Devil's Brood

CHAPTER TEN

August 1173

Rouen, Normandy

Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of London, was pleased, but not surprised, to be given such a warm welcome by the king. Of all England’s clerics, he had been the most steadfast in his support of Henry and the most critical of Thomas Becket during their acrimonious clash between Church and Crown. He’d been twice excommunicated by Becket, the second time for taking part in the coronation of Henry’s son, and this ecclesiastical censure had set off Henry’s fateful rage, leading to Becket’s bloody murder upon the floor of his own cathedral. Gilbert had been absolved by Rome seven months after Becket’s death, but had been restored to his bishopric only that past May, for his hostility to the martyred archbishop was a stain upon a previously unblemished reputation. Once widely admired for his austerity, his estimable intellect, and masterly knowledge of canon law, he would now go to his grave known as the bishop who’d defied a saint, and for a proud man like Gilbert Foliot, that was not easy to accept.

It was some consolation, though, that he stood so high in the king’s favor, and he gratefully accepted a seat beside Henry upon the dais in the great hall. Sipping a cup of spiced red wine, he listened with enormous satisfaction as Henry related the flight of the French king from Verneuil. He was equally pleased to hear that Henry had sent a detachment of Norman knights and Brabancon routiers into Brittany to deal with the Breton rebels, for his desire to see the king triumph was greater than his disapproval of hired mercenaries.

Henry turned the conversation then to the bishoprics still vacant because of Hal’s appeal to Rome, and Gilbert was happy to reassure him that he could rely upon the backing of the Church. He did not doubt that His Holiness the Pope would approve the elections, pointing out that the papal legates had instructed the electors to choose men who would preserve “the peace of the realm” and reminding Henry that the only prelate to cast his lot in with the rebels was that perpetual malcontent, the Bishop of Durham.

“And the Bishop of Lisieux, may God damn his treacherous soul to Hell,” Henry said bitterly, for that was still a fresh wound.

Gilbert had never liked Arnulf of Lisieux, considering him to be a self-server and far too devious and cynical for his own good, but he was surprised, nevertheless, that Arnulf should have made such a major miscalculation, concluding that the bishop was most likely trying to keep a foot in both camps. He was even more surprised by what Henry said next, asking if it was true that he’d founded a hospital in honor of Thomas Becket, for the slain archbishop was usually a topic that Henry assiduously avoided.

“No, my liege. The hospital of Holy Trinity at Southwark was founded by Thomas himself. After his canonization, we changed the name to St Thomas the Martyr and I offered sinners a remittance of thirty days of penance if they contribute to the hospital.” Since the king had been the one to bring the subject up, Gilbert now felt free to mention a recent action of Henry’s. “I heard, my liege, that you have named Thomas’s sister Mary as Abbess of Barking.”

That was a signal honor, for abbesses of Barking were normally daughters of kings, but Henry shrugged it off, saying that he was merely righting a wrong. “I ought not to have sent Becket’s family into exile,” he admitted. “It was done in anger and was unjust to hold them to account for his transgressions.”

This was the first time that the king had confessed to making mistakes of his own in his war of wills with Becket. “It is a generous gesture, nonetheless,” Gilbert said.

Henry shrugged again. It had not escaped him that Gilbert no longer made use of the slain archbishop’s surname. Thomas had always been thin-skinned about his family’s merchant origins, preferring to call himself “Thomas of London” rather than the more pedestrian “Thomas Becket,” a sensitivity his enemies had been quick to seize upon. He’d always been “Thomas” to Henry until their falling-out; after that, he’d managed to make “Becket” sound like an epithet.

“You never liked him, did you, Gilbert?”

“No, my lord king, I did not.”

“In fact, when I chose him as archbishop, you said that I’d performed a veritable miracle, turning a worldly courtier and soldier into a man of God.”

Gilbert blinked; he’d not known that his angry sarcasm had reached Henry’s ears. “I am sorry, my lord-”

“For what? You were right.” Henry’s smile was rueful. “You can hardly be blamed for disliking him. He had a tongue like an adder, calling you ‘a hapless Judas and a rotten limb,’ calling your fellow bishops ‘priests of Bael and sons of false prophets.’”

“He was never one for forgiving his enemies,” Gilbert agreed, wondering where Henry was going with this.

“You of all men know how vengeful he could be, how prideful and stubborn. Most of those who are so certain of his sanctity never even laid eyes upon him. But you’re in a unique position to judge, Gilbert. Can you truly accept the Church’s canonization of him as a saint?”

That was a question Gilbert has often asked himself in the months after Becket’s murder. “Yes, my liege,” he said quietly. “I can.”

“Why?” Henry asked, but he sounded more curious than skeptical.

“It is true that Thomas’s life was not a holy one. But none can deny he died a martyr’s death.”

“And is that enough to confer sainthood upon him?”

“His martyrdom…and the miracles that have been reported at his tomb and elsewhere in the months since his murder.”

“Miracles can be faked, as you well know, for reasons of politics and profit. How can you be sure they are genuine?”

“I daresay some of them are not. But there have been too many to discount, my liege. You may be sure I investigated these reports with great care, for if truth be told, I did not want to believe in them. Even when Thomas cured my fever, I continued to doubt.”

Henry had heard of Gilbert’s own miracle. Eight months after Becket’s murder, he’d fallen gravely ill, lay near death until his friend and fellow bishop, Jocelin of Salisbury, prayed to Thomas for his recovery. “So what convinced you, then?”

“The manner of his death could not be dismissed out of hand. Nor could the discovery that he’d worn a hairshirt and braies under his garments, infested with vermin and lice that had burrowed into his groin, or the revelation of his confessor that he’d mortified his flesh with daily penitential whippings. I was told that his back was scarred with the marks of past scourging. Can there have been more painful proof of sanctity?”

Henry could not argue with that. “I admit I thought he was a hypocrite until I learned that he’d worn those filthy, lice-ridden braies next to his private parts. After that I did not doubt his sincerity, however misguided it was.”

Gilbert nodded his agreement. “And then there are the miracles. They began almost as soon as he drew his last breath. The wife of a Sussex knight was cured of her blindness after praying to Thomas. Eight days after the martyrdom, Father William de Capella, a London priest who’d been stricken with palsy was cured after drinking water mixed with the saint’s holy blood. I spoke with Father William myself, could find no other explanation for the recovery of his speech. A local woman’s palsy was healed after her husband applied rags dipped in the martyr’s blood to her afflicted legs. People are said to have been cured of lameness, deafness, withered limbs, and deadly fevers.”

Gilbert leaned forward, so caught up in the intensity of his recital that he did not notice as wine splashed from his cup. “Even the brother of one of the men implicated in the murder was cured after drinking the ‘waters of St Thomas’!”

“Water mixed with his blood? Remarkable that he bled enough to keep filling those little tin phials that the monks pass out to those who make offerings,” Henry said dryly. “That is almost a miracle in itself.”

“Surely you do not doubt the existence of miracles, my lord king?”

“Of course not. But it cheapens them to be accepted too readily. Is it true that Thomas punishes those who fail to keep promises they make to him?” And when Gilbert confirmed it, Henry said with a crooked smile, “Now that sounds more like the Becket I remember.”

Gilbert was not deceived by the flippancy; it was obvious that Henry had been paying closer attention to the martyr’s miracles than he was willing to admit. Before he could respond, though, there was a stir at the other end of the hall. Henry’s steward was pushing his way toward the dais. “My liege, a messenger has just arrived from Brittany.”

“Have him come forward,” Henry commanded, and a disheveled youth, muddied and bedraggled, soon approached the dais. Kneeling, he looked up at Henry with a gleeful grin that conveyed his message better than any words could have done. “I bring you glad tidings, Your Grace. My lord, William du Hommet, bade me ride to Rouen as if my horse’s tail were on fire, and by God, I did. We engaged the Breton rebels yesterday morn in open country near the town and castle of Dol, which they’d taken by bribery. It was a total triumph, my lord. We captured seventeen of their knights and killed most of their men-at-arms. Some got away, but Lord Raoul de Fougeres and the Earl of Chester and sixty or so knights retreated back into Dol Castle. Lord du Hommet said to tell you that they are penned up like lambs for the slaughter, but he lacks the siege engines to take the castle and urges you to come straightaway.”

By now the man was surrounded by Henry’s lords and knights, and as soon as he was done speaking, he was barraged with congratulations and praise for his amazingly swift ride. Even allowing for Henry’s posting of fresh horses at his castles and abbeys for the use of royal couriers, his was a remarkable achievement; Dol was more than one hundred fifty miles from Rouen.

Henry was delighted. Ordering wine for the messenger and promising a generous reward, he broke the seal on William du Hommet’s letter and began to read rapidly. Geoff had entered the hall after the courier’s arrival and he was shoving his way through the crowd, eager to learn what had happened. Catching sight of the Earl of Essex and the elderly Earl of Arundel, he veered in their direction, and when they told him that the Earl of Chester and the Breton rebels were trapped in Dol, he gave a jubilant shout that was more often heard on the hunting field.

“This accursed rebellion is in its death throes,” he predicted joyfully. “First the Count of Boulogne is struck down, then the French flee from Verneuil like thieves in the night, and now Hugh of Chester is caught in a snare of his own making!”

The men smiled at the enthusiasm of youth. “Well, not yet,” Willem said. “But I’d wager he’ll be shut up in a royal castle by week’s end.”

“You mean by next week, do you not? We will not even reach Dol till then, and if the siege lasts-” Geoff paused in surprise, for the two men were laughing at him.

“Clearly you have never ridden with your lord father when he is in a hurry to get somewhere,” Willem said with a grin, and when Geoff conceded he had not, they laughed again.

“Ah, you are in for a treat.” Arundel was grinning, too. “Fortunately for these old bones, I’ll be left behind, for the king knows that I could never keep up with him. As you’ll soon see, lad, it is the closest that men can get to flying. I remember when-” He broke off then, for Henry was shouting for silence.

“Why are we wasting time?” he demanded, and Willem jabbed Geoff playfully in the ribs before asking innocently when the king wanted to depart. Henry looked at him as if he’d lost his wits. “When do you think, man? Now!”

The young Earl of Chester was baffled and heart-sore that his luck could have soured so fast. At first all had gone according to plan. Joining Raoul de Fougeres, they’d launched a highly successful chevauchee, burning and pillaging the lands of those Bretons who’d remained loyal to Henry. Hugh had enjoyed himself enormously, finding that his first taste of war was even more fun than a tournament. But it had not lasted. Warned that the king’s routiers were on the prowl, they’d decided upon a direct challenge, and both sides met on the battlefield on August 20. The experience taught Hugh why prudent commanders avoided pitched battles when at all possible, for it turned into a debacle. Their lines broke, and because men were never so vulnerable as when in flight, the slaughter that followed was terrible. Retreating in confusion, Hugh and the Breton lords found their only escape route blocked by the routiers and they had no choice but to withdraw back into Dol.

The three days that followed were utterly wretched. They’d watched helplessly from the battlements as the townsmen surrendered their city to Henry’s commander, Lord du Hommet, and to add insult to injury, they then had to watch as other Bretons joined in the siege, for they’d alienated much of the countryside with their raiding and plundering. Hugh became so disheartened that Raoul de Fougeres had turned upon him in anger, berating him for his lack of fortitude. The siege would soon be lifted, he’d insisted. Those lowborn routiers were little better than bandits. They knew nothing of true warfare, lacked even the most rudimentary siege engines. It would not be long until they’d lose interest and move on, seeking easier prey. Hugh very much wanted to believe him, but he was not encouraged when Raoul then put the knights and garrison on half-rations. If the siege was not going to drag on, why did they need to worry about running out of supplies? Wishing that Hal were there to bolster his sagging spirits, Hugh tried to ignore his growing chorus of regrets by getting thoroughly drunk.

He awoke the next morning feeling feverish, queasy, and utterly out of sorts. As he stirred and groaned, the bedcovers beside him rippled and a girl’s head popped out. Hugh looked at her blankly, having no idea who she was. He swallowed with a grimace, becoming aware that his mouth tasted like vinegar. The girl was gazing at him curiously. “Do you want me to answer that, my lord?” she asked, and only then did he realize that the thudding noise in his head was actually a pounding on the door. When he nodded, she slid from the bed, hastily pulling a chemise over her head. He recognized her now as one of the castle kitchen maids, although he did not remember her name. Concluding that he was still half drunk, he lay back against the pillow.

“Hugh, wake up!”

Grudgingly opening his eyes to slits, he saw Raoul de Fougeres’s son Juhel standing by the bed. “Go away,” he mumbled, and felt a dulled throb of indignation when Juhel would not. “Damn you to hell, leave me be…” And then he gasped and shot bolt upright in bed, for Juhel had poured a basin of washing water over his head. Sputtering and cursing, he lurched from the bed, seeking to bury his fist in Juhel’s belly. He never even came close; the other man sidestepped easily.

“Stop it, you fool! Are you going to face Judgment Day as a drunken sot?”

“What are you babbling about?”

“I am trying to tell you that the English king is in the city, making ready to assault the castle!”

Hugh decided that Juhel must be mad. “I think you’re the one who’s drunk. We fought on Monday and this is only Thursday. There is no way in the world that he could get here that fast.”

“No? Suppose you tell him that.” Juhel grabbed Hugh’s arm and, before he could protest, propelled him across the chamber toward the window. Fumbling with the shutters, he flung them open and pointed. “See for yourself!”

Hugh squinted against the sudden blaze of painful light, his eyes focusing blearily upon the banner flying from the enemy encampment, a gold lion emblazoned across a background of crimson. “Holy Mother of God!”

Raoul de Fougeres awaited Hugh in the great hall. Taking in the younger man’s pallor, he said coldly, “I hope you can sober up by noon. You’ll make a better impression if your eyes are not so bloodshot and your hands are not shaking as if you have the ague.”

Hugh was secretly intimidated by the Breton lord, who’d never shown him the deference he was accustomed to receive from his English vassals. Making an attempt at dignity, he said, “I assure you, my lord, that I am quite sober. What happens at noon?”

“We are surrendering the castle to your cousin, the king.”

Hugh’s mouth dropped open. “We cannot do that! If I fall into his hands, I am doomed, for he’ll never forgive me!”

Oliver de Roche, Raoul’s seneschal, gave a harsh laugh, and raised his cup in a mock salute; clearly Hugh was not the only one who’d been sampling the wine kegs. “If he puts rebels to death, there’d not be a lord alive in all of Brittany,” he said in a slurred voice. “For us, rebellion is a sport. What man in this hall has not risen up against the English king more than once?”

Hugh glared at de Roche, who was not as formidable a figure as Lord Raoul. “It is different for me,” he snapped. “He forgives vassals because he thinks it is wise to do so, keeping men from fearing they have nothing to lose and fighting to the death. But I am his cousin, his blood-kin. He’ll not forgive me. ”

“He will forgive you,” Raoul asserted, “as long as we surrender. But if he takes the castle by force, he can do with us as he pleases. King Stephen once hanged the entire garrison of Shrewsbury Castle.”

“Harry has never done anything like that!”

“Has he ever faced a rebellion by his own sons? How do you know what he’ll do if we give him the excuse to seek vengeance? You do not know, my lord earl, and that is my point. It is not a risk we are willing to take.”

Hugh shook his head stubbornly, for at that moment, he feared nothing so much as the thought of facing his cousin at noon. “You talk as if the castle’s fall is inevitable. I say we hold out, that we fight instead of shamefully surrendering!”

There was a low, angry murmuring, and as he looked around, Hugh saw that the others agreed with Raoul; even his own knights seemed ready to surrender. Raoul was regarding him with unfriendly eyes, and suddenly Hugh was acutely aware of the great gap between them. The Bretons were like the Welsh; they did not truly trust those not of their own blood.

Raoul was not known for his patience, but he tried now to remind himself that this English earl’s rank deserved respect, even if the man did not. God save him from these callow youths who knew as much about war as a nun did about whoring. “As Oliver said, we Bretons are well seasoned in rebellion. We know when to fight and we know when to cut our losses, which is why we have survived so long. Henry Fitz Empress is the most dangerous foe I’ve ever faced. He never adheres to the conventions of warfare. Instead of laying waste to his enemies’ lands, he strikes fast and hard at their castles.

“Need I remind you of the strongholds he’s taken over the years? Chinon from his rebel brother, Chaumont-sur-Epte from the French king, and Chaumont-sur-Loire from the Count of Blois. Thourars was said to be impregnable; he took it in three days. Castillon-sur-Agen fell in less than a week. The tally is even more impressive here in Brittany. He razed my great castle at Fougeres to the ground, captured Josselin and Auray from Eudo de Porhoet, seized Becherel Castle from Roland de Dinan, and just two years ago, he descended upon the Viscount of Leon like a thunderbolt, reduced all of his castles to rubble… all of them. So when you tell me we ought to hold out at Dol, I do not find that a convincing argument.”

Hugh was suddenly overcome with fatigue; feeling as if his legs would no longer support him, he sank down onto the closest bench. “There has to be another way beside surrender.”

Raoul de Fougeres regarded him unblinkingly. “You have until noon to think of one.”

The townspeople had gathered to watch the surrender and there was almost a festive atmosphere, for they were thankful they’d been spared the horrors of a siege, thankful the war was over for Brittany. Most of them cared little for who ruled over them as long as they were left to live in peace, and they were milling about in front of the castle, laughing and gossiping, buying fruit-filled wafers from street vendors, ducking into nearby taverns to quench their thirst, and staring with unabashed curiosity at the English king and his lords.

Henry stood with the Earls of Essex and Pembroke, Richard du Hommet, the constable of Normandy, and his cousin William, the hero of Dol. They were watching with grim satisfaction as the castle drawbridge was lowered and forlorn figures trudged out, bearing a white flag of truce. The Earl of Chester was in the lead, followed by Raoul de Fougeres, his son Juhel and his brother, Guillaume. The Bretons were stoical, but Henry was gratified to see that his cousin was as white as a corpse candle.

Approaching Henry, Hugh sank to his knees in the dusty street, and the others did the same. “We surrender ourselves and the castle of Dol into your hands, my lord king,” he said hoarsely. “We know we have grievously offended you, violated our oaths of fealty and homage, and we are truly repentant and remorseful. We humbly beg your pardon and…and pray that you will show mercy even if we do not deserve it.”

Henry looked at them without speaking, and when Hugh could stand the suspense no longer, he blurted out a plaintive “Cousin” that he at once regretted, for Henry turned upon him the full force of those glittering grey eyes. “You would do better at this moment,” he said, “not to remind me of our kinship.” And when he added “Cousin,” he invested that simple word with so much raw emotion-reproach and rage-that despite the hot August sun, Hugh began to shiver.

Leaving the French King’s palace on the isle known as the Ile de la Cite, Will Marshal threaded his way through the maze of crooked streets until he reached the Grand Pont. It was the finest bridge he’d ever seen, nigh on twenty feet wide, and made of stone at a time when even London’s bridge was wooden. Booths and stalls lined both sides of the bridge, most of them occupied by moneychangers. Since Will’s pouch was already filled with deniers parisis, he shouldered his way past the foreigners and travelers crowding around the booths to change their money, and was soon sauntering along the right bank of the Seine, heading for the Greve, site of the weekly Paris market.

There he had no trouble finding what he sought: a small glass mirror with a lead backing. It was a great improvement over the more common mirrors of metal, and he was sure Barbe would be pleased with the gift. Stopping to buy a loaf of bread and a pork pie from a vendor, he ducked into the nearest tavern to eat it, washing it down with a henap of raisin wine, for he still had the robust appetite that had earned him the nickname of Scoff-food during his days as a squire. Once his hunger was satisfied, he fed the leftover bread to a skinny stray dog and started back toward the Grand Pont, good-naturedly rejecting the overtures of several street whores, attracted by his confident demeanor, his height, and the sword on his hip, a good indication that he could afford their services.

Returning to the Ile de la Cite, he did not head for the palace, instead turned onto the Rue de la Draperie, the street of the Parisian drapers. Barbe’s shop was doing brisk business, with customers admiring a new shipment of silks from Sicily, but when Will entered, she turned the trade over to her assistant, and he accompanied her above-stairs to her private chamber, where she expressed delight over her new mirror and wasted no time in showing her gratitude in bed.

Will had never been keen on relieving his male needs with whores, and knew better than to seduce virgin maidens. He preferred lusty young widows like Barbe, and because he was personable, generous, and blessed with a fine physique, he’d rarely had trouble finding worldly, accommodating bedmates. Barbe was one of the best he’d had, and he knew he’d miss her once his stay in Paris was done.

Their bedsport had left them both drenched in sweat, and she soon rose, padded barefoot to the window and opened the shutters, wrinkling her nose at the rank smell of the river. Coming back to the bed, she noticed for the first time the ripe bruise spreading across his ribs, and was at once solicitous, insisting upon rummaging around in a coffer until she found a goose-grease salve. “What did you do, dearest…get caught up in a tavern brawl?”

Will grinned, shifting so she could better apply the salve. “Worse…I agreed to some sword-play with my lord’s brother Richard. He wanted to practice parrying an enemy’s blow, but his enthusiasm left my old bones battered and bruised.”

Barbe put the salve down in the floor rushes and climbed back into bed beside him. She loved it when he talked about court life, for that was a world beyond her ken, exotic and alien. “I thought you told me that your lord’s knights did not mingle with Duke Richard’s men?”

“As a rule, they do not, sharing their lords’ rivalry. But my position is somewhat different, for I once served in the queen’s household and spent many hours teaching Richard how to wield a sword and aim a lance. We remained on friendly terms even after the old king asked me to instruct Lord Hal.”

“They are both fine-looking lads,” Barbe said, “but even I can see how unlike they are. Lord Hal always stops to wave and acknowledge the cheers when he rides through the streets, and Lord Richard does not even seem to hear them. I was talking with some of the neighborhood women last week and we agreed we’d rather have Lord Hal as a lover, for he never passes a beggar without flipping him a coin. A man so open-handed would likely keep his leman draped in silks and pearls! But which do you think would make the better king, Will?”

Will had indeed pondered that question. He loved Hal, respected Richard. A pity Hal did not have Richard’s iron will, or Richard Hal’s generosity of spirit. His stay in Paris had given him a chance to study the third brother, too, and he’d decided that Geoffrey might be the cleverest of the three. He’d always admired the old king’s ability to remain dispassionate in the face of adversity. Only with St Thomas had his sangfroid failed him, with disastrous consequences. He doubted that either Hal or Richard had inherited any of their sire’s uncanny self-possession; their emotions ran close to the surface, quick to spill over. If one of the king’s sons had his coolly calculating brain, it was likely to be Geoffrey. Of course he was just shy of fifteen, so only time would tell.

Will knew Barbe would have been fascinated by his musings about King Henry’s sons, but discretion was both a habit and a natural inclination. A man would not prosper at the royal court if he’d not learned to govern his tongue. So not even with his bedmate would he drop his guard, and he began to speak instead of a subject that he knew she’d find of interest: a recent feast given for the king by the Bishop of Paris in honor of their victory at Verneuil.

Even as he delighted Barbe by describing the rich menu and fine gowns of the French queen, Adele, and the English queen, Marguerite, Will marveled that Louis could celebrate such a shameful episode. They’d done their best to put a favorable cast upon it, bragging how they’d outwitted the English king and left Verneuil in ruins. But word had trickled out, and Will was soon hearing the rumors discussed in Paris taverns. The citizens of Paris showed a surprising sympathy for their counterparts at Verneuil, but Will realized that they were putting themselves in the places of the Norman burghers, imagining their own shops looted and their houses burned.

Will had not often considered the suffering of citizens in war, having been taught that civilian casualties were both unfortunate and unavoidable. That was the way wars were waged, with chevauchees that served a twofold purpose by devastating an enemy’s countryside: denying his army much-needed provisions and demonstrating to his people that he was failing a lord’s first duty, unable to protect his subjects from harm. What had appalled Will about Verneuil was the deliberate violation of Louis’s sworn oath, both to Henry and the townspeople, and his refusal to honor his own truce. Will firmly believed that the world would descend into chaos and hellish turmoil if men did not obey those laws meant to govern their behavior and tame their more shameful impulses, laws set forth by the Holy Church, by the Crown, and now by the chivalric canons. Chivalry was the foundation stone of his life, offering more than a code of conduct, offering a map which would enable men of good faith to avoid those sinful temptations that might jeopardize their chances of salvation.

Will was thankful that Hal shared this conviction, for it would have been very hard to follow a lord who did not. He just wished Hal had been strong enough to defy the French king and his evil advisors, strong enough to have prevailed. But Hal was young. He had time to develop that steel in his soul, Will assured himself. So far he had resolutely refused to listen to the seditious inner voice whispering that age was no excuse, that had King Henry been faced with a Verneuil at eighteen, he would never have allowed it to happen.

With duskfall, the day’s heat slowly began to ebb. They could hear the sounds downstairs as Barbe’s assistant ushered out the last customers and closed up the shop. The noise from the street continued to waft through the open window, though, for people would not retire to their homes until curfew rang. Will and Barbe made love again, and then she fetched some cold chicken, cheese, and fruit for a bedside supper. They were just finishing their apples when a muffled thumping sounded below.

Will cocked his head. “Is someone knocking at the door?”

Barbe paused to listen, too. “Whoever it is will go away.”

But the pounding continued. And then a voice shouted loudly, “Will Marshal! If you’re up there, come to the window!”

“Ignore him,” Barbe urged.

But Will recognized the voice. Swinging his legs over the bed, he crossed to the window and peered down into the street, where Simon de Morisco was standing, hands on hips, getting ready to shout again. At the sight of Will, he heaved a sigh of relief.

“Thank God! I was sent to find you straightaway and did not know where else to look. Hurry and dress, Will. You have been summoned back to the palace.”

Entering the Palace’s Great Hall, Will was surprised to see Hal and Richard seated together, for they did not often seek out each other’s company. Clearly the news from Brittany must be grave, indeed. All Simon could tell him was that a messenger had arrived with word of a calamity, but no more than that. Hal and Richard were sitting with Raoul de Faye, Marguerite, the Count of Leicester, Robert Beaumont, and his wife, Peronelle. As Will approached, Richard and Hal slid over on the bench to make room for him beside them. He took his seat, ignoring the disgruntled looks he was getting from several of Hal’s knights; he well knew that some were jealous of his privileged status and since he could do nothing about it, he did his best not to let it bother him.

“Simon said there was a setback in Brittany?”

Hal nodded, and Richard gave a short laugh that sounded uncannily like Henry’s. “To call it a ‘setback’ is like calling the Expulsion from Eden a minor misunderstanding. It was a disaster, Will. Last Thursday Hugh and Raoul de Fougeres and all their knights surrendered Dol Castle to my father. The rebellion in Brittany is over.”

“Sweet Jesu,” Will breathed, for this was far worse than he’d expected. “I did not even know King Henry was in Brittany, thought he’d returned to Rouen after…after Verneuil.”

“He did,” Hal said glumly, “but as soon as he learned Hugh and the Bretons were trapped in Dol, he hastened west, and once he arrived on the scene, they panicked and ran up a white flag.”

“A disgrace,” the Earl of Leicester muttered, shaking his head in disgust, and Hal, Richard, and Will exchanged glances, all of them sharing the same thought: that Leicester had abandoned his castle at Breteuil and ran for his life as soon as he’d gotten word of Henry’s approach. None of them voiced that thought, though. It would never occur to Will to do so, and the brothers were learning some hard lessons in diplomacy; Leicester was a valued ally, even if they both thought he was a horse’s arse.

Will diplomatically ended the silence that had followed Leicester’s accusation, asking, “What happened to them after they surrendered?”

It was Raoul de Faye who answered him. “Actually, they were treated rather leniently under the circumstances. Harry let most of them go once they’d sworn homage to him again and promised not to take part in further rebellions. He even freed Raoul de Fougeres after he’d offered up his sons as hostages for his good behavior, and did not declare any of their estates forfeit to the Crown…at least not yet.”

Raoul did not sound particularly happy about the Bretons’ good fortune, and Will understood why. Word of Henry’s forbearance would quickly spread, reassuring other rebels that they could submit to the Crown without fearing they’d lose their lands or their lives. It was a shrewd tactic for a man fighting a civil war. “What of the Earl of Chester?”

“He was not as lucky.” Hal frowned, for he was fond of Hugh. “My father sent him under guard to Falaise Castle, where he’ll be held prisoner…”

His words trailed off, but Will knew the phrase he was reluctant to say. “At the king’s pleasure.” Hugh of Chester could be freed if Henry won the rebellion. He could also be held for the rest of his earthly days. And for one as high-strung as Hugh, the uncertainty would gnaw at his nerves his every waking hour. Glancing at Henry’s sons, Will wondered if they feared their father might treat them as harshly as he had Hugh. He certainly did, feared for Queen Eleanor, too, since Hugh’s imprisonment showed that Henry could not forgive family betrayal as easily as he could the disloyalty of vassals and liegemen.

“Poor Hugh,” Hal said softly, “and poor Bertrada and Cousin Maud. I cannot give them such sad news. You do it for me, Uncle Raoul. But when you write, offer them hope for his early release. Women are not meant to bear such heavy burdens.”

Will did not understand how Queen Eleanor’s son could make such a nonsensical statement and, judging from the expressions on the faces of Raoul de Faye and Richard, neither did they. But as Will glanced over at Marguerite, whose hand was tightly clasped in Hal’s, he decided that Hal was being protective of his young wife; Marguerite was just fifteen, after all.

“Louis was badly shaken by the news,” Hal said, looking somberly at Will. “And who can blame him? In just a month, our great alliance has fallen apart. The Scots king has fled back across the border. The Count of Flanders has gone home, too. Our invasion of Normandy came to naught, and now the Breton rebellion has been quelled, and so easily. Little wonder Louis told me that he has begun to fear the Almighty is no longer on our side.”

That was such a tactless admission that Will winced. It was bad enough that the French king was having such dangerous doubts without Hal letting others know of his misgivings. Another strained silence fell, this one broken by Richard. “The Almighty,” he said, “is usually on the side of the best battle commander.” Hal scowled at his brother, for that sounded almost sacrilegious to him. But before he could respond, the Countess of Leicester spoke up. She’d been listening with obvious impatience, and now took advantage of the break in the conversation to voice her opinion.

“The French king ought not to mourn the loss of the Bretons. They always make unreliable allies, skulk back to their own lands as soon as things start to go wrong, and so do the Scots. England is the key to victory. If we’d invaded it as my husband advised, we could have taken London by now.”

Will was offended by her meddling in these military matters. It was one thing for a woman to express her opinions to her husband in the privacy of their bedchamber, quite another for her to speak out so boldly in public. He had no trouble reconciling his traditional views of the female sex with his admiration for the highly untraditional Queen Eleanor, for in Will’s eyes, she was unique, not to be judged by the same standards that applied to lesser women. Glancing around the table, he saw that Peronelle’s views had not gone down well with the others, either. Richard, Raoul, Hal, and Marguerite were all regarding her with disapproval. Her husband was smiling at her, though, confirming Will’s suspicions that Peronelle was the master in that marriage. He knew she was a great heiress, but he did not like her any the better for it; if arrogance was a male failing, it was even more unseemly and unappealing in a woman.

“We must hope that the Count of Flanders reconsiders his rash decision to abandon our alliance,” Hal was saying when the door was flung open and the French king entered the hall.

They all jumped to their feet at his approach, but he waved them back into their seats. He looked surprisingly calm and peaceful for a man who’d gotten dire news such a short time ago. “I know what must be done,” he told them, with a certainty he rarely showed. “I have prayed for answers, and the Almighty has shown me the way.”

Henry had called a council meeting on such short notice that he’d begun to think it would be dawn until they all straggled in. But they were finally seated around a trestle table, looking at him expectantly, some smothering yawns, for not all men kept Henry’s late hours and several had been roused from their beds by his summons. Henry waited until they’d been served a good quality Gascon wine, and then broke his news.

“I have received a remarkable communication from the French king. It seems that he now sees himself as a peacemaker and has generously offered to reconcile me with my sons.”

As he’d expected, their response was explosive and incredulous. He let them vent, but when Willem called Louis the greatest hypocrite in Christendom, Henry demurred. “No, I think not. Louis has a rare gift; he is able to entertain any number of contrary thoughts at one time. Moreover, he has the dubious talent of believing whatever he wants to be true at any given moment, and should I be churlish enough to remind him that he was the cause of this estrangement he is now eager to heal, he’d be deeply wounded by my ingratitude.”

They did not dispute his sardonic assessment of the French king, for most of them had experiences with Louis stretching back more than two decades. “What will your answer be, my liege?” the Archbishop of Rouen asked, although he was confident he already knew what Henry would answer.

“I shall accept his invitation, agree to attend his peace conference.”

Some of the men seemed surprised, but most of them weren’t. Regarding the king pensively over the rim of his wine cup, Willem said, “What are your terms for peace?”

“I mean,” Henry said, “to put an end to this needless war as soon as possible. I would not offer Louis so much as a stale crust of bread. But with my sons, I am prepared to be more generous.”

“How generous, my liege?” the Earl of Arundel asked cautiously, and when Henry told them, they stared at him in astonishment, shocked that he could be so magnanimous after such a grievous betrayal by those of his own blood.

“Are you sure, my lord?” Willem thought he knew Henry as well as any man did, but he’d not been expecting this. “Sure that you can forgive them?”

Henry was amazed that the question could be asked. “Of course I can forgive them, Willem. They are my sons.”

After that, it was quiet in the council chamber, for none doubted he’d spoken from the heart, and none dared to ask if he could also forgive his queen.