Devil's Brood

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

June 1183

Martel, Limousin

Hal had been blessed with bountiful good health as well as beauty and had only vague memories of childhood illnesses. He was dimly aware now that he was very sick. He’d drifted far from familiar shores, his dreams shot through with swirling hot colors and hazy forebodings. He wanted only to sleep, yet people would not let him alone. They kept poking and prodding him, swathing his body in cold compresses, trying to get him to swallow bitter-tasting liquids that he did not want to drink. He’d thrashed about in bed, seeking to evade these unwelcome ministrations, but they persevered and he was too weak to resist.

Delirium was not unlike drowning, for he was caught up in a riptide carrying him farther and farther from reality. And when he finally regained consciousness, he had to fight his way back to the surface, gasping for breath as he broke free of the feverish currents dragging him down. The light was unbearably bright, even after he filtered it through his lashes. Gradually the room came into focus. Two of his friends, Robert de Tresgoz and Peter Fitz Guy, were slumped on a bench by the bed, and his squire Benoit was seated cross-legged in the floor rushes; he wondered why they all looked so miserable. When he opened his mouth to ask them, though, the words that emerged from his throat were so slurred that even he could not understand them.

The sound was enough to jerk their heads up, and the next moment, they were gathered by the bed, all talking at once. They were not making much sense to Hal. Benoit kept murmuring “God’s Grace” as if he had no other words, and Peter seemed to be blinking back tears. But Robert was acting the most strangely, wanting to know if Hal could recognize him. Hal thought that was a very odd question, for he’d known the Norman knight for most of his life. He opened his mouth again, meaning to assure Rob that he was too ugly to forget, but he was surprised to discover that speaking demanded more energy than he could muster. When he flinched away from the sunlight flooding the bed, one of them hurried to close the shutters, and the chamber was soon a scene of joyous confusion as other men crowded in.

Hal felt a great relief at the sight of Will, sure all would be well now that the Marshal was here. He was not as pleased to see the doctor, looming over the bed like an avenging angel, for he recognized the man as his chief tormentor, the one who’d kept pouring vile potions down his throat, who would not go away.

“God be praised, the fever is down,” the doctor announced, but he sounded so triumphant that Hal thought he was claiming more credit than the Almighty for that benevolence. Doctors were like that, he knew. It was always their doing when a patient recovered and God’s Will when he did not. He could not summon up the effort to tease the physician, though; since when did talking tire a man out so? He was finding it hard to stay awake, but he was loath to slip back into those disquieting dreams, and when his eyes met Will’s, he silently entreated the older man to keep vigil whilst he slept. When Will brought a stool close to the bed and sat down, he smiled. Will had understood. Bless him, Will always understood.

When Hal awoke hours later, he was disappointed that he was still as weak as a newborn cub. He must have been at death’s door, for certes. He was astonished to learn that this was Sunday; he’d lost three full days of his life! He remembered some of it now-the sharp pains in his belly, the endless bouts of diarrhea, the nausea. No wonder he felt as flat as a loaf of unleavened bread. He’d have to be patient as he got his strength back, and patience came no easier to him than it did to the rest of his family.

His stomach was not ready to cooperate, though, and when they tried to feed him egg yolks mixed with cumin and pepper, he promptly vomited them up. He could not even keep wine down, and the doctor had to settle for mixing galingale and yarrow in spring water, then feeding it to Hal one small spoonful at a time. At least he was no longer passing clotted blood, doubtless because he had nothing left to void. But he sounded like a croaking crow and looked like a corpse waiting to be sewn into his shroud, complaints his friends were happy to agree with. He thought they were much too eager to regale him with accounts of his suffering, gleefully describing how he had been “sweating like a Southwark cut-purse caught by the Watch” and “spewing your guts out” and “shitting a river of blood.”

When the doctor made ready to bleed him, that brought back another unpleasant memory, and he grumbled that “I dreamed I was stabbed by a lunatic with a knife, but it was really a leech with a lancet!” The knights all laughed, but the doctor ignored his protests and deftly opened a vein in his arm, explaining needlessly that it was done to drain away the noxious humors that caused fever.

Knowing full well that bloodletting was an approved method of treating numerous ailments, Hal thought the doctor sounded like a prideful buffoon, but it was probably not wise to vex a man with a blade in his hand and so he submitted grudgingly to the treatment, although he noticed that he seemed much more light-headed after the procedure.

The men around his bed were members of his inner circle; most had been with him since his coronation at age fifteen. His gaze flickered from one familiar face to another. Will and Baldwin de Bethune and Simon de Marisco and Roger de Gaugi and Robert de Tresgoz and Peter Fitz Guy. A man could not ask for better friends. He’d been told that they’d rarely left his side during the worst of the crisis. He wished he could thank them for their devotion, but knew they’d be flustered and discomfited if he did, for banter and sarcasm were the only languages spoken in their realm.

At the moment, they were harassing Rob, entertaining Hal with exaggerated accounts of Rob’s erratic behavior in the last few days. It seemed that he’d recalled some folklore that a fever could be cured by the liver of a beaver, and he’d been flailing around on the riverbank as long as there was light, trying to catch one. When Hal asked if this was true, Rob confirmed it with a sheepish grin, insisting that beaver liver, if fried with onions, could heal the worst fever. He would have elaborated upon this miracle remedy if Will had not seen the greensick look on Hal’s face and hastily cut him off.

Hal could bring up only yellowish bile, for he’d not been able to eat for days. His friends were clustering around him, offering wine and putting wet compresses on his forehead and rushing off to see if the doctor thought he ought to be bled again. “Go away,” he groaned, “you’re worse than a mother abbess with one novice nun,” and they laughed uproariously, for these glimmers of humor were surely the best proof that the Almighty had heeded their prayers and not those of the vengeful monks.

Sunday’s celebration continued into the next day, for Hal’s allies and routiers were just as pleased by his recovery as the knights who loved him. Will lost track of all the toasts drunk to Hal’s health, but he observed the hilarity with a jaundiced eye, well aware that these men had a vested interest in the young king’s well-being. The more he saw at Martel, the more he understood Peter’s bleak admission. How had Hal ever come to this-leading an outlaw band of cutthroats and bandits? And how was he going to convince Hal to renounce these false friends and return to his proper allegiance?

Hal was no stronger on Monday, still could not eat without becoming nauseous, and although he now had a constant thirst, he could only keep water down. But he was quite lucid and his men took heart from that, assuring themselves that he’d soon be on the mend. Will was not so sure and began to harbor doubts. Hal was young and had been robust and vigorous. Shouldn’t he have begun to regain some of his strength by now? It frightened Will to see how feeble he was; the man able to wield a ten-foot lance with lethal skill could not even hold a cup to his blistered lips.

Because of his own disquiet, Will soon picked up on the doctor’s unease and nerved himself to demand the truth. He was not prepared, though, for the grim response he got from the physician. Once they were safely away from eavesdroppers, the doctor seemed relieved to share his fears. It was not just that the young king was showing no signs of improvement. His new symptoms were troubling, too. His skin and mouth were very dry, and his thirst could not be quenched. His eyes were sunken back in his head, and despite all the water he was drinking, his urine was scant and when it did come, it was a dark yellow. Had Sir William noticed that he was no longer sweating? Will had not, and when he asked what that meant, the doctor muttered evasively that it was never a good sign.

“Are you…are you saying that he will not recover?”

The physician no longer met his eyes. “That is in God’s Hands, and not for me to say.” Will stared at him in horror, understanding that he’d just pronounced a death sentence upon the young king.

Hal was frustrated that he was making so little progress. This was Tuesday morn; ought he not to be regaining strength by now? He’d been dozing since dawn, and each time he awoke, Will and Rob and Baldwin and Benoit were keeping watch by his bed, standing guard against night demons and, quite likely, the routiers. When he’d emerged from his delirium, Hal had been surprised to find an unfamiliar emerald ring upon his hand. Emeralds were said to have the power to vanquish fevers, they reminded him, and the Duke of Burgundy had kindly offered his own ring. It was a valuable piece of jewelry and Hal had jested with his knights, wondering how much they could sell it for. But he’d begun to fret that a routier might sneak into his chamber and steal it, and he decided that, if only for his peace of mind, they ought to return it to Hugh. He did not need it anymore, after all, for his fever had not spiked again, was more like a smoldering peat fire now than a roaring conflagration.

He watched his friends for several moments before they noticed he was awake. “If you are not a sad-looking lot,” he mocked. “You’d think I was on my deathbed or that Richard had Martel under siege and we were running out of wine…”

He’d meant it as a joke, but there was nothing amusing about the reaction he got. His jape was met with a stricken silence, and suddenly they were looking everywhere but at his face. He stared at them incredulously. “I am not dying…am I?”

This time they responded with a flurry of frenzied denials, assuring him that of course he was not dying, what a foolish notion, he’d be up and about in no time at all. Hal was stunned, for he could see they were lying. Will alone had kept silent, but now he cried out sharply, “Enough! He deserves the truth.”

When they would have protested, Will stared them down. “He has the right to know,” he insisted. “He needs to know whilst there is still time to make amends.”

They could see the pulse thudding in Hal’s throat, hear the ragged edge to his breathing. “But…but I was getting better…You all said so…”

Will knew that Hal had always preferred an oblique approach to unpleasant truths. But he had no choice now, had to face it head-on. “We hoped you were, my liege. But you’ve been growing weaker and…and the doctor says your recovery is now in God’s Hands.”

Hal looked at him mutely and then turned his head away from them. “Go,” he said hoarsely, “leave me be…”

They did not argue and fled in unseemly haste, none of them knowing what to say or how to comfort him. Will did not go far, though, for he knew that Hal, of all men, would never find solace in solitude. He waited what he hoped was a decent interval, time enough for Hal to absorb the blow, then knocked on the door and came back into the chamber.

“I will go if you wish it,” he said, and when Hal didn’t object, he approached the bed, dreading what he would see. Hal’s spectacular tournament successes had overshadowed the fact that he was not as gifted a battle commander as Richard, or Geoffrey either, for that matter. He did not seem to have a head for strategy, to be able to anticipate the unforeseen or to adopt long-range plans. No one had ever questioned his courage, though. If he did not have Richard’s reckless daring, few men did. Will had never seen him display fear, either at castle sieges or in the wild melees of the tourney, which could be as dangerous as battle skirmishes. But he’d never seen Hal look as he did now-eyes wide and staring, pupils so dilated that much of the blue had been swallowed up, filled with utter panic.

When he spoke, his voice was unsteady, almost inaudible. “God is punishing me for my sins, Will.”

“Yes,” Will said softly. “I fear he is, lad.”

“I ought to have heeded the monks. They tried to warn me, but I would not listen. And now it is too late. Lucifer is here, waiting to claim my soul…Can you feel his presence, too?” Hal shivered. “I am damned and it is my own fault, Will-”

“Hal, no!” Will had to fight the urge to glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see diabolic red eyes glowing in the shadows. “It is not too late. The Almighty has not forsaken you, has given you a great mercy-time to repent and seek forgiveness.”

Hal had a heartbeat of hope, but no more than that. “No…” he whispered. “They’d not forgive me. How could they?”

Will was momentarily puzzled, not sure who “they” were. But then he understood. Hal was speaking of his Divine Father in Heaven and his earthly father at Limoges. “Of course they’d forgive you, Hal. The mercy of the Almighty is everlasting and endureth forever. And the lord king has never ceased to love you. Why do you think he spared you from excommunication? Or granted me a safe conduct to come to you? Are those the actions of an unloving father?”

Hal desperately wanted to believe him. “But my sins are so grievous…”

“That does not matter, not if you are truly contrite.” As complete as Will’s education had been in military matters and the tenets of chivalry, he’d not learned to read or write. He’d never regretted that lack, not until now when he yearned to quote Scriptures that could assuage Hal’s fear. Fortunately, even though he’d never been able to read the Holy Writ, he did have an excellent memory and could remember enough to paraphrase with reasonable accuracy. “The Lord God will not turn His Face away from you if you return to Him.” Will forced a smile. “Holy Writ says there is great joy in Heaven over even one sinner who repents.”

Tears welled in Hal’s eyes. “When I thought that salvation would be denied me and that it was all my doing…” He shuddered, but he no longer sounded like a man sure he was doomed. “Fetch me a priest, Will, so I may be shriven.”

Will managed another smile even as his own eyes filled with tears. “You need not settle for a priest, lad. You have a bishop at your beck and call. Bishop Gerald of Cahors rode in an hour ago. Shall I summon him now?”

“Please.” Hal was suddenly terrified that he might die before he could confess his sins. But he still called Will back as he reached the door. “Will…I must see my father ere I die, must tell him how sorry I am…”

Will doubted that Henry would come, not after being shot at twice under flags of truce. But he was not going to rob Hal of the smallest sliver of hope, and he said, as confidently as he could, “We shall send a man to Limoges straightaway.” Once he was out in the stairwell, though, he sagged against the wall, feeling as if his bones were suddenly made of sawdust, incapable of supporting his weight, much less his grief.

Alfonso, the young king of Aragon, had arrived to assist Richard and Henry in fighting the Limousin rebels and his personal bete noire, the Count of Toulouse. Daylight held sway well into the evening on summer nights, and Richard took Alfonso to see Aixe, the castle now garrisoned by rebels.

“We’ll lay siege to it on the morrow,” he said, “and if they balk at surrender, God may pardon their sins, but I will not.”

Alfonso smiled, thinking that Richard had changed little since their first meeting at Limoges, ten long years ago. He was still as decisive and confident as ever. “I can see,” he joked, “why your men call you Richard Yea or Nay, for you’re never one to dither at crossroads, are you?”

Richard glanced at him in surprise; he’d not known he’d been given that nickname. He was not displeased, though, thinking there were far worse things a man could be called. He’d begun to suggest unflattering nicknames for his elder brother-Sir Spendthrift and Lord Lies a Lot among the least insulting-when a scout sounded the alarm.

“A horseman is coming, my lord, riding like he’s escaping from Hell!”

To Alfonso’s amusement, Richard at once swung onto his stallion and rode out to intercept this mystery rider. He mounted with less haste and followed after his friend. By now the horseman was within recognition range and after a moment, Alfonso identified him as the old king’s chancellor and natural son, whom he’d met just hours ago at the cite. Pebbles and dirt flew everywhere as Geoff reined in his mount. The animal was streaked with lather and Alfonso braced for bad news, knowing that Richard’s brother would not push a horse like this unless the message he bore was urgent.

Richard had reached the same conclusion. “What has happened now?” he asked warily, for lately the war had not been going well. He’d chased Geoffrey’s routiers out of Poitou into Brittany, but his duchy was still infested with these vermin, some hired by the French king and the rebel lords, others freelancing, and the arrival of the Duke of Burgundy and the Count of Toulouse threatened to tip the balance in their favor.

“You’ll not believe Hal’s latest knavery!” Richard was accustomed to Geoff waxing indignant about their brother, but he’d never seen him so outraged; he was literally shaking with the intensity of his emotions. “He sent a man to our father tonight, claiming that he is dying and pleading that Papa come to Martel and forgive him ere he does!”

Richard’s jaw dropped, and his indrawn breath was audible enough for Alfonso to hear. Many considered it shocking and even sacrilegious that Henry dared to swear upon the Almighty, God’s Bones being one of his favorite oaths. The holy body part that Richard now blurted out was so scandalous that Alfonso did not know whether to laugh or move out of range. It was obvious, though, that Richard’s blasphemy was involuntary; he looked as if he’d been pole-axed.

“Every time I think that whoreson has gone as low as he can,” Richard spat, “he finds a shovel and keeps digging!”

“You have not heard the worst of it yet. Papa wants to go to Martel!”

“Then he is not just in his dotage, he is stark, raving mad!”

Richard wasted no more time questioning his father’s sanity, took off in a cloud of dust, with Geoff right behind him. By now Alfonso’s men had caught up with him; they’d been alarmed to have their lord and the duke ride off like that. They were further puzzled to see Richard already disappearing in the distance, with his own knights scrambling to keep pace, but their king did not appear to be perturbed by these odd events. When they reined in and asked him if all was well, Alfonso assured them it was and then grinned.

“It seems we are returning to Limoges,” he said. “It should be an interesting evening.”

Richard found the situation at the Bishop of Limoges’s palace was not as dire as he’d feared, for he did not lack for allies. In fact, the one without allies was Henry; he was facing unanimous opposition from kinsmen, friends, barons, and bishops. Ranulf, Richard, and Geoff presented a united family front. Willem and Maurice de Craon and Rotrou, Count of Perche, were adamantly opposed to his going to Martel, too. The newly arrived Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishops of Angers and Agen were also lined up against Henry. The only one holding his peace was Sebran Chabot, their host; he’d been embroiled in a contentious dispute with Henry and Richard upon his election to the bishopric of Limoges several years ago and thought the iced-over breach with his duke and king was too fragile to test.

As was his wont, Richard seized control and launched into a passionate assault upon Hal’s tattered credibility. He demanded to hear this “dunghill of lies” with his own ears and Robert de Tresgoz was ushered back into the bishop’s great hall. At the very sight of the Norman knight, Richard burst out into scornful laughter.

“Well, well, if it is not one of Hal’s pet lapdogs! They’d have done better to send a priest, but after the raids on St Martial’s, Grandmont, and Rocamadour, even Hal’s own chaplain has likely taken to his heels.”

Rob was enraged to be dismissed so disdainfully, but his anger was muted by exhaustion, for he’d covered more than seventy-five miles in less than two days. “I am speaking God’s Truth,” he insisted. “The young king was stricken with the bloody flux, and he is not expected to recover.” But to his despair, he saw that his words were echoing into a void; no one was paying him any heed and he was ushered out again, knowing that he had failed Hal in his moment of greatest need.

Henry had lapsed into silence as the argument raged around him, no longer attempting to rebut the objections coming fast and furious from his two sons; with fine teamwork, Richard and Geoff were taking turns reminding him of that arrow deflected by his hauberk, the death of his stallion outside the walls of the ville, the ambush upon Maurice de Craon, the treacherous assault upon his envoys by Geoffrey’s men, the lies, the betrayals, the numerous breaches of trust.

It was Henry’s uncharacteristic reticence that attracted Ranulf’s attention. When had Harry ever been passive in the face of defiance? Why was he even bothering to hear them out if he was set upon trusting his faithless son yet again? And then Ranulf understood. Harry was not free of doubts, either. Once more he found his head warring with his heart. And with that realization, Ranulf saw a path opening up through this maze.

“My liege, may I have a moment alone with you?” he asked, and while Richard and Geoff seemed reluctant to trust Henry out of their sight, the others took hope from this, for all knew that if any man could get through to the king, it would be his uncle. Henry seized upon the opportunity to escape his sons’ hectoring and led Ranulf out into the garth.

Twilight was laying claim to the cite, and the sky was a deepening shade of lavender, spangled with stars and fleecy clouds the color of plums. It was such a beautiful summer evening that Ranulf and Henry walked in silence for several moments, as if reluctant to sully this hallowed peace with the feuding and bad faith of mortal men. Without speaking, they crossed the garth and, by common consent, entered a side door of the cathedral. It was empty save for a lone canon, who discreetly disappeared when Henry frowned in his direction. Pacing up the nave, they halted at last in front of the high altar, and only then did Henry look challengingly at the older man.

“You cannot tell me, Uncle, that you would not go to Morgan if you received such a message.”

“Yes, I would go,” Ranulf admitted, but refrained from pointing out that Morgan had never given him reason to distrust his word, for he knew that his nephew was painfully aware of his son’s failings. “If you do go to Martel, we may have to sneak out in the middle of the night,” he said, only half joking, for he could see Richard and Geoff locking Henry in his chamber rather than let him risk his life and his kingdom on Hal’s word of honor.

“ We? Take care with your pronouns, Ranulf, lest you find yourself accompanying me to Martel,” Henry said dryly, and was surprised when his uncle smiled.

“I will go with you, Harry-if you answer one question. Can you honestly tell me that you have no doubts or suspicions about the truth of Hal’s story?”

Several tall candles burned on the high altar, and Ranulf thought he caught the glimmer of tears in his nephew’s eyes. Henry did not reply, and they both knew that was an answer in and of itself.

Ranulf had gone back to the bishop’s hall to tell the others that Henry would not be taking Hal’s bait, not this time. Henry was never to know how long he remained alone in the church. Until this June evening at Limoges, he would have said that the most despairing, desperate moment of his life had been passed at Canterbury, kneeling before Thomas Becket’s tomb. Now he knew better. Eventually one of the canons appeared, coming to a sudden stop as soon as he saw the motionless figure of the king. Before he could retreat, Henry beckoned him forward, giving a terse one-sentence command that sent the man hastening out into the night.

The Bishop of Agen did not keep Henry waiting long. “Sire? How may I be of service? Is it your wish that we pray together?”

Henry doubted that he had God’s Ear these days, but he kept that blasphemous thought to himself. “I have another mission in mind for you, my lord bishop. I want you to ride to Martel at first light, see for yourself if my son is ailing. And if you find…if you find that it is true, tell him for me that he has my forgiveness, that he has my love.”

The bishop inclined his head, feeling so much pity for the English king that he was momentarily mute. Henry didn’t notice. Tugging at a ring on his finger, he pulled it free and pressed it into the bishop’s hand. “Give him this. It was my grandfather’s, passed on to me by my mother when I was invested as Duke of Normandy. Hal will recognize it as mine.”

“It will be done, my lord king,” the bishop said quietly. But as he withdrew, he was struck by a disconcerting thought. Whatever he found in Martel, he would be bringing grievous news back to the king. What would be worse-that Hal was truly on his deathbed or that once again he’d taken shameless advantage of his father’s trust, exploiting his love to lure him into a lethal trap?

Hal continued to grow weaker, but his knights were convinced he would cling to life until he could make peace with his father, for now that he no longer feared eternal damnation, he was obsessed with righting the wrongs he’d done, especially to Henry. In a way, this was a mercy, for he was so concerned with making amends and making a “good death” that he’d not had time to mourn all that he was losing. A man who’d lived utterly for the pleasures of today with nary a thought for the morrow was now consumed with regrets, able to focus only upon his yearnings for salvation and forgiveness, and his friends prayed fervently that he would obtain both.

Will was not alone in thinking it unlikely that Henry would come, and as the hours slid by, they were finding it harder and harder to maintain a cheerful pose in Hal’s presence, to keep his hopes alive even as his body wasted away. He was displaying a single-minded resolve that he’d never shown before; he’d worked out in his mind how long it should take Rob to reach Limoges and then to return with Henry, and when Friday dawned, his eagerness was painful for the other men to watch.

Rob arrived as Vespers was chiming in the town churches. So guilt-stricken did he feel that he’d been tempted to take his time on his return trip, rationalizing that he’d be sparing Hal great pain as well as himself. Was it not better for Hal to die still hoping for reconciliation than to know his father had not believed him? But he continued to spur his horse onward, driven by a sense of duty that was stronger even than his sorrow. When he dismounted before the Fabri manor, he was mobbed by the other knights. But after one look at his haggard face, they asked no questions. The king would not be coming. Did it matter why?

To their surprise and relief, Hal seemed to take the news better than they did. He listened without speaking as Rob stammered and stuttered and tried to put the best possible face upon Henry’s refusal, and then he said softly, “It would have taken Merlin to make it happen, Rob. Do not blame yourself.”

Will was not fooled, though, by Hal’s composure, and when Hal then whispered for his ears alone, “I did not deserve his forgiveness,” the older man could not bear it and, excusing himself, started for the stables, determined to ride to Limoges himself. When Baldwin and Peter learned of his intent, though, they were able to talk him out of it by pointing out that it was too late. Even if Will could somehow convince the king, Hal would be dead long before they could get back to Martel. For Will, it was the worst moment of a wretched week. He was naturally a man of action, and he was finding it intolerable to watch helplessly as the young king’s earthly hours trickled away like sands in an hourglass. But he must be at Hal’s deathbed, for it was the last service he could perform for his lord.

Hal had been sincere when he said he did not deserve forgiveness; there could be few epiphanies as dramatic as one brought about by the awareness of impending death. But no matter how often he told himself that his punishment was just and fitting, he was anguished by his father’s rejection. If the man he’d finally become in the last week of his life could try to accept Henry’s judgment, the boy he’d always been cried out for mercy, needing his father to bring light into the encroaching darkness of his world, to say he understood and the slate of his misdeeds was wiped clean-just as he’d done time and time again.

When Will burst into the chamber and saw Hal lying so still, his eyes flew to the dying man’s chest, holding his own breath until he reassured himself that Hal still breathed. Baldwin and Peter were keeping watch, and they started to warn him to be quiet, grateful that Hal seemed to be sleeping at last. Will ignored them and leaned over the bed. “My liege, a messenger has just ridden in, sent by your lord father!”

Hal’s lashes flickered. “Truly?”

“It is Bertrand de Berceyras, the Bishop of Agen, and his escort, the Count of Perche.” Will glanced at Simon and jerked his head toward the door. The knight hurried to open it and ushered the men into the chamber. They both came to an abrupt halt when Will shifted, giving them their first look at Hal. That was all it took to banish their suspicions, doubts, and misgivings.

Rotrou of Perche was particularly remorseful, for he’d been one of Hal’s allies during the first rebellion, and when his eyes met Hal’s, he flushed. Hal acknowledged their past with a wan smile. “Who’d have thought, Rotrou, that I’d get to Hell ere you did?” As the bishop approached, he said hastily, “That was a joke, my lord…and a bad one. Have…have you really come from my father?”

“Indeed, my liege.” Bishop Bertrand was so shaken by Hal’s shocking decline that he unfastened his own paternoster from his belt and placed it on the pillow next to Hal, then reached out and took the young king’s hot, dry hand in his. “King Henry bade me tell you that he freely and gladly grants you full forgiveness for your sins, and that he has never ceased to love you.”

Hal’s lashes swept down, shadowing his cheeks like fans as tears seeped from the corners of his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, although the bishop was not sure if it was meant for him, for Henry, or for the Almighty.

“I bring more than words,” he said and, taking a small leather pouch from around his neck, he shook out a sapphire ring set in beaten gold. He started to tell Hal that this was Henry’s ring, but saw there was no need, for Hal could not have shown more reverence if he’d produced a holy relic.

“He does forgive me, then!” he cried and gave the bishop such a dazzling smile that for a moment the ravages of his illness were forgotten and they could almost believe this was the young king of cherished memory, the golden boy more beautiful than a fallen angel, able to ensnare hearts with such dangerous ease. Then the illusion passed and they were looking at a man gaunt, hollow-eyed, suffering, and all too mortal. Too weak to do it himself, Hal looked entreatingly at the bishop, saying, “Please…”

When the bishop slid the ring onto his finger, he smiled again and closed his eyes. A hush settled over the chamber. The bishop directed an urgent low-voiced question to Will, and sighed with relief when Will assured him that Hal had been shriven by the Bishop of Cahors and that he’d made his last testament, for that was every Christian’s duty.

Death seemed very close to them at that moment. But then Hal opened his eyes and said faintly, “I would send a letter…my father…” And that spurred them all into action. Within moments, pen, ink, and parchment had been found, and the bishop insisted upon taking them himself. “I’ve never had so exalted a scribe…” Hal whispered, and as the bishop bent forward to hear him, he tried to tell Bertrand what he wanted to say, but the words would not come and he looked at the older man imploringly.

“We could begin with a quote from Scriptures,” the bishop suggested, and when Hal nodded, he paused to think of an appropriate verse. “ Remember not the sins of my youth, or my transgressions. What would you say then, my lord?”

Will was holding a cup to Hal’s lips. He swallowed with an effort, saying, “Tell him that I am so sorry for letting him down…that I was a bad son and a bad king…” Will tilted the cup for him again, and his voice steadied somewhat. “Tell him of my love. Entreat him to forgive my mother, not to blame her for my sins…Marguerite, ask him to provide liberally for my wife…And to pardon my allies, to blame no one but me…my brother, Viscount Aimar, and the good people of Limoges…I beg him to make restitution to the abbeys I plundered…I stole from God, am so sorry…ask him to provide for my knights…to make right my wrongs…”

Doubting that he had the strength to continue, the bishop said soothingly, “Very well done, my liege. I have it all, every word. It wants only your seal. I can say with certainty that your lord father will be proud you have shown such heartfelt repentance for your sins.”

Hal was not through. “I want to be buried…at the Church of the Blessed Mary in Rouen. If only my father could pay my debts…” They thought he was done speaking then, but he added, so softly he could barely be heard, “So many regrets, so many…”

The bishop’s vision was blurring with tears, and as he looked up, he saw that the other men were weeping, too. Will leaned over and gently pressed his lips to Hal’s feverish forehead. At the touch, Hal’s eyes opened again. “Will,” he said drowsily, “so glad you came…” He seemed at peace for the first time, and Will sought to console himself with that. But then Hal’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Jesu! Durandal…”

Will and Baldwin exchanged bewildered looks, having no idea what he was talking about. Peter did, though, and he said swiftly, “You need not fret, my lord king. We will see that it is returned, I promise.”

Hal’s lips twitched in what was almost a smile. “Good lad…I’d not want the Lord Roland to think me a thief…” His voice trailed off, his lashes fluttering down again, and after that there was quiet in the chamber, his knights wiping away their tears as they watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest, counting the breaths that were so tenuous each one seemed likely to be his last.

Saturday was market day in Martel, and Amand’s tavern would usually be doing a brisk business. Not this Saturday. The locals were staying at home behind locked doors, almost as if the town had been invaded by a pack of hungry wolves. Amand supposed that, in a way, they had, for the young king’s routiers were always on the prowl for prey. He had just decided to lock up and go home when the door banged open and some of those God-cursed coterels swaggered in. His stomach, delicate in the best of circumstances, lurched and he had to swallow the aftertaste of his morning’s breakfast, but he managed a sickly smile and gave Modette a push when she did not move.

Glaring at him resentfully, she waited till Sancho and his companions seated themselves at a trestle table facing the door. When they ordered wine, Amand hurried over to pour from one of the large casks and sent the reluctant Modette back with four full henaps, praying that these dangerous customers would drink and depart without smashing up the place, maltreating Modette, and stealing his meager profits, but not expecting to be so lucky.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Sancho told the sullen serving maid, for flirting was an ingrained habit with him, even when he was in a sour mood, as he definitely was this noon. It was bad enough that the royal whelp was dying, but he was dying deeply in debt, and some of those deniers ought to have been theirs. Not only were they not going to be paid, but the war would likely sputter to a halt now that the rebels no longer had Hal to rally around. It had occurred to Sancho that with the dying king’s knights so busy mourning his approaching death, it would be an opportune time to help himself to whatever was left of their Rocamadour booty. But that had occurred to Couraban, too, and the hellspawn had beaten him to it, riding off yesterday with the last of their abbey plunder.

The men with him were his trusted lieutenants, forming the core of a band he’d led for several years, and he could be more candid with them than with the rest of their company, so they were aware of their financial woes. They did not appear overly concerned, though, for they had confidence in Sancho’s cunning and were sure he’d come up with something.

When Pere said as much, Sancho shrugged off the compliment, but he never took their support for granted. They were a motley lot, he supposed, for they did not even have a shared language. He and his cousin Ander were Basques, Pere was a Catalan, Gerhard a Fleming, and Jago…God alone knew what mongrel blood ran in that one’s veins; most likely his own mother had not known. But what they had in common was stronger than their differences, for they were Ishmaels, condemned to live on the fringes of society, scorned even by the same lords who paid for their services. This hostility had forged a strong sense of solidarity, an us-versus-them mentality that often stood them in good stead. Sancho knew, though, that their loyalty depended upon his ability to produce, to keep their ventures profitable, and Hal’s death was undeniably a setback.

A squeal from Modette interrupted his brooding. She’d brought more wine to their table and Gerhard’s arm now snaked around her waist, pulling her down onto his lap. The other men paid her no heed as she squirmed to free herself, her eyes narrowing to slits when his hand groped under her skirt. Just then Ander entered the tavern, though, and she took advantage of Gerhard’s momentary distraction to slip from his grasp, hastily putting distance between them as Amand looked on in dismay, fearing she’d expect him to speak up for her. Modette knew better, though, than to depend upon that frail reed, and impaling him with a contemptuous look, she began to back toward the door leading into their storeroom.

She had some good fortune then, in a life that had been singularly lacking in it. Ander brought news they found so interesting that she was forgotten, even by Gerhard. Pulling up a stool, Ander yelled to Amand for wine before saying, “Well, you missed quite a show, mates. I am surprised they did not charge admission, it was that good.”

“I take it the royal whelp is not dead yet?”

“He is still clinging to life like a barnacle to a ship’s hull. But to give the lad credit, he is going out in a blaze of glory. He began by confessing again, first in private to the bishops and then in public to anyone who cared to listen. I sidled in at the back, having never heard a royal confession. I have to say it was a great disappointment. He seems to have lived a very dull life, for he had no truly interesting sins to disavow, mainly boring misdeeds like betraying his old man and harrying monks and the like.”

“You’re being too hard on him, Ander,” Jago protested. “Naturally you’d find his transgressions tiresome when compared to yours. You’ll never find a priest corrupt enough or drunk enough to absolve you of your sins, but the rest of us do what we can.”

Ander dug Jago in the ribs with his elbow, but Sancho put a stop to the horseplay before it could escalate. “That does not sound like much of a ‘show’ to me-a dying man confessing to tedious sins.”

“Ah, but he was only getting started. Next he insisted that they garb him in a hair-shirt. Damned if I know where they found one. That bunch does not seem likely to carry hairshirts in their saddle bags, do they?”

“They must have borrowed Gerhard’s,” Pere gibed, and the Fleming kicked him under the table, but missed and got Ander instead.

“Swine,” Ander said, without heat. “I am not done yet, you cocksuckers. The fool then had them put a noose around his neck and pull him from his bed onto the floor and over to a bed of ashes he’d ordered them to make.”

This was met with exclamations and expressions of disbelief, but Sancho came to his cousin’s defense. “I believe it,” he said. “Our young princeling has quite a liking for high drama. It would not be enough for him to repent. He’d have to be the most remorseful penitent since Cain wailed that his punishment was more than he could bear.”

Gossip had it that Sancho was a renegade cleric and although he’d never confirmed it, the rumors persisted. This display of familiarity with Scriptures was too tempting an opportunity to resist and they began to heckle him with cries of “Father Sancho,” while Ander appropriated Pere’s henap and drained it in several gulps.

“Oh, and the Duke of Burgundy is making ready to depart,” he said casually, for he knew this was hardly newsworthy. The Count of Toulouse had ridden off the day before, and they’d known it was only a matter of time before Burgundy abandoned the sinking ship, too.

But for Sancho, this information was quite interesting. He’d been playing around with an idea, not sure if it was feasible. But it would require Burgundy’s departure for it to work. He wondered if he ought to confide in the others, then decided no, not yet. He’d take a little more time to think it over and then give them the good news that their prospects were not quite as bleak as they thought.

Hal’s friends knew he must be in acute discomfort, lying on the hard floor in a bed of ashes and cinders, and they were both awed and proud of him for making such a spectacular gesture of atonement. As the hours dragged by, he dozed fitfully, occasionally murmuring in his sleep. Once Will thought he said his wife’s name, but he couldn’t be sure. He was sitting cross-legged in the floor rushes by Hal’s side, with Peter and Rob keeping vigil nearby. Baldwin was slumped in the window-seat and Simon was trying vainly to console Benoit; the boy was huddled in Hal’s bed, his eyes so swollen with tears that he could barely see. Etienne de Fabri appeared from time to time, offering drinks and food that the knights always refused, for it did not seem right that they should enjoy what Hal was denying himself.

Hal stirred when bells chimed for None somewhere in the town, and Will at once leaned over to dribble a few drops of water upon his lips, the only liquid Hal would accept. As their eyes met, the corner of Hal’s mouth curved. “Sorry…” he whispered, “to take so scandalously…long to die. Geoff would say I’d be late…for my own funeral…”

That was too much for Rob and, choking back a sob, he fled. The others were ashamed to admit they, too, yearned to bolt, for the very air seemed oppressive, so saturated with sorrow that they felt as if they were breathing in tears. Seeing that Hal wanted to speak again, Will moved closer to catch his words.

“So much to regret…especially that I am…am making Richard king.” Hal tried to smile. “Could say it…it is killing me…”

“That is a very bad joke,” Will said thickly. Hal’s death would have repercussions that would echo from one end of the Angevin empire to the other, but he was not ready to think about that yet. For now the world had shrunk to the confines of this bedchamber, and time could be measured only by the faint beats of Hal’s heart.

When Hal drew a ragged breath, Will braced himself for the death rattle. But the younger man’s eyes were suddenly filled with urgency. “Cloak…” he mumbled, “fetch it…”

The men looked at one another in confusion. It was only when Hal said “cross” that they understood. Peter and Baldwin rooted around frantically in a coffer of his clothes until they found what he wanted, the mantle sewn with a blood-red crusader’s cross. They handed it to Will and he knelt, draped it around Hal like a blanket. Hal’s eyes traced the outlines of that crimson cross and he felt a surge of shame. He’d taken the cross so lightly, had sworn to go to the Holy Land more to vex his father than to honor the Almighty, and it seemed symbolic to him of a misspent life, yet another regret to take to his grave.

After a few moments, he indicated he wanted Will to remove the cloak. “Will…I entreat you…pay my debt to God…take it to the Holy Sepulcher for me…”

He’d just asked Will to make a pilgrimage on his behalf to Jerusalem, but the knight did not hesitate. “I would be honored, my liege, and shall do it gladly.”

A smile flitted across Hal’s lips. Summoning up the last of his strength, he moved his hand so that he could see the sapphire ring upon his finger, blessed token of his father’s forgiveness. “Remember me…” he said, as softly as a breath, and after that he did not speak again.

The man who would be known to history as the young king died at twilight on Saturday, the eleventh of June, on the festival of the blessed St Barnabas the Apostle. But the drama surrounding his death was just beginning.