Time and Chance (69 page)

The sinking ship had disappeared into the darkness, but Henry’s last glimpse of it would burn in his memory until his final breath: as the cog heeled sharply to the left, its side rudder had come completely out of the water, as useless as its tattered sail and broken mast. A sudden whimper drew Henry’s attention and he glanced down to discover that his dog had crept from the tent, managed to crawl across the deck, and was huddled at his feet. Touched by such selfless loyalty, he knelt beside the dyrehund and wrapped his arms around the animal’s trembling body. He considered returning to the tent, decided to remain there on the deck. Better to die under the open sky, facing his fate head-on.

Henry lost track of time, was never to know how many more hours passed before he heard one of the sailors give a joyful cry, “Land ho!” Turning his head toward the horizon, he saw a glimmer of light in the distance, and for a confused moment, he thought he was gazing upon the chalk cliffs of Dover. Surely they could not have been blown that far off course? But as the helmsman called out that he could see Culver Cliff, Henry realized that he was looking upon salvation, the steep, white bluffs of the Isle of Wight.

 

 

 

HENRY CAME ashore at Portsmouth on March 3, and the remainder of his storm-battered fleet straggled into ports up and down the Channel. One of his forty ships was lost, taking more than four hundred people to their deaths, including Ranulf de Bellomont, his personal physician. But when he sent for his eldest son, Hal’s voyage was uneventful. He landed safely on English soil on June 5, proceeding to London, where his father awaited him, and was crowned in Westminster Abbey by the Archbishop of York on the following Sunday.

 

 

 

THE EARL OF CORNWALL was enjoying himself enormously. Rainald loved food and revelries and good company, and in his considered judgment, his grandnephew’s coronation feast offered all three in plenitude. Westminster’s great hall had been newly whitewashed for the occasion, fresh, fragrant rushes laid down, clean linen cloths covered the tables, and in every wall sconce, a flaming torch blazed like a smoking sun. So far the menu had exceeded all his expectations; he’d confessed to his grand-nephew Hugh of Chester that he’d not thought Harry could manage an elegant meal without Eleanor’s guidance.

Hugh was embarrassed by this lack of discretion, casting uneasy glances along the high table, where his cousin the king was seated. Rainald merely laughed at the young earl’s attempts to shush him, insisting that Harry would take that as a compliment, not an insult. He could tell Hugh stories, indeed, about the slop that had been served at the royal table, especially when they’d been on the road all day and ended up sheltering for the night in places a self-respecting pig would shun.

Hugh went crimson and looked askance at Rainald’s brimming wine cup, trying to remember how often it had been refilled. Hippocras was ordinarily saved for the end of a feast, for the red wine flavored with sugar, ginger, and cinnamon was a costly beverage. But for Hal’s coronation dinner, no expense had been spared, and hippocras was being poured at the high table as if it were ale. Hugh invariably found things to worry about and he began to fear that Rainald might humiliate them both if he ended up deep in his cups.

Rainald’s voice was carrying, as usual, turning heads in their direction, and Hugh swallowed his own wine too quickly, for he was nowhere near as certain as his granduncle that the king would not be offended by such talk. He never knew how to read his cousin Harry and dreaded stirring up the king’s notoriously quick temper. Much to his relief now, the Bishop of London, seated on Rainald’s right, adroitly introduced a more seemly topic of conversation, commenting upon the lavishness of the dishes that had so far been served.

Distracted, Rainald happily plunged into a discussion of the fine pepper sauce, the omelettes stuffed with expensive, imported figs, the venison pasties, the fresh mackerel colored green with a jellylike mint sauce, and his personal favorite, the Lombardy custard of delicious marrow, dates, raisins, and almond milk. His grandnephew’s concern about his drinking was unwarranted; Rainald was feeling pleasantly mellow, but he was still reasonably sober. His exuberance was due as much to high spirits as spiced wine, for a coronation was a momentous event, one to be remembered and savored for years afterward.

Hal had been seated in the place of honor, between his father and the Archbishop of York. Already taller than Henry, adorned in a red silk tunic with a stylishly cut diagonal neckline that had stirred Hugh’s envy, his fair hair gilded to gold by the flaring torchlights, Hal looked verily like a king. Rainald beamed at the youth, glad that he made such a fine impression. Not every king’s heir was so promising, he thought, remembering Stephen’s brutal son, Eustace. When he’d died so suddenly, choking on a mouthful of eels, Stephen alone had mourned; most men felt that the Almighty had interceded on England’s behalf.

“I do not know our young king well,” he confided to the bishop, “but I can understand why the crowds turned out to cheer as he rode to the abbey. He is as handsome a lad as I’ve ever laid eyes upon, God’s Truth. I know who he gets his good looks from, too!”

Gilbert Foliot had more weighty matters on his mind than the comeliness of the king’s son. It was barely two months since he’d gotten the Pope to lift Becket’s sentence of excommunication, and he well knew that his participation in this day’s coronation was likely to thrust him back into papal disfavor. But courtesy was a virtue and he agreed that the young king was indeed fair to look upon, adding politely that the queen had been a great beauty, after all.

Rainald chuckled, looking at the bishop indulgently. “Nay, my lord, I meant the boy’s grandsire. I can find nothing of the queen in that lad. Look at his coloring, the tilt of his head, then tell me he is not the veritable image of Geoffrey of Anjou!”

Foliot had not seen the resemblance before, but now that it was pointed out to him, he marveled how he could have missed it. He had been a staunch supporter of the Empress Maude, which meant that he was no admirer of the late Count of Anjou, and he silently expressed the wish that young Hal resembled his grandfather in nothing more significant than appearance.

Rainald reached for a bread sop, dunking it in the glistening green sauce of their shared mackerel dish. “Let’s hope the lad’s good looks are his only legacy from Geoffrey. My sister loathed the man, and with cause, by God!”

That was tactless enough to make both Foliot and Hugh wince. No matter how cheerful Henry was this day, he’d like it not to hear his father disparaged; his affection for Count Geoffrey had been well known. Fortunately, there was a sudden bustle of activity in the hall as this course came to an end, and Rainald’s comments passed unnoticed. Ewers were bringing out lavers of water scented with bay leaves and chamomile; because so much of a meal was eaten with the fingers, it was essential that guests be offered several opportunities to wash their hands. The panter was cutting new trenchers for those at the high table, as by now theirs were soaked with gravy. Not even the hungriest diners would eat their trenchers, for bread had to be coarse and stale to be firm enough to serve as a plate; as they were replaced, the crumbling, sodden trenchers were collected for God’s poor.

There was a sudden stirring as Henry rose to his feet. He stopped others from rising, too, and gestured for the musicians to resume playing. As the music of harp and lute filled the hall, Henry stepped down from the dais. Exchanging brief pleasantries with the guests at his table, he paused before his kinsmen.

“There is no need to ask if you’ve been enjoying the dinner, Uncle,” he joked, “not after all you’ve been eating!”

Rainald grinned and patted his paunch. “Jesú forfend that I insult Your Grace by showing indifference to this fine fare! In all candor, you’ve always been one for eating on the run. I trust you are not about to put an end to the festivities?”

Henry grinned back. “This is one dinner that could last into the morrow and I’d not complain. No, I have a surprise for my son.”

Making his way across the hall, he waited until he saw the server approaching the door and then signaled for a trumpet fanfare to introduce the meal’s pièce de résistance. Garnished with sliced apples, centered on a large silver platter, the great boar’s head was an impressive culinary tribute to the young king, for it was more commonly served during Christmas revelries. The admiring murmurs gave way to cheers when Henry moved forward and took the platter himself. The sons of the nobility learned manners by waiting upon tables in great households, and a king was often served at state banquets by peers of the realm. But Henry’s action was an unprecedented compliment to his son.

With all eyes upon him, Henry carried the boar’s head to the high table, where he stood smiling up at his eldest son. Hal smiled, too, looking so composed and regal that Henry glowed with pride. The Archbishop of York glanced from Henry to Hal and said with the smoothness of a practiced courtier, “It is not every prince who can be served at table by a king.”

Hal’s blue eyes took the light, a smile still hovering at the corners of his mouth. “Yes,” he said, “but it can be no condescension for the son of a count to serve the son of a king.”

There was utter silence. Even those who hadn’t heard Hal’s retort sensed something was amiss by the shocked expressions on the faces of those at the high table. The Archbishop of York was at a rare loss for words, and Rainald nearly strangled on a mouthful of wine. Henry looked startled and then he laughed. Others echoed his laughter dutifully, but the laughter had a hollow sound. With the exception of Henry and his son, few in the hall found any humor in the young king’s too-clever quip.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SOFT SHADOWS AND SILENCE. That was the boy’s first impression of the interior of the abbey church. Outside, the sun was blazing across a noonday sky, but within the nave, it could have been dusk. Blinking, he stumbled over a prayer cushion and lurched into the font. The noise he’d made seemed to roil through the stillness like thunder, and he flushed, relieved when the kneeling figure of his father did not react. The marble tomb glimmered in the gloom. He wondered if it was as cold and smooth as it looked. The woman buried here was his aunt, but she was a stranger to him. He’d never even laid eyes upon her and was sure that she’d not have welcomed him into her family circle, for she had been a great lady, an empress, and he was a lord’s bastard, born in sin.

“
Requiescas in pace,
Maude.” Rainald rose stiffly to his feet, for physical activity without aching muscles and creaking bones was as long-gone as his youth. Peering into the dimness, he beckoned to the boy.

As they emerged into the September sunlight, Rainald collided with a man striding briskly along the cloisters walkway. “Whoa!” Recognizing the chasuble and cope of a prince of the Church, Rainald began to offer a laughing apology. “I’m not always blind as a mole, my lord, but these old eyes of mine need time to—” As his gaze rose to the bishop’s face, he broke off with a cry of delighted surprise and enfolded the other man in an enthusiastic embrace. “Roger!”

Roger grinned and fended off another hug. “Nay, Uncle, my ribs will snap like twigs. For all your talk of aging eyes, your clenches could put a bear to shame.”

“Only an elderly bear with the joint-evil and a potbelly! What are you doing here, Roger?”

“The same as you, Uncle . . . paying honor to Maude.”

Rainald shook his head. “I can hardly believe that she’s been dead three years. Will you be saying the Requiem Mass?” Getting an affirmation, he smiled, and then remembered the boy. “Come here, lad. Roger, I want you to meet Rico . . . my son. Rico, this is your cousin Roger, the Bishop of Worcester.”

Rico made his father proud by kneeling and kissing the bishop’s ring. Roger was impressed by the boy’s good manners and he acknowledged the introductions with deliberate warmth, knowing that would please Rainald. It was a poorly kept family secret that Rainald adored this unlawfully begotten son of his and felt remorse and anxiety that he could not give Rico all that his legitimate heir, Nicholas, would one day claim. Roger had an uneasy sense that Nicholas would not long enjoy the honors of his father’s earldom, for the youth had inherited his mother’s frail physique and delicate health. An image of Nicholas flashed into his memory as he looked upon Rainald’s other son, for the contrast between them could not have been more dramatic: Nicholas, hollow-eyed and arrow-thin, with a winter-white pallor even in midsummer, and Rico, a youngster of sturdy build and obvious energy, a handsome lad who’d likely grow into a handsome man if the fates were kind.