Devil's Brood

CHAPTER SIX

March 1173

Chinon Castle, Touraine

The 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 Hal had withdrawn into a cocoon of sullen silence.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.

Dinner, normally scheduled at noon, had been shifted to a later hour as part of the Lenten abstinence and was not served until after Vespers had rung. It turned out to be a pleasant surprise for Henry’s household knights and the castle garrison, who’d been anticipating gloom and bleak silence. Instead, the meal that evening was informal, enjoyable, and raucous in the absence of women. Hal was in high spirits, and had the men laughing uproariously over his extravagant account of what he called the Saga of the Royal Tooth. He claimed that Chinon’s barber, hearing of his malady, had stalked him relentlessly all afternoon, urging him to have the tooth extracted.

“He vowed that he need not use the pincers if I was skittish about them, that there were other ways. Only these ‘other ways’ made the pincers sound better and better. One method was to coat the ailing tooth with the ashes of earthworms. Another was to mix up a powder of ants and their eggs and blow it through a quill onto the tooth. Or smear on a concoction of newts and fen beetles. When I questioned where he’d find newts or ant eggs, he assured me that all the necessary ingredients were at hand. By then I realized that he and Master Gervase, the apothecary, were partners in crime, and I began to fear the worst!”

Chinon’s castellan, blinking back tears of mirth, offered to send to the nearest city, Tours or Angers, to find a surgeon who made his living by pulling teeth. Hal hastily made the sign of the cross, as if to ward off evil. “Jesu forfend, Sir Robert! My new friend, the barber, told me more than any man would want to know about their methods. He described a ‘popular procedure’ in which they cauterize the skin behind the victim’s ear, then heat henbane and leek seeds over hot coals and have him inhale the smoke through a funnel. Since I know henbane is a poison, I assume the next step in the process would be to hide my body afterward!”

Several knights chimed in with horror stories of their own, but Hal was not ready to yield center stage, and it occurred to his amused father that he’d have made a fine minstrel or player. Adroitly recapturing control of the conversation, Hal launched into the next chapter of his narrative: his meeting with Master Gervase, the apothecary.

“He said they think pain is caused by worms breeding in the tooth. That reassured me greatly, of course. He explained that the worms could be driven out by lighting a candle made of mutton fat and burning it as close to the ailing tooth as I could endure. Meanwhile, he’d hold a basin of cold water under my jaw and the worms would seek to escape the heat and fall into the water. I considered it, but then I started to wonder how we could be sure that the worms could not swim,” Hal said, with such tongue-in-cheek seriousness that the hall erupted into hilarity again.

When the laughter subsided, Hamelin provided more fuel for the fire by asking Hal what treatment he’d finally settled upon. Hal grimaced and shook his head ruefully. “By that point, Uncle, I’d begun to fear that the only choice open to me was to drown the worms-and my sorrows-in drink. But when he saw that his sale was in danger, Master Gervase offered a few recommendations more tolerable than ant eggs or powdered newts. At first he suggested that I rub the oil of the box tree on the afflicted tooth, and I was tempted. But then he let slip that this remedy also cured piles, which I found right curious. Did I really want to put a potion meant for the arse into my mouth?”

With an actor’s innate sense of timing, Hal paused for the audience to react and was not disappointed. “Seeing that I was not keen on the box tree oil, Master Gervase advised me to rub the tooth and gum with betony or cloves-which was what my lord father had suggested hours ago!” Slanting a facetious glance toward Henry, he said, “So if you ever tire of governing, my liege, you can always earn a living as an apothecary.”

This time his sally was met with cautious silence, his audience waiting to see how Henry would react, for under the circumstances, that could have been a harmless jest or a barbed gibe. It was only after Henry smiled that the other men felt free to laugh, and he realized that some of their merriment was due to sheer relief that father and son seemed to have made peace.

Hal continued to amuse with his comic commentary, expressing his doubts about the draught that the apothecary had eventually prescribed to ease his pain and help him sleep, a blend of henbane, black poppy, and bryony root, for they were all poisons. He wondered, too, why the martyred maiden Apollonia was the patron saint for toothaches when she’d had all of her own teeth cruelly extracted by her pagan tormentors. Wasn’t that, he mused, rather like picking a virgin as the patron saint for whores or a miser as the patron saint for spendthrifts?

Henry enjoyed watching Hal’s performance; it had been a long time since he’d seen his son so lighthearted, so carefree. This meal was in such stark contrast to the tense, unpalatable dinners they’d endured since leaving Limoges that he found himself savoring the bland Lenten fare, even eating a few mouthfuls of salted herring, a despised dish that rarely appeared on a royal table. Chinon’s cooks had offered up a particularly mediocre menu, confident that Henry was not likely to notice. The final course was a soupy pudding made with almond milk and dried figs. But before the men could push away from the tables, Hal rose and banged on his wine cup with a knife to attract attention.

“I want to end dinner with a salute to my lord father,” he announced, and on cue, a servant entered with a flagon and two silver wine cups. Reaching for one, Hal handed the other to Henry. Puzzled, he followed his son’s lead and leaned over so Hal could ceremoniously clink their cups together. Taking a swallow, he looked at Hal in surprise, for the vessels were filled with hippocras, a costly spiced wine that was served only upon special occasions even by the wealthy and highborn.

Looking pleased with himself, Hal lifted his cup high. “You may not all know that this is a special day…my lord father the king’s birthday. I would have you drink to his health and good fortune!”

The men raised their own cups and the hall resounded with cries of “To the king!” Glancing back at Henry with a sly grin, Hal signaled for silence. “I am grateful to my uncle, the Earl of Surrey, for reminding me, as this is not a birthday to go unmarked. It is not every day, after all, that a man reaches the venerable age of fifty.”

Henry inhaled the wine he’d been about to swallow and began to cough. Again the audience quieted, watching Henry to see if he was amused or annoyed by his son’s jape. Getting his breath back, he laughed, and the men burst into applause and cheers, so grateful were they that the rift between their lord and his son was on the mend. None wanted to be forced to choose between them, for how could a man weigh the present against the future?

Rising, Henry lifted his cup as Hal had done. “Let’s drink now to my son, who has every attribute of kingship except the ability to count.” Midst the laughter, his gaze came to rest affectionately upon his beaming brother. Hamelin had given him a birthday gift more valuable than gold, silver, or myrrh: a new beginning.

Henry did not linger long in the great hall, for his hours in the saddle had caught up with him, and he felt unusually tired. After joking with Willem that his son’s jest had been on target, for tonight he felt far closer to fifty than forty, he withdrew to his bedchamber in the keep. Hal had already retired, losing much of his earlier animation once his tooth began to pain him again, and when Henry entered the chamber, his son was sound asleep, an empty vial of the apothecary’s draught in the floor rushes by his bed. Henry’s squires were awaiting him, yawning behind their hands as they drowsily assisted him to undress. Glancing from their drooping eyelids to the flagon of night wine on a nearby table, Henry smiled, guessing that Hal had shared it liberally with them. None had ever faulted his son’s generosity. It was his good heart that had gotten him into trouble; he was too trusting, a troubling flaw in a king. He would have to be taught the lessons Henry had learned at an early age.

The bedchamber was lit only by the flickering flames of the dying hearth and there was no sound but the even breathing of Hal’s father and his squires. It was difficult to lie still, to wait. Too much was at stake, though, for impatience, and Hal did not fling back the bedcovers until he was sure that the other occupants of the chamber were asleep. He was fully dressed, save for his boots, and he hastily pulled them on, fastened his belt, and slid his sword into its leather scabbard, as silently as a ghost. He held his breath as he raised the door latch, stifling a triumphant laugh when none of them stirred as he slipped out into the stairwell.

His father preferred to sleep in the keep rather than in the royal apartments he’d built along the south wall. Emerging into the bailey, Hal stood motionless for a moment, his eyes searching the darkness, but he could detect no lights, no signs of life. A few men might still be awake in the great hall, though, and he quickened his pace until he’d gotten past it. Ahead of him lay the gatehouse, flanked on each side by stone towers. There he found the guards, sharing a flask and throwing dice.

They sprang to their feet in alarm as he entered, for gambling during sentry duty could bring the wrath of the castellan down upon them. But their dismay lessened once they recognized Hal, as he was not known to be a disciplinarian.

“How may we serve you, my lord?”

Hal had a good memory for faces, and he’d been at Chinon often enough in the past to become acquainted with the garrison. He called them by their given names now, a familiarity that he knew they’d find flattering. “Giles, Daniel, and Mauger, is it not? I could not sleep.” He pointed at his jaw, knowing that even if they’d not been in the great hall during dinner, they’d have heard by now of his afternoon encounter with the barber and apothecary. “It seems that not even poppy and bryony root are strong enough to vanquish a toothache. I was wandering about the bailey like a lost soul, and then I saw the light from the gatehouse window.”

Giles was their spokesman and he said expansively, “We would be honored to keep you company, my liege. Alas, we lack those comforts that a king has every right to expect.” With a wave of his hand, he took in the barren, dimly lit guard chamber. “We’ve not even a stool to offer you, and the only wine we have tastes like verjuice.”

“If you can take my mind off this wretched toothache, Giles, that will matter more to me than all the luxuries of Constantinople. As for the wine…” With a grin, Hal reached under his mantle and produced a wineskin. “Now,” he said, glancing down at the dice, “what game are we playing? Hazard or raffle?”

The hour that followed was one the guards would never forget. They could scarcely believe that they were gambling with the young king, sharing his wineskin and bantering with him as if he were one of their own. Hal lost more than he won and joked that he had worse luck than a cuckolded husband. He asked them about their families and their bedmates, for they were too young to afford wives, and told them stories of hunts and tournaments, giving them glimpses of a world that was as fascinating to them as it was foreign. And when Mauger complained of his father’s strict ways and heavy-handed discipline, Hal offered him sympathy and the knowing smile of one who’d walked in Mauger’s shoes. They were sorry, therefore, when he stretched and got to his feet, for they were not yet ready to return to reality.

“I’ve kept you from your duties long enough,” he said, wincing as he gingerly touched his sore jaw. “You are good lads, the lot of you. Seek me out on the morrow and I’ll find a way to show my appreciation.”

They thanked him profusely, dazzled by visions of silver coin and fine wine and a king’s favor, and assured him that it had been their pleasure to be of service. Hal smiled, tossed his wineskin to Mauger, and took a step toward the door before pausing. “There is something else you could do for me,” he said, and they vowed that he need only name it.

“I’ll not be able to sleep tonight. It is not just this accursed tooth. In truth, I’ve an itch that only a woman can scratch.”

They grinned, for that was an itch they well knew, and suggested that any maid servant in the castle would be honored to swive him. “I suppose so,” he said, with becoming modesty. “But I have a particular lass in mind, one who lives down in the village, the young widow of the blacksmith.” Lowering his voice, he winked. “I am depending upon your discretion, for she’d not like to have her name bandied about the garrison. But I can assure you that no man sharing her bed will have any thoughts to spare for teeth!”

They were quiet, looking at him in consternation, and Hal hid a smile, for he read their faces and their minds as easily as a monk could read his Psalter. They wanted to please him, were eager to be part of this benign conspiracy, knowing they could dine out on this story for the rest of their lives. They’d heard the whispers of his disgrace, the rumors that he and his father were feuding. But he’d certainly seemed to be on good terms with the king during dinner. And he was famed for his generosity, not one to forget a favor.

It was Giles who found the solution. “We can lower the drawbridge for you, my lord. But you’ll have to go on foot.” Hoping he’d come up with a compromise that accommodated the young king whilst protecting themselves, he waited anxiously to see if it was acceptable to Hal.

To his great relief, Hal laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Why would I need a horse? Her house is but a stone’s throw from the bottom of the hill.” And it was as easy as that to escape from his father’s formidable castle at Chinon.

The night was cold, but the day’s clouds had been swept from the sky by a brisk west wind and the darkness was lit by stars beyond counting. Hal supposed he should be nervous, yet all he felt was excitement. It had been hard to wait calmly as the guards manned the chains and winches, first raising the iron portcullis and then lowering the drawbridge, for the noise seemed loud enough to awaken the dead. But no one came out to investigate, and Hal was soon standing on the causeway, waving jauntily at his unwitting accomplices. He hoped they’d not pay too high a price for their misplaced trust. But to his father’s credit, he did not make scapegoats of those who could not defend themselves. No, his anger would not be turned upon the hapless guards. There would be one person he’d blame, and only one.

At the bottom of the hill, he hesitated, then decided to head for the Grand-Carroi, the village crossroads. He could only hope he had not long to wait. What he would do if his wait were in vain, he refused to contemplate. The village street was deserted; even the dogs were asleep. Hal had just passed the silhouette of St Maurice’s church when figures stepped from the shadows into his path.

Hal felt no surprise as the moonlight revealed their identities: Peter Fitz Guy, Simon de Marisco, and, of course, William Marshal. These men were far more than members of his retinue; they were good friends, and he embraced them like brothers. Peter and Simon shared his jubilation, but Will was somber, his expression showing both resolve and recognition of the great risk they were taking. Hal knew the older man was conflicted, for unlike the others, he still saw Henry as his king, not his enemy. But his loyalty to his liege lord had proved stronger than his misgivings, and Hal was deeply touched by his steadfast devotion. Flinging his arm around Will’s shoulders, he hugged the knight again, and privately vowed that Will would be well rewarded for his staunch, unwavering allegiance.

“I knew you’d be here,” he exulted, “I knew it!”

Simon and Peter grinned and began to tell him of the troubles they’d had in their race to reach Chinon before the king, interrupting each other freely as they complained happily about taking lesser-known roads and getting little sleep and having to hide in the nearby woods as they kept the castle under surveillance. It was Will who cut their premature celebrating short, reminding them tersely that time was of the essence.

They knew he was right and followed him hastily back into the safety of the shadows, explaining to Hal that the others were waiting in a copse of trees on the edge of the village. “What about fresh mounts?” Hal wanted to know. “We’re going to need them, for we’ll not be able to spare our horses.”

“I sent a man ahead to Alencon,” Will said, “so they’ll be ready for us when we get there.”

That had been Hal’s main concern, for he knew how fast his father traveled under ordinary circumstances; in times of need, he’d shown an uncanny ability to put wings to his horse’s hooves. “Bless you, Will,” he exclaimed, rejoicing that a few whispered words to Marguerite could have set in motion such a perfect plan. He’d not doubted, though, that Will would understand the cryptic message she’d borne-one simple word, “Chinon.” How could he fail when he had right and God and such valiant knights on his side?

When they wanted to know how he’d gotten out of the castle, he grinned and promised to tell them all about his ruse as soon as they were safely away. He was eager to share, for not many men could claim to have outwitted his father with such ease. Will’s concern about delay was justified, though, and it would have to wait.

He liked the looks of the stallion they’d chosen for him; it was pawing the grass, eager to run. So was Hal and he swung up into the saddle with a laugh of pure pleasure. His eyes moving from face to face, he felt such a surge of affection for these men that his throat tightened and his eyes misted. “Songs will be sung and tales told of the events of this night. We’ll soon have my father’s hounds on our trail. But this is one fox that will not be caught!” He put spurs to his horse, then, the wind carrying echoes of his laughter back through the silent streets of the sleeping village.

“ My Lord! Wake up, my Lord!”

Henry opened his eyes, quickly closed them to shut out the glare of torchlight. His head was throbbing and he wanted only to spiral down into sleep again. But the voices were insistent. Filtering the light through his lashes, he saw tense faces floating above him.

“Harry!” This was his brother’s voice, and he guessed that it was Hamelin’s hand clamped upon his shoulder. Opening his eyes again, he gazed blearily at the men hovering around the bed. What was the matter with him? His head felt as if it were stuffed with cobwebs.

“My lord king, you must get up.” Willem was standing beside Hamelin. “Your son is gone. He has fled the castle.”

Henry blinked, his gaze sweeping the chamber. Nearby, his squires lay on their pallets, snoring peacefully. But Hal’s bed was empty. “What do you mean he is gone? What time is it?”

“Nigh on dawn, my liege.”

Sitting up with an effort, Henry saw that his castellan was in the chamber, too. Why was he having so much trouble making sense of this? He’d always awakened like a cat, instantly on the alert. “Fetch that basin,” he ordered and when Hamelin brought it to the bed, he splashed water onto his face. It was frigid, a thin sheen of ice coating the surface, and the shock chased away the last of his grogginess.

“What are you saying? How could Hal have gotten out of the castle?”

“These dolts lowered the drawbridge for him.” Glaring over his shoulder, the castellan gestured and three terrified young men were shoved forward. Shrinking back, they stared mutely at the king as the castellan gave Henry an angry summary of the night’s events. “So they stood there, grinning like jackanapes, and waved him on his way,” he concluded caustically. “And it took half the night ere they realized that he was not coming back, and then another hour or so until they mustered the courage to summon me.”

One of the youths stumbled forward and fell to his knees by the bed. “Forgive us, my liege,” he pleaded. “He wanted to tumble a wench, and we could see no harm in it. We did not let him take a horse.” He swallowed, looking up at Henry with silent tears streaking his face. “He played us for fools, sire…I am so sorry!”

“He played us all for fools,” Henry said, but he was still struggling with disbelief. Could Hal have truly done this? Could he have been so cunning, so false? So heartless? “I am a light sleeper,” he said. “How could he have been sure that I’d not awaken…” And then he caught his breath, comprehension coming like a blow. His eyes moved from the flagon of night wine on the table to his squires, still sleeping in the midst of turmoil, and for a fleeting moment, he saw, too, a silver wine cup filled with hippocras.

“He put it in the wine,” he whispered. They looked at him blankly, and he said it again, needing to hear the words spoken aloud, for only then could he believe them. “The sleeping draught.” Sweet Mary, Mother of God. “The sleeping draught for that convenient toothache of his.”

“My lord king…” Willem reached out, clasped his hand in a warm, firm grip. “What would you have us do?”

Henry’s head came up. “Saddle the horses.”

The castellan at once headed for the door. Hamelin was trying to awaken the squires, without any luck. Willem, glancing toward the forgotten guards, dismissed them with an abrupt gesture. They fled the chamber, not daring to look back, and Willem began to gather up clothing for the king. Henry was already on his feet. Grabbing garments from the earl, he dressed quickly and silently. Willem waited, wisely saying nothing, but Hamelin could not hold his tongue.

“How could he do this? I would never have thought him capable of such treachery.” Moving toward his brother, he came to a hesitant halt, not sure what to do next. “Harry…Harry, I am so sorry!”

Henry looked at him. “So am I,” he said at last, and then added in a voice that sent chills along Hamelin’s spine, “but not as sorry as that traitorous whelp will be.”