Devil's Brood

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

June 1183

Martel, Limousin

Will stumbled down to the great hall the next morning feeling as if he was coming off a three-day drunk. He’d slept badly, could not get rid of a sour taste in his mouth, and for once his celebrated appetite was flagging. He forced himself to eat some cheese and bread, though, for he knew it would be a long, difficult day. When the other knights came over to join him, he saw that they looked no better than he felt-their eyes bloodshot and bleary, their faces either abnormally pallid or oddly flushed-and it occurred to him that men could indeed get drunk on grief.

He was not surprised when they told him that the Bishop of Agen and Count Rotrou had departed, for a king’s death was like a sunset, and even his most loyal subjects would instinctively have their eyes already on the eastern horizon, anticipating the coming dawn. He was sorry to hear it, though, for he suspected they were in dire need of money, and they could have asked the bishop or the count for a loan. Peter and Rob soon confirmed his suspicions, reporting that Couraban had stolen the last of the spoils taken from Rocamadour, and they’d be lucky if they could scrape up enough to distribute the traditional alms expected when a highborn lord died.

Will could not regret the loss, for to use such ill-gotten gains for a noble purpose was still sacrilege in his uncompromising eyes. “We need to make plans,” he said, knowing that the burden of dealing with Hal’s death was going to fall squarely upon his shoulders. “I think we ought to take Hal to the monks at Grandmont. They can make his body ready for burial. After the king is notified, we can then take him to Rouen as he wished.”

It made sense to turn to the monks, and if they took a grim satisfaction in undertaking funeral preparations for the man who’d plundered their monastery, they’d earned that right. The knights were looking at Will with puzzlement, though, voiced by Simon when he repeated, “Notify the king? Surely the Bishop of Agen will do that?”

Will marveled at the naivete of the question, and Baldwin gave a derisive snort, saying, “Oh, yes, I am sure he’ll not spare his horse to be the first to tell the king. ‘Sire, I know I did my best to convince you that your son was lying, but it seems I was mistaken. Sorry, he really was ill, after all. And…well, he died.’”

Baldwin had just made a very effective argument for the bishop’s taking as long as possible to reach Limoges. No one volunteered to bear the news to the old king, though, and Will sighed. He was no more eager than any of them to face Henry, but he feared this duty would end up in his lap, too.

“Master de Fabri will know who can best do what…what must be done ere we leave Martel,” he said bleakly. He did not even want to think about the mutilation of Hal’s body-the removal of his eyes, brains, and entrails, the use of salt and spices to delay putrefaction long enough to reach Rouen. He knew the Church dwelt upon the corrupt nature of mortal flesh so that all good Christians would remember that nothing mattered but their eternal souls. That body above-stairs looked too much like the young king he’d served, though, for him to view it as just a husk to be discarded now that it was no longer needed.

Wishing fervently for enough wine to drown all memories of this week of horrors, Will got slowly to his feet, saying, “We’d best see about-” He stopped abruptly, then, at the sight of the men swaggering into the hall. Why were Sancho de Savannac and his cutthroats still here? That made no sense, and he did not like it, did not like it at all.

“Good morrow,” Sancho said cheerfully. He was accompanied by his chief henchmen, but as he approached, Will saw more of the routiers entering the hall behind him. Will had hung his scabbard on the back of a chair, and a quick scrutiny of his companions showed that most of them were not armed yet, either.

Acknowledging the outlaw tersely, Will started to move past him, saying that he had much to do. He was not surprised when Sancho barred his way. “You can spare a few moments for me, Sir William. We have a pressing matter to discuss. The young king, may God assoil him, died deeply in debt, alas, owing us a large sum of money.”

“You profited handsomely from your service to the king,” Rob said harshly. From the corner of his eye, Will saw that he and Baldwin were on their feet, too. Several of?

Etienne de Fabri’s servants had been moving about the hall, but they now showed the heightened awareness of prey animals and made an inconspicuous, speedy withdrawal.

“Not as handsomely as we were promised.” In answering Rob, Sancho kept his gaze unblinkingly upon Will. “But I am a reasonable man, do not want to add to your burdens in the midst of your mourning. I am willing to settle for a smaller amount. Pay us one hundred marks and we’ll consider the debt paid in full.”

There were indignant exclamations from the knights. Will shrugged. “You might as well ask for a thousand marks. We do not even have the money between us to pay for a Requiem Mass.”

“That is a pity,” Sancho said, shaking his head in feigned regret. “I suppose there is only one fair way to handle this, then. You will remain as our guest, Sir William, whilst your friends raise the money. Once it is paid, off you go with our blessings.”

Will studied the routiers with narrowed eyes, not liking the odds. Sancho’s cousin Ander and his lackeys Jago, Pere, and Gerhart had begun to fan out purposefully, hands on sword hilts. Even more troubling, other routiers had continued to saunter into the hall. Simon, always hot-headed, did not help matters then by calling Sancho a “lowborn churl” and declaring that they’d never agree to such brazen extortion.

Sancho’s smile was toothy, mocking, and sharp with menace. “Now, lad, let’s not be hasty. We know that you’re all redoubtable knights, celebrated on the tournament circuit. You ought to keep in mind, though, that we’ve bloodied our swords a time or two ourselves. And you might want to do a head count whilst you’re at it.”

Will was glad to see Baldwin and Roger were restraining Simon from doing anything mad. He’d made a quick assessment of their chances, concluding that resistance was not an option. They’d have to bluff Sancho into backing down.

“How does it serve your purposes,” he said coolly, “if we all end up dead?”

Sancho seemed amused by his challenge and Will realized that this was not a man who acted rashly or impulsively; he’d given careful thought to this ambush. “That would make it difficult to collect a ransom from you,” he agreed. “So we came up with a second plan should you balk at cooperating. If we cannot claim the renowned Marshal as surety for this debt, we will have to look elsewhere. Fortunately for us, there is always the royal corpse.”

The rest of his words were drowned out in an enraged roar of defiance coming from virtually every knight’s throat. Sancho seemed unperturbed by their fury, continuing as if he’d not been interrupted. “I daresay the old king will pay dear to get his beloved son’s body back for a proper burial. He might even offer more than a hundred marks.”

Will waited until he was sure his fury was under control. “Yes, he’d pay…and then he’d track you down to the ends of the earth, into the gates of Hell if need be.”

Sancho’s smile did not waver. “Yes, he’d likely hold a grudge. That is why I’d rather do this the easier way-by offering you our hospitality, Sir William. It is up to you, of course. But you’d best make up your mind soon. It is a hot summer’s day and it will not be long ere the royal corpse is too ripe to travel anywhere.”

Will glanced toward his friends, saw that Baldwin and Peter had reached the same grim conclusion that he had. “My first duty is to the young king,” he said, the calm voice belied by the fists tightly clenched at his sides. “I must escort his body to the monks at Grandmont. I will agree, though, to return and offer myself up as your hostage once this has been done. You have my sworn word on that.”

Ander, Jago, and Gerhart howled with laughter, their mirth stopping abruptly when Sancho nodded. “As I said, I am a reasonable man. And you are known to be an honorable one. We have a deal.”

The other knights gathered around Will, appalled, yet understanding they had no choice; even Simon could see that. But Sancho’s men were now the ones to be incredulous and angry. Lapsing into their thieves’ cant, a jumble of the lengua romana of Aquitaine seasoned with Basque and Catalan that enabled them to communicate privately in public, they began to protest vociferously. Sancho shouted them down.

“Enough! When have I not known what I was doing? I admit there are precious few men I’d trust to keep such a promise. The Marshal is one of them, mayhap the only one. This is a man who values his honor more than his life. Now you can argue whether that is an admirable virtue or a fatal character flaw,” he said with a grin. “But what matters is that it gets us our hundred marks. Who knows, I might even be willing to spare a few deniers to buy candles for the royal whelp’s soul!”

Henry had never suffered from ragged nerves, had always been at his best in a crisis. In the days following Hal’s message, though, he felt as if he were unraveling. He had more trouble than usual sleeping, had no interest in food, and most troubling of all, he was finding it difficult to concentrate. His thoughts were as skittish as unbroken horses, darting hither and yon as if he no longer had control of his own brain. Ostensibly, he was laying siege to the ville; in reality, his mind was roaming far afield.

Why had he not heard from Bishop Bertrand or Rotrou by now? They’d had more than enough time to get to Martel and then return to Limoges. What did their ominous silence mean? That Hal was truly ailing? Or had they ridden into a trap? Were they being held prisoner whilst Hal waited to see if the bait would be taken?

“My liege!” Geoff was bearing down upon him again and Henry strove for patience; who knew that sons could be worse than mothers? For certes, he’d never gotten such wearisome, constant solicitude from his other lads.

“You are hovering again, Geoff,” he warned, and Geoff acknowledged the truth of the charge with an abashed grin.

“I am being a pest, I know,” he conceded, for he’d already been chiding Henry about venturing within arrow range and nagging him about taking a midday meal. “I was just going to suggest that you seek shelter from the sun. Your nose is turning red!”

“So is yours,” Henry pointed out, for Geoff had inherited his fair, freckled skin. Actually he was amenable to the idea, for the heat was unrelenting. By the Rood, how he loathed the Limousin! The spring had been miserably wet and cold, and now the summer was hellishly hot. So when Geoff gestured toward a nearby peasant’s hut, he followed willingly, ducking through the low doorway into a small, gloomy cottage that reeked of onions and cabbage and sweat. Straightening up, he found himself face-to-face with the fearful occupants, a bony, spare man of indeterminate years and his toilworn wife.

Henry had a rudimentary knowledge of Eleanor’s lengua romana, for he’d always had an excellent ear for languages; only Welsh had proved to be impenetrable. He summoned up enough of it now to assure the frightened couple that they’d not be harmed, and his gentle words and the promise of a few coins did much to allay their unease. He sat cross-legged, then, on the hard dirt floor, his body admitting what his pride could not-that he was tired down to the very marrow of his bones.

Ranulf soon joined them; he was another mother hen, Henry thought wryly. But he did not come empty-handed. He had several wineskins, giving Henry the one diluted with water and tossing the other to Geoff.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Henry invited, and Ranulf accepted the invitation, lowering himself stiffly to the floor beside his nephew, muttering that he’d likely need help getting up again. There were times when Henry felt that his fifty years were weighing him down like an anchor, but he was a stripling next to his uncle, for Ranulf would be sixty-five that November. Because he did not see the older man that often, the changes wrought by aging were more noticeable to him; Ranulf’s hair was now pure silver and his shoulders were stooped, his stride slowed by a touch of the joint evil. The essential core of the man was still intact, though-the impish humor and courage and awkward habit of truth-telling-qualities that Henry appreciated even more now than in his youth.

“Is Bleddyn still balking at returning to Wales without you?” he asked, and Ranulf nodded, with a grimace that was part vexation and part pride.

“He is missing his wife and bairns, but he still insists that he’ll wait so we can return together. He is a stubborn one, is Bleddyn. And though he’ll not admit it, his real reason for staying is that he thinks I’m too feeble and aged to get home safely by myself!”

Henry cocked a brow in Geoff’s direction, and his eldest had the grace to blush. Just then Willem entered the hut, saying, “So this is where you’ve all gotten off to! A monk from Grandmont has arrived, my liege, is asking to see you. Shall I send him into your audience chamber here?”

“I’ll see him,” Henry said, thinking that the monk had likely come about their stolen pyx; to their great relief, he’d promised that he’d replace it. Of all Hal’s outrages in recent weeks, the plundering of Grandmont was the one that rankled the most, for Henry had taken it just as his son had intended-as a personal affront.

He was getting to his feet when a brown-clad form blocked the light from the door. As the man stooped to enter and then straightened up, Henry was startled to see a familiar face. “Guillaume…is that you?” And the heat of high summer notwithstanding, he went cold, for the prior of Grandmont would not be the one to bear a mundane message. His presence here was a message in and of itself. Henry’s mouth was suddenly so dry that he did not even have enough saliva to spit. “All of you,” he managed to croak, “out!”

They obeyed at once, Ranulf halting only long enough to shepherd the peasants ahead of him. He thought, too, to close the door behind them, and the hut was plunged into darkness. Henry welcomed it, for instincts honed as sharp as any sword blade were warning that he’d have need of its camouflaging kindness. The prior took several steps forward, would have knelt if Henry had not stopped him. “I do not bring good news, sire,” he said softly.

Henry closed his eyes, never wanted to have to open them again. “My son…” he whispered, but he could go no further, struck by superstitious dread that to say it aloud would banish any splinters of hope, would indeed make it so.

“The young king is dead, my liege, stricken by fever and the bloody flux.” The prior knew those were just symptoms of Hal’s death; the real cause was the Vengeance of God for his wanton acts of sacrilege. He saw no need to salt the king’s wounds by saying so, though, and instead continued quietly, telling Henry that Hal’s knights had arrived at Grandmont that morn, bearing the body of their lord and the sorrowful story of his last days. After a few moments, he realized that Henry was not listening. “Shall I go, sire?”

Henry nodded, but cried out as the prior reached the door. “Wait! Wh…when?”

“On Saturday eve, my lord,” the prior said sadly, and Henry shut his eyes again. On Saturday. There had been time. If only he’d believed, he could have been at Hal’s deathbed. If he’d not given in to his damnable doubts and suspicions, he’d have been there when his son needed him the most. The sound of a closing door told him that he was alone, and he sank to his knees, but prayers would not come. He prostrated himself on the floor of the hut, just as he’d once done upon the cold tiles before Becket’s tomb, pressing his cheek into the dirt, hearing no other sound in the world but the wild hammering of his heart.

As word spread, men began to gather near the hut. It was a subdued crowd, conversing only in hushed murmurs, and since Henry was not in sight, they were watching his advisors and confidants, for it was well known that the king would have gone to Martel if his counselors had not talked him out of it. But the latter were oblivious to the stares and speculation, for they could focus upon nothing except the man in that cottage.

Geoff, Ranulf, Willem, and Maurice de Craon were standing together, not speaking, each one alone with his regrets. After the prior had emerged from the hut, they’d heard only one cry, a lament that raised the hairs on the back of their necks, for it was a wail of pure pain and utter despair. After that, though, there had been silence, and somehow they found that more chilling than weeping or cursing or raging would have been.

Richard was trying out a relatively new siege engine at Aixe. Called a trebuchet, it had a long arm pivoting on an axle. The shorter end of the arm held the counterweight, and the longer end, called the verge, was being winched down to the ground so they could load heavy stones into its sling. Once it was ready, the engineers waited for the duke’s signal and then released the trigger. As the counterweight plummeted down, the verge shot upward and rocks rained down upon the walls of the castle. The soldiers let out a cheer, and Richard turned to Alfonso with a delighted grin, looking like a boy who’d just been given a surprise present.

“It has a much greater range than the mangonels,” he marveled, “and is more accurate, too. If those fools don’t surrender soon, we’ll bring the castle walls down about their ears!”

Alfonso agreed, equally impressed with the deadly potential of this new weapon. Thinking he’d love to test it against the Count of Toulouse, he followed after Richard as the duke paced around the trebuchet, inspecting it from every angle.

“Good work, Guy,” he told a soldier, who beamed at the praise. Men were scurrying about, making ready to reload, and Richard watched intently, his brow furrowed in thought. When Alfonso caught up with him, he murmured, almost as if talking to himself, “I wonder…if we shortened the sling, would that increase the arc of the stone’s flight? If so, it would cover greater distance, might even hit the keep itself.”

When he looked questioningly at Alfonso, the Aragonese king smiled and agreed, although he had no clear idea what Richard was talking about. It was enough for him that the trebuchet worked; unlike Richard, he felt no need to understand how and why it did. But if Richard thought so, he was probably correct; at twenty-five, the duke was well on the way to becoming a master of the art of war.

“Are we within crossbow range?” Alfonso asked suddenly, for he’d noticed that Richard seemed remarkably casual about matters of personal safety. When his friend mocked his caution, he reminded Richard amiably that his son and heir was only nine years old, too young to rule in his own right. “So if I were killed at Aixe, it would cause no end of trouble in Aragon. Whereas if you, my lord duke, were to take a fatal arrow in the chest, your brother the young king would be happy to step into your shoes.”

Richard’s knights were taken aback, but Richard was amused, not offended, by Alfonso’s irreverence, and laughed. “Dukes may be expendable in Aragon, but here in Aquitaine, the duke’s death matters more than the loss of any king. As for the ‘young king,’ he’ll never see the day dawn when he…” He stopped in mid-sentence, and Alfonso, following his gaze, saw that riders were being escorted into the encampment.

“Is that not your brother, the chancellor?”

Richard nodded. “And to judge by the doleful look on his face, he is bringing yet more bad news. I am beginning to think my father ought to have christened him Jonah rather than Geoffrey.”

Geoff and his men had dismounted by the time Richard and Alfonso reached them. At close range, Geoff’s agitation was even more obvious and Richard braced himself for yet more bad news. He greeted his brother brusquely, then said, “Well, what have you come to tell me that I will not want to hear?”

“It is not bad news for you. It might even be good news for England, too, but it is the worst possible news our father could have gotten.”

Richard stared at him. “Are you saying…You mean Hal was actually telling the truth for once?”

“Yes, he was. He died on Saturday at Martel.”

There were gasps and exclamations from those who’d heard. Alfonso made the sign of the cross. Richard was dumbfounded, for he’d had no doubts whatsoever that Hal had been lying through his teeth. He took a moment to absorb it, and then scowled. “Splendor of God! We’re all in the soup, then, and me most of all. When he starts doling out blame, I’m likely to get the lion’s share.”

Geoff glared at him. “You have never understood our father, have you? He is not a man to seek scapegoats. When we tried to apologize for giving him such faulty advice, he would not hear it, saying ‘I am not Louis Capet.’ He has taken all the blame upon himself for not going to Martel, and when we argued that it was the only decision under the circumstances, he just looked at us with hollow, empty eyes.”

Alfonso was becoming aware of an undercurrent of excitement surging through the camp. As word passed from one man to another, they were elated, understanding what this would mean for their duke. They were struggling to act sober and respectful, knowing it was not seemly to gloat over Hal’s death, but most could not contain their glee. Glancing at Richard, Alfonso saw that the full implications of Hal’s death had not yet registered with him; he’d reacted instinctively as a son and a brother. He kept his eyes upon his friend’s face, and he would later tell his queen that he’d seen the exact moment when Richard realized that not only had he won his war, he was now the heir to the English crown. Geoff was still chiding him on Henry’s behalf; he was no longer listening. His expression gave away nothing, but Alfonso was close enough to catch the hint of a smile curving the corners of his mouth.

Henry had learned of his son’s death on Tuesday afternoon. It was now Wednesday night and he was utterly exhausted, for he’d slept no more than four or five hours in that time. And when he had fallen asleep, he’d been tormented by remorseful dreams of Hal that gave him neither peace nor rest. As the hours dragged on, he’d told his squires to go to bed; in the shadowed chamber, he could barely make them out, sprawled on pallets in the corner. As tired as he was, he was not yet ready to plunge into the nightmare cauldron of his dreams, and he remained sitting in a window-seat, doing his best to keep the past at bay.

When a discreet knock sounded, he chose to answer the door himself, much to the surprise of the bishop’s servant. He blinked and then said, speaking in the overly solicitous voice that people used to address the mortally ill, “My lord…Sir William Marshal has just ridden in. Since you are still awake, do you wish to see him? Or shall I tell him to wait till the morrow?”

Henry had known this moment would come, when he’d have to listen to a first-person account of his son’s suffering. “I will see him,” he said and tried to brace himself for the ordeal.

Will’s muscles were cramping, and he was grateful when Henry gestured for him to rise and told him to find a seat. Fetching a stool, he sat down beside the king, keeping his gaze lowered, for it seemed somehow indecent to look upon another man’s raw, naked pain. He had been dreading this meeting as much as Henry, but it had to be done. A reckoning had to be made. After waiting several moments for questions that did not come, he realized the reason for Henry’s reticence-fear that he was about to hear a story that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Who could blame him for assuming Hal had died as fecklessly and carelessly as he’d lived?

“You may be proud of his last days, my liege,” he said firmly, “for he showed courage, dignity, and grace, dying as a good Christian, as a great lord ought to die, setting an example for us all.”

Henry searched his face intently, but he did not think Marshal would lie to him. “Tell me,” he said, and Will did, thankful that he’d not joined Hal until the last week of his life and need not speak of those rash actions that the young king had so regretted at the end. He related, instead, the story of the reckless, selfish boy who’d not become a man until it was almost too late. He had to stop occasionally to collect himself, for he was finding that retelling it was like reliving it, and he was not surprised to see tears silently streaking Henry’s face as he listened. How much worse it could have been, though, if Hal had not repented and been shriven whilst there was still time!

“We did not know what to do with your ring, sire,” he concluded, “at last decided we ought to return it to you. But it was remarkable, for none of us could remove it from your son’s finger. It was as if even in death he could not bear to part with it.”

Henry swallowed with difficulty. “May God grant him salvation,” he whispered, but it no longer seemed such a forlorn hope, not after what he’d just heard about Hal’s remorse, regrets, and contrition. “There is one last duty you can perform for him, Marshal. I want you to escort his funeral cortege to Rouen.”

“My liege…I would that I could, but that is not possible.” And when Henry frowned, Will hastily told him of Hal’s final debts and the pledge he’d been forced to make to the Basque routier, Sancho de Savannac.

“My son cost me greatly,” Henry said when he was done, “but I would that he’d lived to cost me more. This is not your debt, Marshal. I will take care of it.”

“Thank you, sire.” Will reached then for the pouch dangling from his belt and drew forth Hal’s deathbed letter. “This is for you, my lord king, dictated by your son to the Bishop of Agen.”

Henry stared at that rolled parchment with dread. Will understood. As painful as it would be to read his son’s last words, it might help to cauterize the wound, though. He waited patiently until Henry took the letter, assuming their conversation was over then. But Henry made no move to dismiss him.

Henry was gazing down at the unbroken seal, recognizing it as Hal’s. He’d also used the sapphire ring to seal the letter, and that brought a lump to Henry’s throat. Looking up after a long silence, he said, “I wronged you, Marshal, blaming you unfairly for his mistakes and his sins. I see now that yours was the only level head in his mesnie. Once you were gone, he foundered like a ship without a rudder. I thank you for returning to him when you did, for I do not doubt that you helped to steer him back onto the path to deliverance.”

“I could not have done so if you’d not granted me that safe conduct, sire,” Will said and rose, taking this as his cue to depart.

“After you take my son to Rouen, come back to me, Will. You are a good and honorable man, and I would have you join my household knights.”

Will gasped. He’d hoped that Henry would offer to assume responsibility for Hal’s debt to Sancho, but his expectations had gone no further than that. He’d resigned himself to the loss of royal favor, to a far different life from the one he’d enjoyed during his years with Hal. “My liege, you do me great honor. I would gladly serve you as I served your son. There is yet one more trust that I must discharge on his behalf, though. He felt great shame for having taken the cross so lightly, and he asked me to act in his stead, to deliver his crusader’s cloak to the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem.”

“And you agreed, of course,” Henry said, with a faint smile, his first in more than a week. “Go, then, with my blessings. Tell my chancellor how much you will need for your pilgrimage and he will issue letters of credit. And upon your return, a place will be waiting for you.”

“Thank you, my liege.” Will waited, sensing that there was something still to be said.

“I would rather my son had triumphed over me than Death had triumphed over him,” Henry said, very softly, and Will did not doubt him. They regarded each other without need of words, two very different men united in their shared sorrow for the king’s son.

Constance had been back at the ducal castle in Rennes for only two days and she was still busy cataloguing all the damage done when Roland de Dinan had seized it on behalf of the English king. Trailed by a scribe clutching a wax tablet and bone stylus, she was inspecting the storerooms. As she tallied up their losses, she was seething, infuriated that so much would have to be replaced. Their flour was gone, as were the salted herring, cod, and mackerel, the dried figs and dates, even the five bushels of salt she’d purchased that spring.

“They were like a swarm of God-cursed locusts!” she fumed. “They stripped the hall and bedchambers bare, stole our grey fur coverlet that had been a wedding gift from the Bishop of Rennes, even looted several pounds of wax. I’m surprised they did not steal the grease used for cartwheel axles.”

Her butler murmured his agreement, and the clerk scribbled hastily to keep up with her torrent of words. Her ladies, Juvette and Blanche, exchanged knowing looks, for they understood that her foul mood was not explained entirely by the sorry state of the castle. Duke Geoffrey had returned to the war after recovering Rennes and staging punitive raids into Roland de Dinan’s lands at Becherel, and Constance had hoped that he’d left her with child. This morning she’d found out it was not so, much to her disappointment.

The butler now led the way toward the buttery, where Constance knew their greatest losses lay. Any of the tuns of wine not drained dry by de Dinan’s men would have been carried off when he’d retreated, leaving a garrison behind to guard his prize. She’d heard that they had not put up much resistance when Geoffrey had besieged the castle, loath to fight against their duke. Constance could take some solace from that, yet more proof of Geoffrey’s acceptance by her Breton lords. He’d managed to overcome a huge liability-that he was the English king’s son-with uncanny ease. Of course she knew his campaign to win them over had begun well before their marriage; he’d laid the groundwork during those years when he was acting as his father’s deputy in Brittany, forging bonds with men like Raoul de Fougeres and Reginald de Boterel that would stand him in good stead once he no longer relied upon Henry for his standing in Brittany.

Constance still marveled at the vast difference between the reality of her marriage and her bleak expectations. She would have scoffed at the romantic idea of soul mates. Nevertheless, they had reached a remarkable understanding with surprising speed, discovering that they shared the same aspirations and ambitions, the same innate skepticism and gambler’s instincts, with, as an added bonus, the pleasure they found in their marriage bed. They’d be wed two years in August, with only one serious quarrel in all that time. Geoffrey had been furious to learn that she had countermanded him and returned to Brittany instead of seeking safety at the French court. Constance had been forced to apologize, which did not come easily to her, but Geoffrey had right on his side-she had indeed been put at risk by the seizure of the ducal castle, and she’d had to concede that her capture would have been disastrous.

The buttery was a total loss; they’d even taken the keg of verjuice. “I hope my lord husband burned de Dinan’s manor to the ground,” she said angrily. “If it were up to me, I’d have sown salt into his fields, the Judas.”

Her butler thought that was not entirely fair to Roland de Dinan, who’d been given the stark choice of offending his patron, the English king, or his duke and duchess. He was not crazed enough to offer a defense of the disgraced baron, though, and sought to console Constance by revealing that some of the wine had no longer been drinkable; wine rarely remained potable for more than a year, for if it was exposed to the air, it developed an acid, unpleasant taste.

That did cheer Constance somewhat; she hoped that the marauders had ended up as sick as dogs. She was turning to check the details on her scribe’s tablet when Juvette rushed into the buttery. “Madame! The lord duke has just ridden into the bailey!”

Constance froze. Geoffrey’s unexpected return could only mean something had gone very wrong. Had he gotten word of a coming attack upon Brittany? “He is not injured?”

“Oh, no, Madame. I could see no signs that he’s been wounded. But…he and his men look very grim. I fear he brings bad news.”

So did Constance. Normally she would have hastened out to greet him, but she decided now that a private reunion might be better and she said abruptly, “Leave me, all of you. Tell the duke that I await him in the buttery.”

It seemed like forever to her before Geoffrey came through the doorway. Even in such subdued lighting, she could see that he was bone-white, the skin tightly drawn around his eyes, his mouth set in a thin, taut line. He closed the door, then leaned back against it. “Hal is dead.”

“Dear God!” Constance’s shock held her motionless for a moment and then she moved swiftly toward him. “How? Surely not even Richard would dare to kill a king!”

“It was not Richard’s doing. He…he died at Martel of the bloody flux.” Geoffrey sounded numb and she could easily understand why, for when they’d attempted to envision all the possible drawbacks to this war, it had never occurred to either of them that Hal might die. He was twenty-eight, in excellent health, and shielded from the ordinary dangers of the battlefield by his highborn status. Who could have imagined he’d be struck down by an infection of the bowels?

“Was he shriven ere he died?”

“Yes, thank God for that mercy. He made a very good end, for certes a dramatic one.” Geoffrey meant to sound sardonic, sounded sad, instead. They’d never been very close, and his boyhood admiration for the dashing elder brother had faded once he’d begun to assess Hal with adult eyes. But he’d discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that he mourned Hal both as a brother and as an ally. “If I had not agreed to join him, he might still be alive. His war was made possible by Breton money-”

“No, Geoffrey! You did not coax Hal into rebellion. I’ll not let you blame yourself. In his entire life, Hal never did anything that he did not want to do. Even if we had stayed out of it, it would have changed nothing. Aimar and the other barons were set upon rebellion and Hal…well, he could resist anything but temptation. He would still have-” She got no further, for Geoffrey kissed her.

“Thank you for that, darling.”

“For what?” she asked, puzzled but pleased.

“For your use of pronouns.” Seeing her lack of comprehension, he kissed her again. “For saying ‘we.’ I thought you might blame me for this, for entangling Brittany in a war we can no longer win.”

“We made the decision together, Geoffrey. If we lose, we’ll do that together, too.”

Geoffrey was touched by this display of loyalty. He and Constance were still learning about each other, and he had not been sure how she’d react. He had no qualms about lying if it furthered his own interests. He did not want to lie to Constance, though, and he needed to be sure she understood what they were facing. “Fortune’s Wheel has spun with a vengeance, Constance. It is not just that the rebellion is lost and we have no choice but to submit to my father and hope he is in a forgiving mood. It is-”

She reached up, stopped his words by putting her fingers to his lips. “I am not a child, Geoffrey. I understand what Hal’s death means for England and for Brittany. But whatever comes, we will deal with it. What other choice do we have?”

He slid his arm around her waist, drew her in against him. “Have I ever told you,” he murmured, “that I consider myself a lucky man?”

She was dismayed to find herself blinking back tears, and she turned her face into his shoulder so he’d not see, saying briskly, “Of course you are lucky. You are the Duke of Brittany, after all.”

After a few moments, he said, “I want to found a chaplaincy in Hal’s memory,” and she agreed that would be a good thing to do. By mutual consent, they did not speak of the future and what it held for them-when they’d be accountable, not to an indulgent father, but to a soldier king who bore them a deadly grudge.

Agace looked up as the door opened and Judith entered. Crossing the chamber, she murmured a few words in the older woman’s ear. Agace got stiffly to her feet and approached the bed. “My lamb?” There was no response. Bending over, she gently stroked the tumbled fair hair spilling over the pillow. “Your lord brother is here again, asking to see you. Do you feel up to it?”

Marguerite shook her head.

“Are you sure, dearest?”

Marguerite kept her eyes tightly shut, but her lips moved and Agace leaned closer to catch the whispered words. “I do not want to see him…”

Agace and Judith exchanged troubled glances. Their young queen could not hide forever from the world. Eventually she would have to pick up the shattered pieces of her life and accept her loss. But if she needed more time, Agace was going to see that she got it. “Rest now, my lamb. I will send him away,” she promised, and left Judith to watch over their mistress while she was gone. Judith sat down in the chair Agace had vacated, grateful that she would not be the one to deal with the French king. Philippe had always treated her with courtesy. He made her uneasy, though, for reasons she could not have articulated, and she understood why Marguerite did not turn to him for comfort. Her lady had a loving heart and a generous nature, whereas there was something bloodless and sly about her brother.

Agace did not like Philippe any more than Judith did, and as she looked into his pale blue eyes, so oddly ageless in such a young face, she felt a throb of despair, knowing that Marguerite’s fate was now in his hands. Hers had been a long and eventful life, though, and she knew better than to antagonize a king, especially this one. Greeting him with exaggerated deference, she told him regretfully that the queen had finally fallen asleep after yet another wakeful, wretched night. As she’d hoped, Philippe quickly told her not to disturb Marguerite, just to tell her of his visit.

Philippe was grateful for the reprieve. A sense of duty compelled him to check on his sister, but he did not know how to comfort her and their few encounters since learning of Hal’s death had been awkward and uncomfortable. What was he supposed to say to a woman who’d done little but weep all week long?

After returning to the great hall, he was too restless to stay and strode out into the royal gardens at the west end of the island. If the Ile was the heart of Paris, home to both his palace and the great cathedral of Notre Dame, the Seine was its main artery, and even at dusk, the quays were still busy, ships from Rouen unloading below the Grand Pont and those coming downriver docking at the Greve, formerly the site of the weekly Paris market but now where local vintners sold their wares.

This change was Philippe’s doing, for he had established a new market at a more convenient location and erected two large sheds so merchants could do their haggling indoors. While he’d denied Parisians the right to form a commune, he did have a keen interest in civic improvements, and ambitious plans that went far beyond the indoor market at Les Halles; he hoped in time to build a defensive wall around the city and to pave the main streets. He did not have the funds for such projects yet, but Philippe believed in long-range planning and he was willing to wait for what he wanted.

Resting his elbows upon the stone garden wall, Philippe looked out upon his city as it was gradually cloaked in the soft shades of a summer eve. He was trying to be patient with Marguerite, but he feared that, if left to her own devices, she’d do nothing but weep and wallow in her grief. He wished there was some sensible female he could consult. But his mother had never shown any sympathy for the daughters of Louis’s earlier marriages, his own queen was a child of thirteen, and Marguerite’s mother was long dead, her sister Alys in England. He sighed, thinking that sisters were more trouble than they were worth.

His half sisters Alix and Marie were strangers, and Marie had openly allied herself with the Count of Flanders against him. There was his full sister, Agnes, a child bride caught up in a bloody coup in Constantinople, her fate uncertain.

And then there was the vexing problem that was his half sister Alys. She had been betrothed to Richard for fourteen years, and Philippe was offended that the wedding had not yet taken place. Henry kept offering excuses, but nothing changed-except that Alys got older. She was already twenty-two, for pity’s sake! Philippe knew Richard had never been keen to marry Alys, and he couldn’t really blame him since she had no marriage portion. He suspected that Henry and Richard were in collusion, looking elsewhere for a more profitable marital alliance while keeping Alys off the marriage market, thus preventing him from making any advantageous alliances by wedding Alys to someone else. It had been irksome, and was unfair to Alys, but Philippe had not seen it as a priority problem, for he’d assumed that Hal would become king sooner than later. From Philippe’s vantage point, Henry’s fifty years was a vast age, indeed; how much longer could he live? And once Hal was king, he’d have ordered Richard to marry Alys, whether he liked it or not.

Philippe’s thoughts had come full circle, for he was back to Marguerite and the inopportune death of his brother-in-law. Hal’s loss was a great blow to Philippe, for he’d predicated his plans upon having an amiable, pleasure-loving prince on the English throne. Instead, he’d have to deal with Richard, who was as unlike Hal as any two men could be. How could he be so unlucky?

Well, one step at a time. The immediate concern was recovering Marguerite’s marriage portion from the English king. Sure that Henry would sooner cut off his arm than return the Vexin, Philippe frowned thoughtfully. If Henry held on to the Vexin, that would make Philippe the laughingstock of Christendom, the boy-king who was no match for the wily veteran on the English throne. An idea was glimmering in the back of his brain and he waited for it to come into focus. What if he could make it worth Richard’s while to marry Alys? Suppose he offered the Vexin as Alys’s dowry? That would save face, and would also give him leverage, for he could make the agreement contingent upon the marriage. And who knows, it might even stir up discord between Henry and Richard.

The wind had picked up and thunder echoed in the distance. Philippe considered it prudent to seek shelter, and he signaled to his waiting bodyguards. He must give this idea more thought, but it seemed promising. And as he exited the garden, he smiled, thinking that if he could marry Alys off to Richard, he could then concentrate upon finding a new husband for Marguerite. She was still of child-bearing age, with a pretty face and a docile nature, a queen with the blood of French kings in her veins. There’d be no shortage of princes interested in such a bargain bride.

The English Queen was back at Sarum, and Amaria was pleased by the move, welcoming any change in the predictable ebb and flow of daily life. On this sun-splashed June afternoon, she was enjoying the hustle and bustle of market day, held on the open ground below the castle’s East Gate. Accompanied by a servant to tote her purchases, she’d spent several pleasant hours browsing among the booths, buying needles and thread, a vial of rosewater, scarlet ribbons, almond oil, the hazelnuts that her queen liked, and several jars of honey. It was wonderful to have enough money for impulse and luxury buys; Amaria was very appreciative of the queen’s rise in status. In good spirits, she bought candied quince from a vendor and included the delighted young servant in her generosity.

Some of her cheer began to dissipate as they headed back toward the castle, for the queen’s chamber was no happy place these days. Eleanor had lost so much weight that her face looked drawn and pinched, and Amaria had to urge her to eat. Her days were long and her nights were worse. Amaria ached, too, feeling her pain and fear, and sympathizing with her rage. Had she been free, she’d have sailed for her homeland weeks ago, recklessly plunging into the very midst of war as she sought to end this fratricidal strife between her sons. Because she remained tethered to her husband’s will, she unleashed much of her frustration and fury upon his absent head, speaking of him with more bitterness than Amaria had heard from her in years. Amaria did what she could, provided an audience for her rants and prayed earnestly that the king would soon restore peace to his domains and his family. Other than that, they could only wait for word from the Limousin.

She paused to exchange greetings with some of the townsmen streaming back into the castle; she’d discovered, to her amusement, that she was a source of considerable interest to the inhabitants of Sarum-the person closest to that legendary being, Eleanor of Aquitaine. They soon parted ways, the villagers heading off toward the homes nestled under the castle walls and Amaria and her young helper continuing in the direction of the keep and royal palace.

As soon as they passed through the gatehouse into the inner bailey, Amaria sensed that something was wrong. The courtyard was usually like a hive for humans, with servants and soldiers and visitors milling about in raucous confusion, dogs getting underfoot and chickens squawking and horses eager to reach the stables and their waiting feed. Now, though, an eerie silence greeted Amaria. A few people were out and about, but they were also acting oddly, clustered together in small knots and conversing in the hushed tones usually heard only in church.

The boy felt it, too, glancing around uneasily as if he expected to find the castle under attack at any moment. Just then one of the maidservants spotted them. “Dame Amaria, we’ve been looking all over for you! It is just terrible…The queen’s son is dead! He was stricken-”

But Amaria was no longer listening. Lifting up her skirts, she began to run.

S HE ARRIVED, panting and flushed, in the queen’s chamber only to find it empty. For a moment, she stood, irresolute, and then realized that Eleanor might be in the chapel of St Nicholas. It was accessible from the royal apartments, but she paused for a moment before she entered, trying to collect her thoughts. She was not truly surprised, for she’d long feared that this would happen. Men might laud Duke Richard for his utter fearlessness, but not the women who loved him.

As she’d expected, she found Eleanor in the chapel, standing by one of the windows. Her face was partly in shadow, one cheek dappled with the deep rose hues of the panes above her head for the sun was setting the stained glass afire. She turned at the sound of footsteps upon the tiles, and Amaria bit back a cry, for the queen could have been a stranger. She seemed to have aged years in just a few hours, and Amaria had never seen her look as she did now-vulnerable, frail, and defeated.

“My lady, I am so sorry!” Amaria’s words ended in a stifled sob as she came to a halt, stretching out her hand in a tentative gesture of comfort that fell short, her fingers just brushing the sleeve of Eleanor’s gown.

“I wanted to pray for his salvation,” Eleanor said dully, “but I do not think the Almighty is listening to me, not anymore…”

Amaria was momentarily mute, for she’d never known such despair herself; even when she’d lost her own babies, she’d not lost her belief in God’s Mercy. She looked at the queen, her eyes blurring with tears. But she had to ask, had to know the worst if she had any hope of consoling this stricken woman. “Madame…was he shriven?” And when Eleanor nodded, she leaned against the wall, weak with relief. “God be praised! Surely that…that must be of some comfort, my lady. So often men die in battle without confessing their sins beforehand, and Duke Richard was…” She stopped then, for Eleanor was looking at her blankly.

Eleanor felt as if her brain was no longer working as it ought, and it took a moment or so until she understood the meaning of Amaria’s words. “It is not Richard. It is Hal.”

Amaria was astounded. Richard’s death would have made more sense, for he gambled with his own mortality on a daily basis. But Hal? He’d seemed to be one of Heaven’s favorites, blessed and beloved, not a man whose life would be cut short with such fearful finality. “H-how?”

Eleanor shook her head, not yet able to talk about it, just as she was not ready to think about the political consequences, what Hal’s death would mean to Richard. For now she was a mother whose child had been cruelly taken from her and nothing else mattered. Her shoulders slumping, she leaned her forehead against the sun-burnished stained glass, closing her eyes against the glare.

“My poor Hal,” she whispered. “He so wanted to be a king and he was never more than a pawn…”