely the best proof that the Almighty had heeded their prayers and not those of the vengeful monks.

S
UNDAY’S CELEBRATION CONTINUED
into the next day, for Hal’s allies and routiers were just as pleased by his recovery as the knights who loved him. Will lost track of all the toasts drunk to Hal’s health, but he observed the hilarity with a jaundiced eye, well aware that these men had a vested interest in the young king’s well-being. The more he saw at Martel, the more he understood Peter’s bleak admission. How had Hal ever come to this—leading an outlaw band of cutthroats and bandits? And how was he going to convince Hal to renounce these false friends and return to his proper allegiance?

Hal was no stronger on Monday, still could not eat without becoming nauseous, and although he now had a constant thirst, he could only keep water down. But he was quite lucid and his men took heart from that, assuring themselves that he’d soon be on the mend. Will was not so sure and began to harbor doubts. Hal was young and had been robust and vigorous. Shouldn’t he have begun to regain some of his strength by now? It frightened Will to see how feeble he was; the man able to wield a ten-foot lance with lethal skill could not even hold a cup to his blistered lips.

Because of his own disquiet, Will soon picked up on the doctor’s unease and nerved himself to demand the truth. He was not prepared, though, for the grim response he got from the physician. Once they were safely away from eavesdroppers, the doctor seemed relieved to share his fears. It was not just that the young king was showing no signs of improvement. His new symptoms were troubling, too. His skin and mouth were very dry, and his thirst could not be quenched. His eyes were sunken back in his head, and despite all the water he was drinking, his urine was scant and when it did come, it was a dark yellow. Had Sir William noticed that he was no longer sweating? Will had not, and when he asked what that meant, the doctor muttered evasively that it was never a good sign.

“Are you…are you saying that he will not recover?”

The physician no longer met his eyes. “That is in God’s Hands, and not for me to say.” Will stared at him in horror, understanding that he’d just pronounced a death sentence upon the young king.

H
AL WAS FRUSTRATED
that he was making so little progress. This was Tuesday morn; ought he not to be regaining strength by now? He’d been dozing since dawn, and each time he awoke, Will and Rob and Baldwin and Benoit were keeping watch by his bed, standing guard against night demons and, quite likely, the routiers. When he’d emerged from his delirium, Hal had been surprised to find an unfamiliar emerald ring upon his hand. Emeralds were said to have the power to vanquish fevers, they reminded him, and the Duke of Burgundy had kindly offered his own ring. It was a valuable piece of jewelry and Hal had jested with his knights, wondering how much they could sell it for. But he’d begun to fret that a routier might sneak into his chamber and steal it, and he decided that, if only for his peace of mind, they ought to return it to Hugh. He did not need it anymore, after all, for his fever had not spiked again, was more like a smoldering peat fire now than a roaring conflagration.

He watched his friends for several moments before they noticed he was awake. “If you are not a sad-looking lot,” he mocked. “You’d think I was on my deathbed or that Richard had Martel under siege and we were running out of wine…”

He’d meant it as a joke, but there was nothing amusing about the reaction he got. His jape was met with a stricken silence, and suddenly they were looking everywhere but at his face. He stared at them incredulously. “I am not dying…am I?”

This time they responded with a flurry of frenzied denials, assuring him that of course he was not dying, what a foolish notion, he’d be up and about in no time at all. Hal was stunned, for he could see they were lying. Will alone had kept silent, but now he cried out sharply, “Enough! He deserves the truth.”

When they would have protested, Will stared them down. “He has the right to know,” he insisted. “He needs to know whilst there is still time to make amends.”

They could see the pulse thudding in Hal’s throat, hear the ragged edge to his breathing. “But…but I was getting better…You all said so…”

Will knew that Hal had always preferred an oblique approach to unpleasant truths. But he had no choice now, had to face it head-on. “We hoped you were, my liege. But you’ve been growing weaker and…and the doctor says your recovery is now in God’s Hands.”

Hal looked at him mutely and then turned his head away from them. “Go,” he said hoarsely, “leave me be…”

They did not argue and fled in unseemly haste, none of them knowing what to say or how to comfort him. Will did not go far, though, for he knew that Hal, of all men, would never find solace in solitude. He waited what he hoped was a decent interval, time enough for Hal to absorb the blow, then knocked on the door and came back into the chamber.

“I will go if you wish it,” he said, and when Hal didn’t object, he approached the bed, dreading what he would see. Hal’s spectacular tournament successes had overshadowed the fact that he was not as gifted a battle commander as Richard, or Geoffrey either, for that matter. He did not seem to have a head for strategy, to be able to anticipate the unforeseen or to adopt long-range plans. No one had ever questioned his courage, though. If he did not have Richard’s reckless daring, few men did. Will had never seen him display fear, either at castle sieges or in the wild mêlées of the tourney, which could be as dangerous as battle skirmishes. But he’d never seen Hal look as he did now—eyes wide and staring, pupils so dilated that much of the blue had been swallowed up, filled with utter panic.

When he spoke, his voice was unsteady, almost inaudible. “God is punishing me for my sins, Will.”

“Yes,” Will said softly. “I fear he is, lad.”

“I ought to have heeded the monks. They tried to warn me, but I would not listen. And now it is too late. Lucifer is here, waiting to claim my soul…Can you feel his presence, too?” Hal shivered. “I am damned and it is my own fault, Will—”

“Hal, no!” Will had to fight the urge to glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see diabolic red eyes glowing in the shadows. “It is not too late. The Almighty has not forsaken you, has given you a great mercy—time to repent and seek forgiveness.”

Hal had a heartbeat of hope, but no more than that. “No…” he whispered. “They’d not forgive me. How could they?”

Will was momentarily puzzled, not sure who “they” were. But then he understood. Hal was speaking of his Divine Father in Heaven and his earthly father at Limoges. “Of course they’d forgive you, Hal. The mercy of the Almighty is everlasting and endureth forever. And the lord king has never ceased to love you. Why do you think he spared you from excommunication? Or granted me a safe conduct to come to you? Are those the actions of an unloving father?”

Hal desperately wanted to believe him. “But my sins are so grievous…”

“That does not matter, not if you are truly contrite.” As complete as Will’s education had been in military matters and the tenets of chivalry, he’d not learned to read or write. He’d never regretted that lack, not until now when he yearned to quote Scriptures that could assuage Hal’s fear. Fortunately, even though he’d never been able to read the Holy Writ, he did have an excellent memory and could remember enough to paraphrase with reasonable accuracy. “The Lord God will not turn His Face away from you if you return to Him.” Will forced a smile. “Holy Writ says there is great joy in Heaven over even one sinner who repents.”