Devil's Brood

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

December 1182

Caen, Normandy

An icy rain had been assailing the riverside city of Caen since midday, but the king’s solar that evening was a cheerful scene, shutters barred against the storm, a hungry fire in the hearth. Henry’s Christmas Court had drawn princes of the Church, barons and their ladies, and more than a thousand knights. The gathering in the solar was an informal one, though, for Henry was determined to spend some time with his family in as much privacy as a king could reasonably expect.

Richard was due to arrive any day, but the others were all present: Tilda and her husband, Geoffrey and Constance, Hal and Marguerite. If any thoughts were spared for Eleanor, the ghost at the feast, they were not expressed aloud and Henry was in a mellow mood, delighted to have his daughter back, relieved to have lured Hal away from the Paris court and his too-helpful young brother-in-law. It was one more worry for Henry that the seventeen-year-old French king had begun to show greater steadiness of purpose and will than Hal, who was fully ten years Philippe’s elder.

Tilda was comfortably ensconced on the settle, with her father on one side and her husband on the other. Hal and Marguerite were together in a window-seat and Constance was seated in a high-backed chair, with Geoffrey lounging on cushions at her feet. Henry’s grandchildren had just been ushered out of the solar, reluctantly sent off to their beds, and the echoes of their carefree laughter seemed to linger pleasantly in the air. Marveling at the resilience of the very young, who were able to take even exile in stride, Henry found himself hoping that their stay at his court would be an extended one. It had been a long time since he’d been able to enjoy the simple pleasures of parenthood.

“Have you talked to Richenza about a name change?” he asked his daughter and Tilda gave him a shy, sideways smile.

“Yes, Papa, we have. We explained that Richenza is a foreign-sounding name to Norman or English ears and highborn brides often take names more familiar to their husbands’ subjects, like my sister Leonora. Richenza seemed comfortable enough with the idea, but wanted to choose her own name. Fortunately, she does not have Joanna’s fertile imagination, and she decided she’d like to be called Matilda, after me.”

Henry was pleased that his mother’s name was being kept alive in a new generation; Matilda was the Latin form of Maude. Hal and Marguerite expressed their approval of Richenza’s new name, but Constance mused aloud whether Richenza’s brother Otto would change his foreign-sounding name, too, and Henry gave his daughter-in-law a tight smile, sure that she was amusing herself at his expense. He was very fond of Marguerite and he’d done his best to like Constance, too, but she did not make it easy, putting him in mind of Eleanor on her worst behavior. She was adept at delivering pinprick wounds with a smile, planting her barbs with a specious air of innocence. He was not going to let his son’s caustic wife ruin the Christmas revelries, though. He could only hope that Geoffrey thought Brittany was worth her peevish tempers.

He’d begun to question Tilda and Heinrich about the son they’d had to leave in Brunswick when a servant entered with welcome word: his son Richard had just ridden into the castle bailey. Richard made his appearance soon afterward, for he’d not bothered to change from his travel clothes and his boots were still caked with mud. He greeted his father and Heinrich with rather formal courtesy, kissed his sister on the cheek, and gave courtly kisses to his sisters-in-law. But he acknowledged his brothers with a flat, toneless “Hal” and “Geoffrey,” greetings they returned with equal terseness, the tension so palpable that even Henry, blind believer in family unity, could not help noticing.

He had no time to fret about it, though, for Richard at once revealed what was on his mind. “I do not understand,” he said, “why my mother was excluded from the Christmas festivities.”

Henry stiffened. These arguments about Eleanor had been occurring with more and more frequency, but this was the first time that Richard had thrown down the gauntlet before others. His son did not even wait for his response, saying curtly, “You know how much she wants to see Tilda and her grandchildren. How can you justify keeping her away?”

Henry was sorely tempted to remind his troublesome son that he did not have to justify himself to anyone, one of the prerogatives of kingship. But because he wanted to extinguish this quarrel as quickly as possible, he said only, “It is neither the time nor the place for this discussion, Richard.”

Richard would not be distracted, though, knowing his father was a past master at such evasive tactics. Instead, he sought allies and turned toward his sister. “Tilda has not seen our mother in fifteen years. You think she was not disappointed by this arbitrary decision of yours?”

Tilda’s husband closed his hand over hers, giving a warning squeeze. She understood his concern; her father had been extremely generous to them, providing a lavish allowance while continuing his efforts to shorten the length of their exile. But Richard was right; she wanted to see her mother very much, and her father’s vague promises had done little to fill that void.

“I admit I am eager for Maman to meet your grandchildren, Papa,” she ventured, in a vain attempt to satisfy her husband, her father, and her own conscience.

“And it shall happen, Tilda,” Henry said, in a much softer tone of voice than he’d used with Richard. “I promised you that we will arrange for your return to England this spring, at which time you may visit with your mother to your heart’s content.” Still smarting over Richard’s “arbitrary” accusation, he regarded his son coolly. “You seem to have forgotten how perilous Channel crossings can be. Even in good weather, it is dangerous. It’s less than seven years since your brother Hal’s chamberlain and three hundred souls drowned when their ship went down off the French coast. Did you truly want your mother to risk a crossing in December, of all months?”

Richard started to speak, stopped himself, and Henry felt a satisfying moment of triumph, for even this stubborn son of his could not refute the truth. December crossings were dangerous, and they all knew it. But it was then that Constance chose to dip her oar into troubled waters, saying in the painstakingly polite tones of one earnestly seeking information, “But ought that not to have been a decision for the queen to make? She may have considered the risk worth taking.”

Henry drew upon a lifetime of self-control to say calmly to his daughter-in-law, “Forgive me for speaking bluntly, my dear, but this is not truly your concern, is it?”

Constance always knew when a strategic retreat was called for, and she withdrew from the field. But Henry’s rebuke now drew Geoffrey into the fray. “Surely you’d agree that it is my concern, Papa. I am no happier about Maman’s absence than Richard. And my wife is right-you should have offered her the choice.”

“Whether that be true or not, the fact remains that it is done and cannot be undone. I do not see any point, therefore, in continuing this discussion.”

“I expected you to say that.” Richard strode forward, stopping in front of his father. “And you’re right. It is too late to redeem my mother’s Christmas. But the time is past due to discuss her continuing confinement. She is about to begin her tenth year as your prisoner, and for what reason?”

Henry got to his feet, not liking the way Richard loomed over him when he was seated. “Enough, Richard. Let it be.”

“You’ve forgiven all the others who took part in the rebellion. You welcomed that French fool Louis to Canterbury, whilst knowing that he bore as much blame as anyone for the revolt. You pardoned the rebel lords, even that dolt Leicester, a man who drew his sword upon you, for Christ’s sake! You ought to have sent the bastard to the block, but instead you restored his lands. The only one who continues to suffer for her past sins is my mother, and I want to know why. I want you to tell me here and now why you refuse to set her free!”

“I’d be interested in hearing that answer myself,” Geoffrey interjected, and Hal now chimed in, too, saying that he also wanted to know.

Henry looked from one to the other, saw that they were all allied against him in this, and that knowledge was as bitter as gall. “I told you once before that I would not discuss my wife with you, Richard, and nothing has changed. I would suggest that you apologize to your sister for your bad manners and that for the remainder of the Christmas Court, you remember this. If you will not accord me the respect due your father, then by God, you’ll give it to your king. Now this conversation is done, and I’ll say no more on it.”

For a long moment, he stared down his sons, daring them to protest. They did not, but their silence was shrouded in hostility and he knew it. Bidding good night to Tilda, Heinrich, and Marguerite, he left the solar without looking back.

By the time Henry reached the bottom of the stairwell, he’d still not decided whether he’d return to the great hall or withdraw to his own chamber. But when he opened the door, he came to a halt, for the storm had intensified and rain was coming down sideways. He’d left his mantle behind in the solar and, after his dramatic departure, he did not want to go back for it. Sheltered from the worst of the wind, he gazed out across the deserted bailey, thinking that this bleak sight was a good match for his mood.

He particularly resented the accusation that he meant to keep Tilda and Eleanor apart. As if he’d be that cruel! The perilous Channel crossing had definitely been a factor in his decision; why else would he not have summoned Johnny to join them? And if he’d wanted to enjoy one Christmas without having to share his daughter with Eleanor, what of it? He was entitled to that much.

Tilda’s coming had forced him to face a painful truth-that his children sided with Eleanor. He thought he understood why their sons continued to agitate for her release; they had to feel guilty that she’d paid so high a price for their rebellion. And he’d not blamed Joanna for failing to comprehend the enormity of Eleanor’s offense, for she was just a child. But Tilda was a woman grown, and he’d expected better from her. Heinrich saw the truth of it. What greater sin could a wife commit than to turn upon her own husband? Why was Tilda so willing to forgive it?

The answer seemed all too obvious. His children loved their mother in a way that they did not love him. Assuming that they loved him at all. He doubted that Richard did, could find nothing in his second son’s eyes but resentment and reproach. Since wedding that Breton bitch, Geoffrey had grown more distant, more guarded. And Hal was…Hal. More and more, his eldest son was beginning to remind him of the man who’d stolen his mother’s crown-Stephen, so charming and good-hearted and courageous, so utterly inept at the mastery of other men. Thank Christ for Johnny. There were times when it was only the thought of his youngest son that kept him from utter despair.

The rain had yet to slacken off, and it occurred to him that, just as he was trapped by the storm, he was trapped by his own family, by his inability to give his sons an honest answer to Richard’s angry question. But how could he tell them that their mother’s continuing confinement was their fault? The truth was that he’d have freed Eleanor long ago if only he could trust them. He still did not fully comprehend why she’d rebelled, but he no longer doubted the sincerity of her regrets. Nor did he still believe that she’d throw herself at once into plots and conspiracies if he set her free. He did not fear, as he once had, that she’d do all in her power to revenge herself upon him. But he never doubted that if one of their sons rebelled again, she’d draw upon the considerable resources of Aquitaine on behalf of that son, offering her unqualified support. Especially if that son was Richard.

He’d never underestimated his wife’s shrewdness or her cunning or her ability to dissemble, to beguile others into doing her bidding. He’d valued her for those very qualities-until she’d turned them against him. But even if she’d made it safely to Paris nine years ago, her presence would not have tipped the balance in their favor, for men like Louis and Philip of Flanders would never have heeded the advice of a woman.

Henry laughed suddenly, mirthlessly. Any man who thought women were the weaker vessels had never met his mother-or his queen. Thank God Almighty that she’d not been able to take the field against him. But now she had Richard, the son who was most like him, the son who loved him not. He remained confident that he would prevail if Richard ever rebelled again. But Richard would pose a greater challenge than any foe he’d fought, and he was too pragmatic to deny it. Until Richard and his brothers proved that they could be truly trusted, the way a man ought to be able to trust his sons, how could he risk letting Eleanor go? And yet, how could he say that to Richard or Geoffrey or Hal? How could he confess that he still harbored such doubts and misgivings about their loyalty? He could only ask the Almighty and St Thomas to show his sons the error of their ways, to pray that they saw the light ere it was too late.

Raised voices came to his ears now, muffled in the winding stairwell. Either his sons were squabbling again or making ready to depart. He looked out dubiously into the wet, gloomy night, remembering when he’d been utterly indifferent to such storms, when his body had not yet begun to show the results of so many years of hard riding and careless confidence in his own invincibility. Shivering as he stepped out into the rain, he could take no comfort from the irony of it-that he and his exiled wife were sharing the same wretched Christmas.

The last months of God’s Year 1182 were among the most miserable of Will Marshal’s life. Without the favor of his lord, the young king, he felt like a ship gone adrift, lacking moorings or direction. Because the other knights of Hal’s mesnie did not know why they’d fallen out, speculation ran rampant and Will found himself the target of gossip and innuendo, vulnerable to the malice of his enemies. And enemies he had, for his privileged position in Hal’s household and his spectacular tournament successes had long provoked the envy and jealousy of lesser knights. Too proud to acknowledge the talk, Will did his best to ignore the whispers and stares, but his heaviest burden was that he could not confide in his friends, could not reveal the cause of the young king’s displeasure-not without betraying Hal’s confidence.

Will was accustomed to being Hal’s confidant, basking in their friendship even though he knew it had cost him the good will of the old king; Henry blamed him for failing to curb Hal’s whims and reckless spending. Will did not think that was fair, but he accepted that kings were often unfair and there was naught to be done about it. What he could not accept was the sudden change in his status. Hal no longer sought his advice, no longer wanted his companionship. It was as if the last twelve years had never been.

It had begun that autumn when Will noticed Hal’s preoccupation, his moodiness. He’d always believed that his duties involved more than protecting Hal from an enemy’s lance, a foe’s sword thrust; he was often called upon to protect Hal from himself. He’d encouraged Hal to reveal the source of his distraction, and finally it had all come spilling out-the blandishments of the Poitevin lords, his hunger for lands of his own, and his loathing for his brother Richard. Will had been appalled once he realized Hal was entangling himself in such a lethal spider’s web, and he’d spoken out forthrightly against it, with a blunt candor that kings did not often hear. Hal had been furious and ever since their quarrel, he’d kept Will at a distance. Will did not even know if he still intended to follow through with this folly. In his despair, he’d considered approaching the queen, but he’d soon abandoned that idea; Marguerite was not cast in the same mold as her mother-in-law. All he could do was to wait-for Hal’s temper to cool, for his common sense to reassert itself. What he would do if neither happened, he did not know.

It was not until his friends came to him on a rain-sodden December night at Caen that Will learned what was being said behind his back-that he was guilty of far worse than arrogance or pride, that he was seeking to cuckold his lord, to seduce Hal’s lovely young queen. Accustomed as he was to the spite and jealousy that thrived in the artificial atmosphere of a royal court, he was dumbfounded by such baneful rancor, for he was being accused of the greatest crime a man could commit against his liege lord.

Baldwin de Bethune, Simon de Marisco, and Peter de Preaux had agonized over warning him of the stories being circulated, at last deciding that it was more dangerous for him not to know. They watched Will now with sympathetic eyes, bracing themselves for the questions to come.

“How did you find this out?” he asked at last, and they explained that the conspirators had tried to win over one of Hal’s friends, Raoul de Hamars, hoping that he’d take the tale to Hal. But Raoul had scoffed at the story, and instead of warning Hal, he’d chosen to warn Will’s friends.

“At least all are not willing to believe the worst of me. Who are these men who slander me so foully?”

They were reluctant to say, fearing an even greater scandal, but Will was insistent and they were forced to reveal that the ringleaders were Adam d’Yquebeuf and Sir Thomas de Coulonces. Just as they’d feared, Will at once announced his intention of challenging them to combat, vowing to clear his name-and the queen’s-with the power of his strong right arm.

“You cannot do that, Will! If you proclaim yourself innocent of adultery, you’d be spreading the scandal even farther, making sure that all who’d not heard the rumors now know of them. That would do you no good, would shame the queen-and the king.”

Will’s shoulders slumped, for he realized Baldwin was right. Surely Hal could not know of this. If he had, would he not have acted? Would he not have punished the men who’d dared to slander his queen? But Will discovered that he still had to ask. Looking from one face to the other, he finally blurted it out. “Does Lord Hal know of these rumors?”

None of them seemed in a hurry to answer him. “We are not sure,” Simon admitted. “Raoul de Hamars agreed to find out more, and reported that after he’d refused to pass the story on, they got one of Lord Hal’s pages drunk and convinced him it was his duty to tell the king. Supposedly Hal laughed it off, forcing them to take more drastic action, and they then came to him, swearing on their honor that it was so.”

Seeing Will’s look of dismay, Baldwin said hastily, “We do not know if that truly happened. It is only what Raoul was told when he went out drinking with Thomas de Coulonces.”

Will fell silent. He’d assumed that Hal’s coldness was due to their quarrel, to his disapproval of Hal’s grand schemes for claiming Aquitaine. But what if he’d been wrong? What if Hal had heard these vile accusations and believed them?

“What will you do?” Simon asked, and Will could only shrug.

“I do not know…yet.”

The Castle Chaplain accompanied Hal into the church of St George, and Hal feared that he’d continue to hover, but he excused himself at once, promising to make sure the king would not be disturbed during his prayers.

“Thank you, Father Matthew,” Hal said with a smile, sighing with relief when he was finally alone, for that was a rarity in his life; even more than his father, he seemed to be a magnet for all eyes. Usually he enjoyed such attention, but this Christmas Court at Caen was different and he longed to escape the constant scrutiny, to have time to himself without any demands being made upon him. Realizing that a church ought to be a good place to find solitude, he’d decided to take refuge there, although he did intend to pray, too; he was in God’s House, after all.

Hal had always loved Christmas. Not this year. Part of the reason for his discontent was being thrown into such close proximity with Richard. His brother’s glowering presence made it impossible for him to ignore his misgivings, reminding him that he had to make a decision soon. Did he commit himself irrevocably to the rebels in Aquitaine or did he step back from the cliff’s edge? The trouble was that he did not truly know what he wanted to do. Well, he knew he wanted Aquitaine, but he was not sure he wanted to fight to the death for it. And after his talk with Geoffrey, he’d realized how naive he’d been, how shortsighted. How could he have been so certain that their father would stand aside whilst two of his sons destroyed the third?

For that was what it would come to-Richard’s destruction. Only death could make his brother accept the loss of Aquitaine. And would Maman forgive him for that? She’d always had an inexplicable fondness for Richard. No, it would not be as easy as he’d first thought. He did not want to alienate or hurt his mother, nor did he want to fight his father again. But how could he walk away from such an opportunity? If he held Aquitaine, he’d no longer be answerable to his father for every denier he spent; he’d finally have enough money to reward his liegemen, to attract the best knights to his banner, to buy a stallion without fretting about Papa’s dour disapproval, to indulge Marguerite as she deserved.

That was why he’d again asked his father for Normandy, for it would be the perfect solution to his dilemma, giving him his own duchy without any of the risks that taking Aquitaine entailed. But of course Papa had balked. When had he ever listened to reason? And now the vultures were circling for certes. Aimar of Limoges had turned up in Caen, ostensibly to prove he was honoring the summer’s peace, but in reality, to remind Hal of his commitment to the rebels. He’d even brought news that Richard had obligingly given them the ideal excuse for attacking Aquitaine; he’d begun to build a castle at Clairvaux, in an area that was under the sway of the Counts of Anjou. Hal was not surprised that Richard should be poaching in his woods. He was surprised, though, that he was not better pleased about it, for, as Aimar had been quick to point out, he was now the wronged one, justified in protecting his own domains. But because Richard had given him a legitimate grievance, he felt even more pressured to take action. Soon all of Christendom would know of Richard’s encroachment into Anjou, thanks to that impudent poet. According to Geoff, Bertran de Born had written one of his mocking verses about Clairvaux, claiming it shone so brightly that the young king could not help but see it.

It seemed to Hal that the fates were conspiring to force him into making a decision ere he was ready, and he yearned for another opinion, one dispassionate and dependable. But he, who’d always had friends beyond counting, had no trusted confidant when he most needed one. He could not consult Geoff, for his brother would be scornful of his inability to make up his mind. In that, Geoff was like Richard, both of them strangers to doubts or forebodings. None of his knights could be relied upon, either. They’d tell him what they thought he wanted to hear or they’d be unable to keep such a secret and blab it all over creation.

Nor could he turn to the two people he most trusted, his wife and Will Marshal. He’d hinted to Marguerite of his intentions, and mere hints had been enough to alarm her greatly. No, he could not confide in Marguerite and that created problems, too, for she wanted him to take her to the holy shrine of Our Lady at Rocamadour in southern Aquitaine once the winter weather broke. She’d learned that barren women often conceived after making a pilgrimage to Rocamadour, and she’d been both hurt and bewildered by his refusal. Nor could he explain that Aquitaine might well be at war by the spring.

And Will had let him down badly, acting for all the world as if he were about to commit high treason in attacking Richard. At the time that he most needed Will’s support, the knight had lectured him about his duty to his father and liege lord, droned on about fidelity and sworn vows and nonsense like that. It was particularly infuriating because Will knew how shabbily Papa treated him, knew, too, what a swine Richard could be. Hal’s tempers rarely lasted long; he’d never been one for holding grudges. But so great was his disappointment that he’d found it difficult to forgive Will. Then, just when he’d decided to let Will back into his good graces, those idiots had come to him with their absurd accusations.

He had been outraged, both by their suspicions and the terrible timing. Here he was about to make the most important decision of his entire life, and he was supposed to deal with tawdry gossip like this? He’d ordered them from his chamber after warning them not to repeat such vile rumors. But somehow he found himself blaming Will, too, for his unwitting part in this farce. All he wanted was enough time to consider all his options without being dragged into his household’s petty squabbles or being nagged by his wife about that damnable pilgrimage. Was that so much to ask?

Apparently so, for he’d yet to find a peaceful moment at Caen, not with Marguerite sulking and Aimar lurking and Will acting put-upon and Geoff wanting to lay plans and Richard strutting around as if he were the incarnation of Roland and poor Tilda grieving over Maman’s absence and his father refusing to heed any voice but his own. He was sorry he’d let himself be talked out of going to the Holy Land. At least there it would be simple enough-fight the infidels and protect the sacred city of Jerusalem from Saladin and his Saracen hordes.

By now Hal had convinced himself that few men had suffered the burdens he was expected to bear. A pity he could not stay here in the hushed quiet of the church, for it seemed a world away from the chaos and turmoil of his life. It occurred to him then to ask the Almighty for guidance, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of that before. Feeling more cheerful, he approached the high altar, knelt, and prayed for a sign, for some manifestation of God’s Will, so that he would know what the Lord wanted him to do. He was just getting to his feet when a clamor erupted outside, the door slammed, and his brother Richard stalked into the church, trailed by the flustered priest.

“My liege, I am sorry!” the priest stammered. “I told the lord duke that you were at your prayers, but he would not wait.”

“Do not distress yourself, Father Matthew. The lord duke is not known for his good manners. In fact, they are so deplorable that some suspect he was raised by wolves.”

“Whereas you are the veritable soul of courtesy,” Richard jeered. “You’d be sure to ask ere you borrowed a man’s dagger to stab him in the back, and I daresay you’d wipe it clean afterward.”

“What are you babbling about now, Richard?”

“Did you think I would not find out? I know about your treacherous double-dealing with my vassals, know about your visit to Limoges this summer. You gave the monks a banner for their abbey, one with Henricus Rex inscribed in gold thread. What else did you give them, Hal-a promise that you’d be a far more benevolent liege lord than me?”

“I’d hardly have to tell them that,” Hal said coolly, “as anyone with eyes to see knows it already. I’ve even heard it said that Fulk Nerra would have been a more benevolent lord than you. Is this what you are whining about, my visit to Limoges? Need I remind you that Limoges is on the way to Pereigueux? You might as well complain that I stopped in St-Denis on a journey to Paris!”

“My lords…” the priest began timidly, but they ignored him utterly, glaring at each other with such hostility that he was thankful swords were not worn at the Christmas Court.

“Your conspicuous sojourn in Limoges was only the beginning of the trail,” Richard snapped. “I assumed that you’d conspire as carelessly as you do everything else and, indeed, you covered your tracks very sloppily. You’ve been meeting with malcontent lords from the Limousin and Poitou for some time now, offering a sympathetic ear for their complaints and-”

“That is my great crime-feeling sorry for your ill-used barons? I freely admit to it. I feel sorry for anyone who has to suffer your foul tempers, Little Brother. But that hardly constitutes proof of conspiracy and rebellion.”

“Ere I’m done, I’ll have enough proof to convince even your wife. And when I do, I’ll make a formal protest to our father. If he gives me no satisfaction-and I rather hope he does not-I will deal with you myself, and you’ll not find me as forgiving as he is. You can wager the surety of your soul on that.”

“As entertaining as your rants always are, I have no more time to waste with you.” Hal started to brush past his brother, but Richard grabbed his arm.

“We are not done here!”

Hal swung around and brought the stiffened edge of his hand down upon Richard’s wrist, breaking his brother’s hold. Richard lunged forward just as the priest desperately flung himself between them. Both of the king’s sons were much taller than he, and he found himself crushed between them, his nose buried in Richard’s mantle, unable to see their faces but feeling such tension in their bodies that he was terrified there’d be blood shed in his church, for he’d remembered that they’d be carrying eating knives.

“My lords, please…” he pleaded, but they were exchanging curses, calling each other names so vile that he doubted they’d even heard him. They did hear, though, the astonished exclamation from the direction of the door, and they stepped back, allowing Father Matthew to breathe again as they confronted two of their father’s most distinguished guests, the Archbishops of Canterbury and Dublin.

The Archbishop of Canterbury was a mild-mannered individual, utterly unlike his predecessor, the fiery Thomas Becket, not one who’d be eager to rebuke the king’s sons. Fortunately for Father Matthew, the Archbishop of Dublin was made of sterner stuff. “What sort of outrageous behavior is this?” he demanded, striding down the nave so swiftly that his cope billowed out behind him, giving him the appearance of a ship under full sail. “Would you spill blood in God’s House? For shame, my lords, for shame!”

Hal recovered his poise first, patting the priest apologetically on the shoulder as he moved to greet the prelates. “You are quite right, my lord archbishop. There is no excuse for our bad behavior, and I beg your pardon. I will be sure to confess this transgression to my chaplain so that he may impose a suitable penance.”

Watching as his brother pacified the archbishops, Richard shook his head in disgust. He knew he should keep silent, but he’d been watching Hal perform these conjuring tricks as long as he could remember, and as Hal started up the aisle with the clerics, his bitterness spilled over. “You could rob a man blind in broad daylight and then somehow make it seem as if he were the one at fault. But if you meddle again in Aquitaine, all your smiles and pretty compliments will not save you. Nothing will!”

Hal could recognize an opportunity when he was presented with one, and he paused at the door, then turned without haste, and looked back at his furious brother. “You put me in mind, Richard, of a cuckolded husband bewailing his wife’s infidelity, when he is the one who drove her into another man’s arms.” And confident that he’d gotten the last word, he departed the church with the archbishops, leaving Richard standing by the high altar, fuming, but vowing that Hal would not get away with his treachery, not this time.

On the day after Christmas, Henry was obliged to hold a hearing to adjudicate a bizarre incident that had happened during the Christmas feast. As a silver basin of scented water was borne to the king’s table so that he and his guests might wash their hands before the meal began, William de Tancarville, a highborn Norman baron, had rushed forward, forcibly seized the basin, and insisted upon carrying it to Henry himself, refusing afterward to surrender the basin to Henry’s indignant chamberlain. De Tancarville did not lack for enemies, and protests were made, resulting in the next day’s session. Henry had no liking for de Tancarville, for the baron had been one of the first to defect to Hal in the rebellion of 1173, but he accepted the man’s passionate defense: that as the hereditary chamberlain of Normandy, it was his sole privilege to attend his duke on ceremonial occasions.

While Hal had been amused by the fracas in the hall, he was fidgeting and squirming in his seat as he listened to de Tancarville proclaim his right to retain custody of the silver basin, for it had occurred to him that Richard might see this as the ideal forum to charge him with subverting his rule in Aquitaine. He was reasonably confident that Richard did not have convincing evidence yet, but his brother might well choose to make a public scene after their confrontation in St George’s chapel. He was relieved, therefore, when the proceedings were finally concluded, and Richard’s window of opportunity slammed shut. But before Henry or any of the lords could withdraw, Will Marshal strode toward the center of the hall and declared, “My lord king” in a clear, carrying voice.

Henry sat down again reluctantly, wondering why he could not enjoy one peaceful Christmas without any drama or strife. But then he saw that the king being approached was Hal, and he settled back to watch, as did the rest of the men in the hall.

“Sire, hear me.” Will was very nervous, more uneasy than he’d ever been before a tournament or a battle, but when he spoke, his voice revealed none of his inner turmoil. “I have been unjustly accused of a vicious and vile act of treason. I am here to defend myself before you and your noble father and these assembled lords and barons. Have the men who accused me come forward and agree to meet me in combat. I will fight three of them in turn, and if I am defeated in any contest, I am willing to forfeit my life, for I would not want to live if I could not clear my name.”

As soon as Will stopped speaking, the hall was utterly still. Hal could feel every eye upon him, and he felt a sudden flare of anger, resentment that Will should pick this inopportune moment to make his overwrought, theatrical challenge. Will made it sound as if he were not in control of his own household knights. His father was watching him with an enigmatic expression, and Geoffrey looked puzzled, but Richard was smiling faintly, and that smile was enough to arouse all of Hal’s suspicions. Had Richard put Will up to this? They’d always been too friendly for his liking. For that matter, Will was de Tancarville’s cousin. Could that odd event have been deliberately staged to give Will this chance to appear before the king’s court? If he allowed the trial by combat, this would drag on for three days, delaying their departure from Caen. Was that what Richard had in mind? Was he seeking time to produce witnesses, a Poitevin baron that he’d coerced into making a confession?

“I do not know what you are talking about, Marshal,” he said sharply, “and I will not have my household disrupted with petty personal quarrels. There will be no trial by combat. Now let that be an end to it.”

Will looked at him gravely, and to Hal’s discomfort, he felt heat rising in his face under that unblinking regard. Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet, and that seemed to break the spell. But instead of withdrawing, Will turned and knelt before Henry.

“Sire, I can no longer remain at court. I beg you to grant me safe conduct through your domains.” Henry was glad to do so, wishing he could rid himself of all of Hal’s knights, and Will bowed stiffly, then departed the hall, holding his head high and paying no heed to the buzz of questions and conjecture that swirled in his wake.

Will Marshal’s actions had created a furor, and for the rest of the evening, there was no other topic of conversation, for Will was a star on the tournament circuit, and all thought it odd that Hal would have parted with such a redoubtable knight. Most of the men did not know what Will had been accused of, for the rumors had not spread much beyond Hal’s household. Shaken by Will’s challenge, for none of them wanted to meet him on the field, the conspirators kept quiet, doing their best not to call attention to themselves. The paucity of facts did not discourage gossip, though, and it seemed to Hal that there was not a soul in Caen who did not have a theory about Will’s fall from favor, and every last one of them was eager to expound upon it at great length.

Hal discovered now that there was a drawback to the sort of popularity he’d long enjoyed. He was well liked by virtually everyone and greatly admired for his tournament successes, but men felt free to approach him with a familiarity they’d not have dared to show his father or Richard. Much to his annoyance, he found himself having to deflect obtrusive questions, avid curiosity, and speculation that he considered both unseemly and presumptuous. Pride kept him from making an early departure from the hall, but when he was finally able to withdraw to his own chambers, he was weary and thoroughly out of sorts.

But in his bedchamber, Hal found that an unpleasant evening was about to get much worse. Marguerite had excused herself after they’d eaten, pleading a headache, but she was still fully dressed, and her face was so pale and drawn that he felt a pang of guilt, for he’d been so consumed with his own troubles that he’d not had a thought to spare for her.

“Sweetheart, you do not look well at all. Shall I send Benoit to summon a doctor?” Glancing around the chamber, he noticed for the first time that neither his squires nor Marguerite’s ladies were in attendance. “Where did the lads wander off to?”

“I dismissed them.” Marguerite startled Hal by crossing the chamber and sliding the bolt into place. She stayed by the door, arms folded tightly across her breasts. “I must know, Hal. Do you believe that gossip about Will Marshal and me?”

Hal was shocked. “Jesu, you heard that?”

“Agace came to me, believing-correctly-that I needed to know. It did not occur to me that you credited it, though-not until today.”

“Sweetheart, of course I do not believe it!” He moved swiftly to her side, but when he put his arm around her, her body remained rigid in his embrace. “Never for a moment did I think there might be any truth to it. I swear that to you, Marguerite, upon the soul of our dead son, may God assoil him.”

He could feel some of the tension go out of her shoulders, but when she gazed up into his face, her blue eyes were still shadowed with anxiety and uncertainty. “You do believe, though, that Will made improper advances to me. And he did not, Hal, that I swear, too, upon our son.”

“Marguerite, there is no need for this. I know Will would never betray me like that.”

Then why did you let him leave your court in disgrace? Marguerite did not voice the question, even though it burned on her tongue. Instead, she allowed herself to take a moment of comfort in her husband’s arms, clinging to him as her refuge in a world gone mad.

Hal kissed the tear tracks on her cheeks, murmuring love words and endearments. But after a time, he said, “Sweetheart, why did you not come to me about this? I never dreamed that you’d heard these vile rumors. Why did you not tell me?”

“Because I know you’ve been troubled and uneasy in your mind about something and I did not want to add to your worries,” she said, surprising herself by how readily the lie came to her lips. In truth, she’d been waiting for him to take action, to banish the culprits from his court, and she still did not understand why he’d not done that.

“Hal…if you believe Will to be innocent of these charges, why are you still so displeased with him? What has he done that you cannot forgive?”

“It is not important,” he insisted, and he sought to stop further questions with kisses. But for once, she was not as compliant. Stepping back, she searched his face intently and then repeated her question. Hal was momentarily at a loss. He did not like lying outright to her, considered that a more serious marital offense than lies of omission.

“Tell me,” she pleaded. “We promised there’d be no secrets between us, not like your parents. It has long been obvious to me that something is wrong, and I’ve been waiting for you to confide in me. I can wait no longer, Hal. I want to know now, tonight.”

He was both surprised and amused by her sudden assertiveness. But he was touched, too, and he realized that he did need to talk about his concerns. At least with Marguerite, he could rely upon her utter loyalty. Leading her over to the bed, he sat down with her, and after a brief hesitation, he began to speak. There was a relief in being able to speak candidly about his ambivalence, and he ended up telling her more than he’d initially intended. By the time he was done, she knew it all-the conspiracy with the lords of the Limousin and Poitou, the dazzling prospects offered by the capture of Aquitaine, his overtures to Geoffrey and her brother, Philippe, his temptations and his misgivings, even his chapel altercation with Richard.

“So,” he concluded, “now you know.” He waited expectantly, but she stayed silent, and her head was lowered, hiding her face from him. “Marguerite?”

“What do you want me to say?” When she glanced up at last, her eyes reminded him of the way Will had gazed at him in the hall, the silent reproach of a dog unable to understand why it had just been kicked. “Why, Hal, why must you risk so much?”

“Because there is so much to gain!” He was on his feet now, needing to move as he sought to deal with his disappointment. “You sound just like Will, but I expected better of you, Marguerite. You’re my wife, and if I cannot rely upon your heartfelt support, then I am truly alone midst my enemies!”

“Of course I support you! It is just that…that I fear for you, too, beloved.”

Her eyes were shimmering with tears, and he was quick to take her in his arms. They clung together with an urgency that revealed their shared misery more than words could have done, for they’d failed each other and on some level, they both understood that-Hal let down by her tepid response, Marguerite horrified by his intrigues and planned betrayals. Hastily shedding their clothes, they fell into bed. Their lovemaking was intense, ironically given an impassioned edginess by the very fears they were trying to escape. Afterward, Hal had no trouble sliding into an exhausted, sated sleep. Marguerite was not so lucky.

She lost track of the time, but she heard Hal’s squires enter and bed down, heard church bells pealing in the distance, heard dogs barking, all the familiar sounds of night. But there was nothing familiar about her world, not anymore. She gently stroked Hal’s tousled fair hair, and he murmured her name in his sleep, instinctively reaching out for her warmth and softness. Her throat was so tight that it hurt, for she was determined to choke back her tears. Oh, my beautiful boy, what have you done? She had no memories of a life without Hal. She still loved him dearly, would love him until she drew her last breath. But it was as if their roles had reversed, for she suddenly felt so much older and wiser than he. Watching him sleep, she found herself wondering if the Almighty, in His Infinite Wisdom, had taken her son because her husband would always be as he was now, a charming child adrift upon stormy seas.

A pallid winter dawn had not yet dispersed the night shadows, and a few stars still glimmered along the horizon. Because it was so early, the castle was not yet astir, and Will’s leavetaking was witnessed only by a small group of friends and a few sleepy-eyed guards. Baldwin de Bethune and Simon de Morisco were doing their best to act hearty and jovial, making bad jokes and pretending that this morn was no different from any number of past departures. Will appreciated the effort, just as he appreciated their attempts to reassure him that his future still shone brightly, that Christendom was full of lords eager to snap him up like a starving trout. The practical part of his nature knew that they were right; he’d have no trouble finding a place in another great household. But that knowledge did not blunt the sharp edges of his newfound awareness-that he was thirty-five years old, with no lands or wife, cast aside by the man who’d been his friend, his liege lord, his lodestar.

He was not going alone, accompanied by his squire, Eustace de Bertrimont, and a few fellow knights who’d pledged themselves to his banner when it was flying high and were unwilling to abandon him now that his luck had soured. As he looked about at these loyal men, he could not help remembering how proud he’d been the first time he’d fought in a tournament as a knight banneret, leading his own company of men. That had been at Lagny, the tourney held after the young French king’s coronation. Was that truly only two years past? It felt like a lifetime ago.

When his eyes began to burn, he awkwardly embraced his friends, submitted to their equally clumsy hugs, and swung up into the saddle. With their farewells echoing in his ears, he and his small party rode toward the gatehouse and out onto the drawbridge. The dawn continued to lighten, and a brisk wind sent clouds scudding across the sky. It would be a good day for travel. Spurring his stallion, he settled into an easy canter, not allowing himself to look back, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.