Devil's Brood

CHAPTER FORTY

April 1183

Limoges, Limousin

Known to be a stalwart supporter of the Duke of Aquitaine, the abbot of St Martial’s had prudently taken refuge in a nearby town when Viscount Aimar rebelled again, leaving the abbey in the charge of his prior. That individual lacked the moral fortitude to deal with the latest crisis, and he’d gone in despair to one of their guests, Geoffroi de Breuil, for he was the prior of the abbey of Vigeois to the south of the city, had once been a monk himself at St Martial’s, and had the necessary steel in his spine to stand up to the scandalous demands of the young English king.

Upon hearing the alarming news that Hal’s soldiers had entered the abbey grounds and were making off with the silver plate, chalices, and jeweled reliquaries of St Martial’s, Prior Geoffroi hastened to find the king, finally tracking Hal down in the cloisters. The scene that met his eyes was a dismal one: men joking and squabbling with one another, their arms full of booty, trailed by unhappy monks. Outraged by this violation of God’s House, Prior Geoffroi cried out to Hal and was taken aback by the warmth of the younger man’s welcome.

“Ah, it is Prior…Geoffroi, is it not? I met you at the viscount’s castle last summer as I recall.” Hal smiled benevolently at the prior, pleased that he’d been able to remember the man’s name, and Prior Geoffroi gaped at him in amazement, unable to treat this banditry as a social occasion.

“My lord king, may I speak with you in private? It is urgent, I assure you.”

Hal’s smile faded. But he thought a refusal would be rude and reluctantly followed the prior toward the Chapter House, hoping this was not going to be a lecture. It was not as if Prior Geoffroi’s own abbey was being affected, after all.

Prior Geoffroi’s trip to Limoges had been an impulsive one, motivated both by his fondness for his former abbey and his awareness that the prior would not be up to the challenge of keeping St Martial’s safe in the abbot’s absence. Now he realized why he was here; the Almighty had chosen him to stop this sacrilege.

“My lord, you cannot do this. No matter how much you need money, there is no justification for stealing from God.”

Hal had not expected such a direct assault, not after the prior’s timid, wavering protest. “I am not stealing from God!” he said indignantly. “Did Prior Gautier not tell you that I have promised to repay every last sou? This is a loan, no more than that, like the loan made to me by the good citizens of the ville.”

Prior Geoffroi had heard about that “loan.” Hal had extorted twenty thousand sous from the burghers of Limoges, who were intimidated by the continuing presence in the ville of so many swaggering, brawling routiers. “That matter is between you and the townsmen, my lord. What you do here today is between you and the Almighty, and I urge you to reconsider. There is still time to remedy this sin.”

“It is hardly a sin,” Hal said curtly, regretting the good manners that had gotten him into such an awkward predicament. “As I said, I have every intention of repaying the loan.”

“It is not a ‘loan’ if it is not voluntary, my lord king. Moreover, your men are taking more than money. They are carrying off valuable chalices and reliquaries that cannot be replaced.”

Hal yearned to escape back into the cloisters. But Prior Geoffroi had positioned himself before the door, and Hal was loath to shove the prior out of the way; he was an elderly man and frail for all his bold talk. “Look…Prior Geoffroi, it is like this,” he said, lowering his voice to increase the intimacy of his confession. “I do not want to do this, but I have no choice. Viscount Aimar and I agreed to hire all the routiers who sought us out, wanting to deny their services to my father and brother. But the cost has been higher than we expected. What can you do with a pack of hungry wolves except feed them?”

The prior was unmoved by his plight. “Why cannot Viscount Aimar pay your routiers? Or the Viscount of Turenne or Joffroi de Lusignan?”

“Because they do not have the money, either.” Hal heard the impatient note creeping into his voice and drew a deep breath. “If my brother the Duke of Brittany were still at Limoges, I could have turned to him for aid. But he has gone north to protect the Breton borders. So you see, Prior Geoffroi, I must borrow from the abbey. I took measures to make sure that none of the monks or abbey guests would be molested, and I even ordered men to protect your library, for I know that St Martial’s has a fine collection of books. And as I already said, I have sworn to repay the loan.”

Hal could see no sign of softening in the chiseled granite of the older man’s face, but he’d exhausted the last of his patience. “I had a chirograph drawn up, setting forth my promise to repay the abbey, as proof of my good faith.” When Prior Geoffroi did not reach out for it, Hal thrust it into the prior’s hands, saying brusquely, “Here is the abbey’s half. Now I have no more time to spare for you, my lord prior. If you’ll step aside…”

Prior Geoffroi hesitated, but then realized the foolishness of resistance, for Hal was half a foot taller and almost forty years younger. Grudgingly, he gave way, his fist tightening around the chirograph, for he knew its true worth. He could not help giving one final warning, though, as Hal brushed past him.

“Look to your soul, king of the English, for you’ve just put it in grave peril!” But Hal did not bother to reply, and once he was alone, the aged prior sank down upon the closest bench, his eyes stinging with angry tears.

Hal and Aimar’s Taillefer half brothers had captured Angouleme with surprising ease. Leaving them to hold the castle and town, Hal decided to return to Limoges, to share his triumph with Aimar and the other rebel barons. His success was proof that the Almighty understood why he’d had to take the silver plate and treasures of St Martial’s, and when his money started to run low, he made another forced “loan,” this one from the monks at La Couronne just west of Angouleme, securing enough funds to hire Sancho of Savannac and his equally notorious partner Couraban. They’d left the Viscount of Turenne’s service when he’d been unable to keep paying them, and Hal was looking forward to bedeviling Viscount Raymond-good-naturedly, of course-about it.

They reached Limoges in late afternoon. The gates were closed, and they could see men standing guard on the walls. One of Hal’s knights rode up to demand entry in the name of the young king. To their surprise, the gates remained shut. When another shout for admittance brought no results, Hal spurred his stallion forward impatiently, identified himself to the sentries, and waited expectantly.

The gates did not open, though. Instead a shower of rocks rained down upon them from the walls. Several men and horses were struck and Hal’s stallion reared up in fright and then bucked wildly; had he been a less skilled rider, he’d have gone sailing over its head. The hailstorm of stones continued, forcing them to retreat. And now Hal could hear the taunts and curses, the angry shouts of “We will not have this man to rule over us!”

Hal was genuinely shocked to be turned away by the citizens of Limoges, and when Aimar sent out a messenger, he brought no words of comfort. The townspeople had been outraged by the plundering of St Martial’s Abbey, the man reported, and the viscount had been unable to calm them down. It would be best if Hal did not try to enter the city again.

Hal and his men withdrew to Aimar’s newly recovered castle at Pierre-Buffiere, and used it as a base to burn crops and launch raids on neighboring towns. But the insult he’d received at Limoges continued to rankle, and as May dragged on, he became more and more discontented. He’d truly expected the war to be of short duration, and now they seemed likely to face a prolonged struggle. Once the wretched weather improved, Henry resumed the siege of Limoges, and Richard was in deadly pursuit of the roving bands of routiers that had been terrorizing the Saintonge and Poitou. Hal still expected them to win, but he was beginning to realize that victory could come at a much higher price than he’d wanted to pay.

He was soon thoroughly unhappy with his routier allies. They seemed far more interested in looting than in laying siege to castles, and he had little confidence in Sancho and Couraban’s ability to control them. He found the routier captains to be as irksome and offensive as their men. Until now he’d never had many dealings with mercenaries, and he did not enjoy their company. The routiers were scornful of the chivalric code that had governed Hal’s life and mocked the concept of knightly honor. They showed him none of the deference he was accustomed to receive from others, and he suspected that they did not respect him much either. Most vexing of all, they were draining his coffers, charging exorbitant fees for their services, and demanding to be compensated on a regular basis, unwilling to accept vouchers or promises of payment.

His disillusionment extended well beyond the routiers, though. He was annoyed with Geoffrey for racing off to defend Brittany. He’d argued that the struggle in the Limousin was critical to their success, but once Geoffrey got word that Henry’s agent, Roland de Dinan, had occupied the ducal castle at Rennes, he’d turned a deaf ear to Hal’s pleas, promising only that he’d return as soon as he could. Hal missed his brother more than he’d expected, aware that Geoffrey had a cooler head in a crisis than his own.

He was not pleased with Aimar, either, for allowing the citizens of the ville to rebuff a king, and he was having some doubts about the reliability of his other allies. His brother-in-law Philippe’s routiers were wreaking havoc in the border regions, but he thought the French king ought to have put them under his command instead of turning them loose to ravage like mad dogs. He’d heard rumors that Joffroi de Lusignan’s brothers were gaining a foothold in La Marche and there were reports, too, that the Count of Toulouse’s son was raiding in Quercy and Cahors. Since the de Lusignans had vigorously opposed the sale of La Marche to Henry and Count Raimon had lost Cahors and Quercy during one of his wars with the English king, Hal could not help wondering if they were acting in his interests or their own.

But his greatest grievance was with his father, for he was sure that his war would already have been won if only Henry had stayed out of it. He did not understand why Henry must meddle in a dispute that did not involve him directly. But it was obvious by now that Henry was backing Richard with the full power of the English Crown. After weeks of offering an olive branch, he’d unsheathed his sword, giving the command to ravage Geoffrey’s lands, calling upon his levies in Normandy and Anjou, bringing his mangonels and battering rams to Limoges in a far more serious siege of the ville. At Easter he’d ordered the arrest of the Earl and Countess of Leicester and other prominent participants in the rebellion of ’73; he’d even included the Earl of Gloucester in his net, although there’d never been proof of his participation. And rumor had it that he’d asked the Church to issue sanctions against the rebels. No, this was not the war Hal had expected to fight.

On May 23, Hal, his knights, and routiers seized control of Richard’s castle at Aixe. Afterward, the men celebrated raucously in the great hall, but Hal did not share their pleasure, for he knew it to have been a hollow victory. Richard had left only a token garrison at Aixe, and Hal could not take pride in such a lopsided win. This was new for him-this clear-eyed assessment of their accomplishments-and he did not welcome it, thinking morosely that life had been more fun before he’d discovered this hitherto hidden sense of realism.

He had little appetite for their simple, soldiers’ meal, was even less inclined to join in the revelries, and when a tipsy Couraban lurched over to offer the services of a buxom, drunken whore with hair the shade of beet juice, Hal’s distaste was enough to drive him from the hall. As if he’d take a routier’s leavings! He’d decided that Couraban was even more disreputable than his partner in crime, Sancho, for he’d finally learned the meaning of Couraban’s odd name. He was, the brigand had boasted, a Saracen prince at the siege of Antioch. Hal could not begin to understand why a man would choose to call himself after a godless infidel. If he’d needed more proof that he was consorting with the dregs of their world, surely this was it.

He’d claimed the bedchamber he hoped was Richard’s and flung himself down upon the bed without bothering to remove his muddied boots. He wished he’d thought to bring a flagon from the hall, but he could not muster the energy to go back for one and he had no idea where his squires were. It had not escaped his notice that his household knights had been making themselves scarce in recent days, waiting for his bad mood to pass. But the news he’d heard today was not likely to raise his spirits. One of their scouts had reported that Henry had summoned the Archbishop of Canterbury and numerous Norman bishops to Caen, where they were to pass sentence of excommunication upon the rebels.

Hal was stunned that his father would put him at risk for eternal damnation. An excommunicate who died without making amends would burn for aye in Hell. No matter how often he reminded himself that these excommunications were purely political, he still found the prospect chilling. How could Papa even consider that? How had they ever come to this?

His thoughts were so morbid and unpleasant that he welcomed a sudden rap on the door. Several of his knights trooped into the chamber, brandishing wine and dice, and Hal was touched by their attempt to cheer him up. At least he had good friends, by God. But he soon lapsed back into melancholy, for two of the men-Roger de Gaugi and Simon de Marisco-were also good friends of William Marshal, and of Hal’s many disappointments that May, Will’s betrayal was one of the sharpest.

He supposed that betrayal was too harsh a word for the knight’s failure to answer his summons, but it hurt, nonetheless, that Will could let him down like this. For nigh on two months, he’d heard nothing from Ralph Fitz Godfrey, the man he’d sent after Will, and when he did get word, it was not encouraging. Fitz Godfrey reported that Will had accepted a position with the Count of Flanders and then left on pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Three Kings in Germany. Hal was stung that Will could so blithely offer his services to another lord, and this news did not endear Count Philip to him in the least; it was like poaching in a neighbor’s woods. Eventually he’d gotten a second message that Fitz Godfrey had finally caught up with Will and he’d agreed to return. But Hal’s jubilation soon soured once he read the rest of the letter. Will said he would come as soon as he could, but not before he obtained a safe conduct from Hal’s father, the lord king, and with that in mind, he planned to visit the French court and ask for recommendations from King Philippe and the French bishops, hoping their good words would sway Henry in his favor.

To Hal, that meant he was not coming, for he was sure his father would never grant Will a safe conduct to fight against him. Why should he? No, this was a clever pretext, a way for Will to get credit for loyalty without putting himself at risk. But he was damned if he’d let Marshal cast a shadow over the rest of the night, and he called for wine, reached for the dice.

They were soon interrupted again, and this time the visitor was not as welcome as Hal’s knights. He glanced up with a frown at the sight of Sancho of Savannac, offended that the routier should take the liberty of seeking him out in his own bedchamber. At least he’d left that drunken swine Couraban down in the hall.

“A word with you, my lord king, if I may,” Sancho said, with a perfunctory politeness that grated on Hal’s nerves. “I’ve been giving thought to our next target, and I’ve come up with an idea I think you’ll fancy.”

“You think so, do you?” Hal knew that not all routiers were lowborn; one of the usurper King Stephen’s most trusted captains had claimed to be the bastard son of a Count of Flanders. But he had no doubts that Sancho and Couraban came from the gutter, and he valued their advice accordingly. He paid these men to bleed for him, not to think for him.

Sancho either did not notice his disapproval or was indifferent to it, for he sauntered forward without waiting to be asked. “I know you’re running out of money again,” he said, and Hal scowled. Whose fault was that? Every time he turned around, these accursed routiers had their palms out.

“So,” Sancho continued, “why not pay a visit to Grandmont?”

Grandmont was a penitential religious order greatly favored by Henry. Its monks, known as “bons hommes” or “good men,” lived lives of extreme austerity and deliberate poverty. Hal pointed that out now, asking sarcastically what the monks had that was worth taking?

Sancho grinned, showing teeth that explained his foul breath. “That is what they all say. The Cistercians claim to be as piss-poor as leprous beggars, but believe me, I’ve carried off enough from the White Monks to go on a monthlong drunk. Monks always have riches hidden away. Did your sire not give Grandmont a pyx of solid gold? Who knows what other treasures they have?”

“Yes, my lord father did give them such a pyx,” Hal acknowledged, stressing the proper way to refer to a king even though he knew it would go right over Sancho’s head. But he began to give serious consideration to the routier’s proposal. It was not just the appeal of ready money, although God knows, he needed it. His father was Grandmont’s most illustrious patron. He’d been very generous to the monks, even rebuilding their church, and had expressed the wish to be buried at their Mother House. Striking at Grandmont would be a dramatic way to strike at his father, too, sending a message that he was not intimidated by those threats of excommunication. He almost asked his knights what they thought, but decided against it, for he’d begun to see that most of them told him only what they thought he’d want to hear. A pity Geoffrey was not here, for his advice could be counted upon.

They were all waiting, and Hal made up his mind, saying nonchalantly: “Why not? We’ll visit the good monks on the morrow.”

The Pyx Henry had given Grandmont was a thing of beauty, made of beaten gold crafted in the shape of a dove. Even in the subdued light of the church, it seemed to shimmer in the dark as Hal approached the high altar. He was irritated with his knights for balking at retrieving it, but they’d mumbled that it did contain the Host, after all, and it was obvious it would take a direct command to get one of them to fetch it. Sancho and Couraban were quite willing to do it, but Hal did not want the pyx to be sullied by their bloodied hands, and so he had no choice, had to get it himself. He felt a superstitious prickle along the back of his neck when he reached for it, and for a moment, it seemed as if the air itself had chilled. Telling himself his imagination was overwrought and the Almighty would understand, he carefully lifted the pyx and carried it from the church.

There he was confronted by Guillaume de Trahinac, the outraged prior, and his equally indignant monks. Garbed in coarse brown tunics with scapulars and hoods, they looked like Old Testament prophets to the uneasy knights, and several glanced toward the sky, almost as if expecting the prior to call down celestial thunderbolts upon their heads.

At the sight of the pyx, the prior stiffened, for he’d not really believed Hal would dare to take it. “Take heed,” he said hoarsely. “Do you think that the Almighty does not see what you do here? Nothing in creation can hide from Him, and if a man sin against the Lord, who shall entreat for him?”

Hal hated the way churchmen were so quick to quote Scriptures, using God’s Words to make their own paltry opinions seem more than they were. He turned to glare at the prior and saw that one of the routiers was swaggering toward the monks, clearly eager to end the argument. Hal was tempted to let him, for he’d enjoy seeing the sanctimonious prior knocked on his skinny butt. But then he sighed and ordered the man to stop. “I just saved you from a beating, Prior Guillaume,” he said. “Look upon it as an act of unexpected mercy from an unrepentant sinner.” His men laughed, but the monks were not cowed and continued to shout out dire warnings as they rode off. Hal stirred laughter again by feigning dismay that men of God should use such unseemly language, but he was glad when they were out of hearing range and the angry voices no longer echoed on the wind.

By Thursday, May 26, Hal and his men were fifty miles to the south, approaching the town of Uzerche. Hal had no one riding at his side, for his nerves were still on the raw and his knights were avoiding him again. Their plundering of the monastery at Grandmont had left a bitter aftertaste, and he’d had unpleasant dreams about the self-righteous monks and their arrant threats. Even his body seemed to be out of sorts, for he’d awakened that morning with a queasy stomach and loose bowels. All in all, it had been a week he wanted only to forget.

That changed, however, within an hour of their arrival at Uzerche. They’d stopped at the abbey of St Pierre, creating a panic until they convinced the monks that they meant only to pass the night there. Hal was so irked by the obvious anxiety of their hosts that he decided to forgo supper and withdrew to the abbot’s chamber, hoping that a night’s sleep would settle his stomach. But several of his knights soon burst into the chamber with the best news that he’d heard in weeks. His allies were here at long last. The Count of Toulouse and Hugh, the Duke of Burgundy, had just ridden into the abbey garth.

Hal did feel better the next day, and took it as a sign that his luck had changed. With all the men brought by Raimon and Hugh, they would now outnumber the forces of his father and brother. While there was some discussion of heading north to lift Henry’s siege or hunt for Richard, no one was keen to fight a pitched battle, not even the routier captains, and they began drifting south, instead, raiding at random. In this almost aimless fashion, the first day of June found them approaching the famed abbey of Rocamadour.

Hal had never been to Rocamadour before, and like all visitors, he was awed by his first glimpse of the celebrated shrine, perched on a limestone cliff five hundred feet above a deep river gorge. A hamlet had sprung up on the lower level of the ridge, shabby taverns and shops selling wine, ale, cider, food, and the ubiquitous pilgrim badges. Higher up was a hospice, the basilica of St Sauveur, and the chapels of St Michel and Notre Dame. It was the latter that drew the pious and the ailing to such a remote, inaccessible site, for Rocamadour was one of the most popular shrines dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, and on this hot summer day, they could see a trail of pilgrims straggling up the steep hill in the hope that they’d be the ones deemed worthy of Our Lady’s miraculous cures.

Later, Hal was not sure who’d first broached the subject, but it was probably in all their minds-the awareness that Rocamadour offered much more lucrative spoils than Grandmont, which had been a decided disappointment, aside from Henry’s gold pyx. The Duke of Burgundy quickly bowed out, joking that heights gave him nosebleeds, and when the Count of Toulouse also declined to participate, Rocamadour’s fate hung for a time in the balance. Hal was astonished by Count Raimon’s stance, for he had a reputation for being as grasping as any pirate and he’d certainly plundered his share of churches in the past. But when pressed, he argued that this was different, that Rocamadour was becoming renowned throughout Christendom.

“Granted that it is not the same as sacking Mont St Michel or the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem,” he conceded. “But why stir up the Church needlessly? I have enough problems with them as it is.”

Hal was envious of Duke Hugh and Count Raimon, men who had their own rich domains, their own resources, lords who were not impoverished kings, forced to such desperate measures by their humiliating lack of lands or money. Still, though, he was irresolute until Sancho and Couraban prodded him into action by implying that there was something shameful about his allies’ refusal and reminding him how deeply he was in debt.

There was no question of taking horses up that imposing cliff; Hal doubted that even a mountain goat could have done it. The sun was scorching, and he was sweating and out of breath by the time they reached the summit, for his stomach ailment had not gone away, after all. Looking down at the serpentine windings of the river far below them, he felt suddenly light-headed and found himself wondering what strange path had led him to this place and this moment. By then the monks were hurrying toward them, looking to him like flapping crows in their black Benedictine garb, their faces so white and set that he knew they’d heard about St Martial’s and Grandmont.

Rocamadour was different from the other plundered abbeys; here they had a larger audience than aggrieved monks. Throngs of pilgrims were staring at them in alarm, shrinking back when the routiers unsheathed swords. The monks blanched, too, at the sight of those naked blades, but they stood their ground, gathering around the man designated as their spokesman, a stooped, spare figure who leaned heavily upon a heavy, oaken cane. But the eyes sunken back in that furrowed, pockmarked face were blazing with an anger that was ageless.

“Go no farther,” he declared, “if you value your immortal souls.”

The routiers laughed at him and headed toward the church. But he was not ready to concede defeat and stepped boldly in front of Hal, holding up his hand as if to hold back the tides. “Thirteen years ago,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice, “the English king came close to dying of a tertian fever. When he recovered, he and his queen made a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Rocamadour to express their gratitude for sparing his life. You are of their flesh; their blood courses through your veins. Should you dishonor them by this barbarous, evil deed, there can be no going back. Harken unto thy father that begat thee. Turn away from this unworthy undertaking ere you shame your noble father and bring down the awful wrath of God Almighty upon your head.”

By now Hal was thoroughly tired of these dramatic, biblical scenes. Noble father? This withered old man had a droll sense of humor. “I will submit to divine judgment upon Dies Irae as all good Christians must, and when I face the Great Creator, at least it will not be with the blood of a martyred archbishop upon my hands,” he snapped and shoved past the monk.

The chapel of Our Lady had been filled with pilgrims, but they were fleeing in panic before the routiers. Sancho grinned at Hal, holding up a hemp sack stuffed with silver plate, candlesticks, and chalices, all of which had proudly adorned the high altar. “We hit the mother lode this time,” he announced gleefully. “You’ll be able to hire a whole troop of routiers with what you’re getting today.”

“Need I remind you that this is a loan, not a treasure trove?” Hal said truculently, and then came to a halt, his eyes locking upon the Black Virgin. Carved of dark walnut, it dominated the chapel, conveying none of the mercy and grace associated with the gentle Mary. This was a stark, severe image, almost primitive in its austerity, as if harkening back to a time long lost in the mists of memory. That was such an odd, irreverent thought that Hal felt a sudden chill, much as he’d experienced in the church at Grandmont, and he abruptly abandoned his intention to offer the Mother of God a prayer of apology and explanation. Turning on his heel, he started to leave the chapel, signaling one of his knights to keep a sharp eye upon the routiers; they were not going to benefit personally from their plunder if he could help it.

He stopped, though, when Sancho called out, “Wait, my lord! Do you not want the sword of Roland?”

Hal spun around. He’d forgotten that the sword reputed to have been wielded by the legendary French hero was kept at Rocamadour. Retracing his steps, he took the weapon from Sancho, his fingers lingering upon the blade as if it were a holy relic. “Durandal,” he said softly. “That is what he named it.”

Sancho no more believed this was Roland’s sword than he believed in the bona fides of all those fragments of the True Cross; he’d once taken part in a scheme to dupe gullible pilgrims into making offerings at a manger said to contain some of the holy straw that had cradled the Christ Child. This experience had convinced him that people were as simple as sheep, and he included Hal in the flock. He was in good spirits, though, for they were all going to profit handsomely from their haul at Rocamadour, and in truth, he felt a little sorry for this pampered young lordling. If a man was going to follow the brigand’s road, he ought to enjoy it, and from what he could tell, Hal had less joy in his life than these shriveled, stiff-necked Black Monks.

“Why not take it?” he suggested, seeing how Hal was caressing the sword with his eyes. The lad might as well be hung for a goat as a sheep, he thought, and managed to keep himself from slapping Hal on the back when the young king unsheathed his own weapon, then reverently slid the celebrated sword of Roland into his scabbard.

The walled town of Martel was only eight miles north of Rocamadour, and Hal heaved a sigh of relief when its seven towers finally came into view. His abdominal cramps had gotten more severe, and by the time they reached Martel, his bowels had become so loose that he’d had to make several quick stops by the side of the road. Colic and diarrhea were such common ailments, though, that the teasing he had to endure was offhand, and he was thankful for that; he’d always prided himself on his sense of humor, but this spring it had definitely begun to unravel around the edges.

They were lodging in a fortified manor house in the center of town; known as the Maison Fabri, it was a substantial stone three-story building overlooking the marketplace. Once Etienne de Fabri had escorted Hal up to the best bedchamber, he wasted no time in stripping off his hauberk and soiled clothes, then ordered a bath. He felt a little better once he was clean, but his stomach roiled at the mere thought of food, and he settled instead for wine flavored with comfrey root, a reliable remedy for his malady. Lying back on the bed, he soon fell asleep.

When he awoke, he was momentarily disoriented, not remembering where he was. “God help me,” he groaned, “if it is morning already,” and his squires responded with laughter.

“Nay, my lord. Dawn is hours away. But you have a visitor.”

Hal squinted up at them in disbelief. “There is only one person in the world I am that eager to see. So unless you’ve awakened me to welcome my queen, the pair of you will need to find a new lord on the morrow.”

They greeted that sally with even louder laughter, and Hal sat up with another groan, thinking that he must teach his household to take his mock threats more seriously, but knowing he would not, for he’d realized very early in life that he’d much rather be loved than feared. “I am awake…I think. Just who is this distinguished guest worthy of disturbing my sleep?”

“Sir Baldwin de Bethune and Sir Hugh de Hamelincourt, my liege.”

Hal smiled, for both knights were friends as well as liegemen, and it pleased him greatly that they had responded so promptly to his summons. “Well, send them in,” he said and winked at his squire. “You’ve been reprieved, Benoit, need not seek a new lord, after all.”

Benoit was beaming. “They were not traveling alone, my lord,” he said, and nodded to the other squire, who swung the door open wide.

Hal caught his breath as Will Marshal entered the chamber, flanked by Baldwin and Hugh. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he started to get to his feet, and was startled when the room began to spin. He grabbed for the closest arm, and it was only after he’d straightened up that he saw it was Will’s. The other men had discreetly withdrawn, leaving them alone.

“The sight of you gladdens my eyes,” Hal said huskily, “indeed it does.”

“Sit back on the bed, my liege. I was told you’d been ailing?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Hal assured him, but took Will’s advice and sat down again. “Germany must have agreed with you,” he joked, “for you are looking sleek and well fed.”

Will could not return the compliment, for Hal had lost so much weight that his cheekbones stood out in sharp prominence, making him look almost gaunt, and his fair skin was splotched with hectic color. “Let me get you some wine,” he said and busied himself in pouring drinks for them both, using that time to disguise his concern.

“So…” Hal said happily, “you decided you did not need that safe conduct after all.”

Will blinked in surprise. “I have one, my liege. Your lord father was good enough to grant it.”

Hal’s mouth dropped open. “You are serious? Jesus wept, if that is not just like my father! He has his bishops cast me out into eternal darkness and then he gives you permission to fight with me.”

Will handed him a cup, his eyes searching Hal’s face. “You were not excommunicated. The old king instructed the bishops to pass sentence upon all the men who’d stirred up dissension between the two of you, but he told them not to include you in the damnation.”

“For true, Will?” Hal had not realized how nervous he was until that fear was suddenly lifted. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, and then grinned. “No, I guess now I will not! What about Geoffrey? Was he spared, too?”

“I do not know,” Will admitted. Reaching into his tunic, he drew forth two sealed parchments. “The French king gave me this for you, my lord. And this one is from your lady, Queen Marguerite.” His eyes met Hal’s levelly, but Hal did not take up the challenge; he was the first to look away.

Hal could feel heat rising in his face, heat that had nothing to do with his fever. An awkward silence fell. What did Will want? An apology? Fair enough if it would mend this rift between them. “I am sorry,” he said carefully, “for any misunderstandings we may have had. I want us to put the past behind us, Will, to start anew. Can we do that?”

This was, Will realized, as close to an apology as he was going to get. “Yes, my liege,” he said quietly, “we can do that,” and was rewarded with a radiant smile, the smile of the young lord he’d loved and tutored and protected for so many years.

Hal got to his feet again, somewhat unsteadily, and embraced the older man. “Welcome back, Will,” he said, and laughed joyfully. “Welcome home.”

Hal had reluctantly agreed to spend the next day in bed, but that night he insisted upon joining the others in the great hall. A hunting party had been successful, and they were able to feast on venison, washing it down with prodigious amounts of wine. Hal merely pushed the meat around on his trencher, but he drained his wine cup often and discovered that it was as effective a restorative as comfrey root. The other men were drinking freely, too, and the atmosphere in the hall soon became boisterous and rowdy.

Will Marshal was one of the few who stayed completely sober. At Hal’s insistence, he’d eaten with them at the high table, but once the dishes were cleared off and the tables removed, he slipped away and sat down inconspicuously in a window-seat, where he was soon joined by Peter Fitz Guy and Baldwin de Bethune. Without speaking, they watched the antics upon the dais, where Hal was bantering with Duke Hugh and Count Raimon. Hal was very animated, laughing often, making such expansive gestures with his wine cup that he was in danger of dousing the knights crowding around him.

“Is he drunk?” Baldwin sounded uncertain, for he could not remember ever seeing Hal totally in his cups.

“I think it is the fever more than the wine,” Will said, low-voiced, and then frowned at a loud burst of profanity coming from a corner where the routiers were dicing.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, Peter dropped his voice, too. “We scraped the bottom of the barrel for that lot,” he said grimly. “I tell you, Will, it grieves me to say this, but these past weeks I’ve felt as if I were riding with an outlaw band.”

Will looked at him intently. “Why have you stayed, then, Peter?”

“For the same reason that you came back, old friend.” After a moment, Peter said softly, “God help us all.” Although he smiled, it was not a joke, and Will and Baldwin knew it.

Will was up early the next morning, breaking his fast with a plentiful helping of soft cheese and sops of bread soaked in wine. He was soon surrounded by friends, and they began to tease him about his ravenous appetite, doing their best to act as if things were as they’d once been, back in those halcyon days when they’d been so proud to serve the young king, so proud to be known as his knights, and the world seemed full of such shining promise.

“My lord…” Hal’s squire materialized at Will’s elbow, asking for a private moment, and as soon as Will led him aside, Benoit blurted out that Hal had a bad night, not falling asleep until dawn was nigh.

“The doctor said I must give him a potion of comfrey root and costmary every two hours, but I have been unable to rouse him, and I do not know what to do. Should I let him sleep?”

Will knew what the boy really wanted-someone to assume a responsibility that was too heavy for such narrow shoulders. “I’ll come up to his chamber with you and see how the king is faring this morn,” he said, and Benoit’s face glowed with the intensity of his relief. As they mounted the stairs, Will assured the squire that Hal was on the mend, and he was convincing for he believed it himself. Hal was young and healthy and there was no reason to think he would not soon recover.

The chamber was stifling, so hot that Will strode over to the window and flung the shutters wide. His nose wrinkling as he breathed in a fetid, rank odor, he crossed swiftly to the bed. The sheets were soaked in sweat and the stench grew stronger. “My lord, you must wake up,” Will said firmly. When he got no response from the man in the bed, he touched Hal’s shoulder and drew a sharp breath, for his skin was searing to the touch. “My liege…Hal!”

Hal mumbled incoherently, turning his head away from the light, and Will reached for the sheet, pulled it back. Benoit had followed him to the bed, and cried out at the sight of the blood and feces, his face twisting in horror. Will swung around quickly and grasped his arm.

“You must not panic, Benoit. I need you to keep your head. Do you understand me?” And when the boy nodded, he released his grip, saying as calmly as he could, “Good lad. Now I want you to fetch the doctor straightaway.”

Benoit nodded again and fled. Will could hear the thudding of his feet on the stairs. Once he was sure that help was on the way, he leaned over the bed again. “The bloody flux,” he whispered. “Ah, Hal…” But his throat had constricted, making further speech impossible.