Rhuddlan (3 page)

“You’re my men, Roger!” Hugh said with a
burst of anger. “You’re mine to tell what to do and where to go!”
Then, when Haworth didn’t reply but stood a few paces apart, his
face bowed towards the ground, Hugh relaxed and leaned back in his
chair. “You’re jealous,” he said, amused.

“Not jealous,” Haworth answered stiffly,
“Just unhappy with your decision. But you’re right, my lord; I’m
your sworn man and must do what you tell me.”

Hugh got up and crossed the floor, silent as
a cat in his stockinged feet. He put a companionable hand on the
other man’s shoulder. “There’s no reason for this, Roger,” he said
softly, cajolingly. “Bolsover’s attraction lies in his differences
from everyone else in this place, but they’re almost certainly
differences that would quickly grow tiresome if one were exposed to
them too long. Don’t worry! Once we leave Westminster tomorrow,
we’ll probably never see him again.”

Chapter 2

early January, 1171

Argentan, Normandy

A cold wind whipped through the hills
surrounding the little town of Argentan and rattled the bare
branches of the dormant trees in the apple orchards. Inside their
timbered walls, the villagers huddled for warmth around the raised
hearths in the center of their houses, and drank cider and gossiped
about the latest news to come down from the castle. Outside, the
sky was cold and black. Even the stars seemed to stare down harshly
upon the frozen earth.

The latest news was indeed worthy of gossip.
The archbishop of Canterbury, the most powerful cleric in all of
England, had been brutally murdered at his altar only days after
Christmas. Couriers had arrived on New Year’s Day to tell the grim
tale to the king, who had been so shaken that he had locked himself
away in his chambers and refused to see anyone or eat anything for
three days. The festive atmosphere in the castle had been abruptly
stifled. Villagers who had sundry business there came back with
exciting stories about the pervasive, eerie silence throughout the
stronghold, how the knights had removed their spurs while in its
confines and walked their horses slowly in the ward so to make as
little noise as possible…how the smith had been idle since the
tragic news had been made known.

To the pious villagers of Argentan, the
murder of Thomas Becket was more than a tragedy, it was a sin
against the Church and so, against God Himself. The sensational
story of the violent arguments between Henry and his chosen
archbishop and Becket’s subsequent flight into the court of the
French king, Louis VII, was well known to them even if the politics
involved were not. That knights of Henry’s household would have
taken it upon themselves to solve this crisis of church and state
was reprehensible and only proved that the king’s belligerent,
high-handed ways had spread to his men.

The members of Henry’s household, however,
held a different view. Although they had been shocked by the report
of murder, they couldn’t help but feel relieved that the stubborn,
histrionic archbishop was no longer around to cause their king
needless aggravation. Becket had been a thorn in Henry’s side since
his elevation to the see of Canterbury and ultimately Henry had
sought to have him deposed. In turn, Becket had taken refuge with
Louis, who was Henry’s worst enemy, continuing his verbal attacks
on the king of England from France. But Henry wasn’t a man to bear
a grudge and Becket had once been one of his closest friends. He
had wanted his son, Henry the Younger, to be crowned as tradition
demanded: by the archbishop of Canterbury. Because of the
estrangement, Henry the Younger had been crowned the previous May
by the archbishop of York. In July, Henry attempted to remedy the
situation by meeting with Becket and offering him a peaceful return
to England. Becket had agreed, but once back in his own cathedral
reverted to his former disregard for the king’s authority over the
Church in England. Henry, who had remained on the continent, was
frustrated and annoyed when word of Becket’s activities reached
him. Unknown to him, four of his knights decided to persuade the
archbishop to change his ways, and ended up killing him
instead.

William Longsword and Richard Delamere walked
the walls of Argentan castle in the cold night on watch duty. The
harsh wind whipped up the ends of their cloaks and tore at their
faces. They weren’t particularly vigilant; they didn’t suppose an
armed force would deign to attack Argentan on such a disagreeable
night; but concentrated instead on keeping themselves from
freezing. Since the king had emerged from his chamber two days
earlier, pale and drawn, everyone at the castle had taken to
rushing around as industriously as he or she could without making a
commotion. It was the general consensus that Henry needed to
explode angrily at someone to make himself feel better, and no one
wanted it to be him. Longsword and Delamere had volunteered for
plenty of guard duty, wishing to be well out of the king’s lung
range. They hadn’t counted on the wind…

“And all my beloved brother
could say was, ‘well, who’s going to crown me
now
?’,” Longsword was telling
Delamere, mimicking the Young King’s voice. They came to a
flickering brazier set on a tripod and stopped to warm their
hands.

“Did the king hear him?” Delamere asked.

“Unfortunately, no. Someone shut him up very
quickly. And then my father had the effrontery to be snap at me
because I wasn’t exhibiting suitable grief for the damned cleric,”
he added indignantly. “I wasn’t demonstrating any! In my opinion,
that’s suitable enough.”

“You didn’t say that to the king…”

“Of course not! There’s only one idiot in the
family, Richard.”

Delamere pulled his cloak more closely around
his shoulders and shifted his sword in his belt so that it stuck
straight down and didn’t lift the hem of the cloth and create a
draft. He bitterly regretted the archbishop’s death—but only
because it had been announced at the most inopportune time. During
the height of the New Year’s feast, amid the chords of the lute and
viele straining from the musician’s gallery overhead, Delamere had
just succeeded in convincing a pretty young woman to accompany him
to a less crowded corner of the castle when the couriers had burst
in and asked for an audience with the king. After that, there had
been no more music and only astonished whispers among the
guests.

“Will,” he said hesitantly, “perhaps you
ought to watch what you say about the Young King…”

Longsword snorted. “After five minutes with
my brother, anyone can see the truth in whatever I say of him.”

“Except the two people most important to your
future,” Delamere stated flatly. “The king and his successor. You
might one day find yourself on the far side of the kingdom.”

“What am I supposed to do, Richard? I’m not
about to kiss his feet like Bolsover. He knows I don’t like him.
Any of them, for that matter.”

Delamere sighed. It was no use trying to
convince his friend to silence his tongue and smooth over the
expression of contempt which invariably contorted his face when he
was in the presence of the Young King. Longsword was by nature
sullen and stubborn but he refused to even consider budging when up
against his legitimate half-brothers. If he had been born last of
them, he might have been more amenable, but to be the oldest and
the most fiercely loyal to their common father and to see the lands
and honors divvied among those who didn’t deserve them was such a
travesty of right that it had made him quite bitter and
unreasonable on the subject.

Robert Bolsover didn’t hold a high opinion of
the Young King, either, but he was savvy enough to realize his
future depended on ensuring his goodwill and that of his father,
Henry II. Besides, it was his belief that an immature, lazy monarch
was the perfect master for an ambitious, shrewd servant. And he was
very ambitious.

He was the only son of a knight who had made
his small fortune by choosing to side with Empress Maud during the
civil war which had erupted after the death of her father, Henry I.
His unwavering loyalty had come to the notice of the Empress’ son,
Henry of Anjou, who, upon his ascension to the throne, had rewarded
him with a castle at Oakby in Leicestershire. Robert had been a
child of four at the time. His father’s subsequent preoccupation
was to beget an army of sons which would carry on his name and
perpetuate the Bolsovers of Oakby. He buried three wives in his
attempt, but Robert was the only son he was destined to have.

Robert had been brought up and trained in the
king’s household. He was used to constant activity and important
people coming and going. He was used to being near the hub of
political decision-making and part of an army of men close to his
own age. He found, on his rare visits to his father, Oakby too
small and provincial. And quiet. Robert Bolsover planned for a
great deal more excitement than Oakby could provide in his
future.

He’d been as shocked as anyone when Thomas
Becket’s murder was revealed, but he’d never cared for the
archbishop and could dredge up no morsel of pity for him. He wasn’t
alone; in fact, the only person at court who seemed to care at all
was the king. Bolsover was surprised that Henry was making such a
public display of his grief. He’d often seen the king violently
angry, although he would quickly recover, but his refusal to eat or
speak with anyone for three days had caused some of his counselors
to fear for his sanity. Henry was almost thirty-eight, not an old
man, but he had been at war for more than twenty of those years,
first for his throne and ever since against the king of France. His
was not a peaceful reign; perhaps, Bolsover mused, he was feeling
the pressure.

On the third day of the king’s self-imposed
confinement, an impressive line of horsemen appeared on the winding
road which followed the River Orne, flowing beneath the shadow of
the fortress. Bolsover had been in the western guard tower and had
recognized the pennants and colors of the earl of Chester. He’d
gone down to greet Hugh and his entourage, and to explain the
quiet, tense atmosphere in the castle.

Hugh had spent the Christmas feast in
Avranches knowing the king had been unable to leave Normandy
because of trouble King Louis was stirring up in a neighboring
province. Avranches was several days’ hard riding away from
Argentan, especially in January, but Hugh had an important request
to make of the king and New Year’s seemed the most propitious time
to ask. The murder in Canterbury Cathedral, however, had
effectively shelved that business. Hugh would have been tempted to
return to Avranches the next day if Robert Bolsover’s welcome
hadn’t been so warm.

In retrospect, he was glad he’d stayed
because when the king finally appeared and met once again with his
counselors, he asked that Hugh be brought to him and then he
thanked the earl for coming to tender his condolences. Hugh had
merely accepted the king’s gratitude. No one, not even Hugh’s own
men, knew the earl’s business with Henry. Let the king believe in
his goodwill, he thought; it could only count in his favor.

And he was glad he stayed because Robert
Bolsover seemed to seek him out as if he greatly enjoyed Hugh’s
company. This was both flattering and satisfying. The young knight
made himself so appealing that after only a few days of his arrival
at Argentan, Hugh found himself confiding in him the true purpose
of his visit.

It came about after breakfast when Bolsover
insisted on bringing him to the stables, to prove that he was
properly caring for the horse he’d won at Westminster. Without
consciously realizing it, Hugh contrived to evade his bodyguard and
meet with Bolsover alone.

The stables were crowded because of the size
of the court, with the overflow accommodated in shelters down by
the river. Grooms were cleaning tack or checking hooves, but no one
was near the big black as he and Bolsover approached it.

“See?” Bolsover grinned, slapping the
animal’s haunch. “Wasn’t I telling you the truth?”

Hugh nodded. “I never doubted you.” He barely
glanced at the horse. Instead, he watched the younger man as he
stroked the massive neck.

“I can’t tell you how many offers I’ve had
for him. I live in fear that the king will take a fancy to him, or
worse, the Young King. And there’s William Longsword, of course. He
wanted this one very badly.” He turned to Hugh. “Do you remember
him at the tournament?”

The earl shook his head. “The king’s bastard,
isn’t he?”

“Yes; a vicious fighter. Never satisfied
unless his opponent is trampled into the ground. But I understand
he was like that from a child. Too much bitterness in the blood, I
suppose.”

“For all that, I hear he’s loyal to the king
to a fault.”

Bolsover laughed. “Doesn’t he have to be?
He’s a bastard! He has nothing other than that which Henry gives
him.”

Hugh smiled. Bolsover spoke whatever he
thought. It was an innocent, and disarming, habit.

“My lord earl, I don’t know on what business
you came to see the king, but if I can be of use I would be honored
to help you. I feel I am in your debt for this fine animal…I may
not have the ear of the king himself, but I speak often with the
Young King, and I know he would be interested in what you had to
say.”

“I’ve already seen the king…” Hugh said
warily.

“Oh, I know! But not on your business. He
only offered his gratitude for your expression of sympathy for that
arrogant cleric. But you didn’t know of Becket’s death until you’d
arrived here.”

Hugh gazed intently at Bolsover. The younger
man held his eyes. Finally he said, “It wasn’t important. A small
matter of land.”

Bolsover stepped closer to him. “My lord, if
it concerns the earl of Chester it must be important. I beg you to
discuss it with the Young King. Henry is growing old. I’ve never
seen him react as he did to this murder. The young king has fresh
ideas—and the support of his father-in-law, the king of
France.”