Time and Chance

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

February 1170

Caen, Normandy

Richard urged his mount forward as they passed Athrough the city gates of Caen, intent upon overtaking his mother. She smiled as he drew alongside, pointing out the twin towers of St Etienne’s, the vast Benedictine monastery founded by Richard’s ancestor, the conqueror of England known as William the Bastard. Working out the relationship in his head, Richard determined that this long-dead king was his father’s great-grandfather. He remembered how he’d once delighted in making mention of William because it allowed him to swear with impunity. He was somewhat scornful of that younger self, though, for he was twelve now and such childish pleasures were beneath him.

To the east was another great abbey, this one a nunnery owing its existence to that ancient William’s queen, and in-between the monasteries lay their destination: William’s formidable stronghold of Chateau Caen. Richard glanced again at his mother as the castle’s battlements loomed ahead. He knew she was not happy to be summoned back to Normandy so suddenly by his father; she and his elder brother Hal had been at Caen for much of January whilst his father punished rebels in Brittany. She’d only just arrived back at Poitiers when his father’s messenger had found her. Richard was very pleased, however, by this return to Caen, for he’d coaxed her into letting him come along.

He was not particularly keen upon seeing his father, for if truth be told, the man was a stranger to him, often gone for many months at a time. Nor was he that eager to be reunited with Hal. The two and a half years between them was still an unbridgeable gap, although Richard definitely preferred his company to Geoffrey’s. It was enough for him that this journey to Caen offered a respite from his studies and the novelty of unfamiliar sights.

Eleanor was well aware of her second son’s excitement, but she shared little of his anticipation as they rode across the drawbridge into the bailey of Caen Castle. She expected Henry to be in a foul mood, for rumor had it that his latest envoys to the papal court, Richard Barre and the Archdeacon of Llandaff, had returned empty-handed from Benevento, having failed to undermine the Pope’s obligatory support for his exiled archbishop. She assumed, therefore, that he wanted an audience for his outrage, and while that was a role she’d often played during the past eighteen years, she no longer had either the patience or the inclination to smooth her husband’s ruffled feathers or gentle his untamed temper.

The castle steward was waiting to bid them welcome and informed them that the lord king was watching practice at the quintain on the open ground north of the keep. Eleanor decided to get her first meeting with Henry over with as soon as possible, and refused to let herself remember those times when she’d been eager for their reunions. Sending her ladies and their escort on into the great hall, she cantered her mare across the bailey, soon joined by Richard, who flung a challenge over his shoulder as his gelding galloped by. Eleanor laughed, urging her mare on, and they raced onto the quintain field as a team, sending up a spray of mud in their wake.

Their dramatic appearance interrupted the competition at the quintain and they found themselves the focus of all eyes. Henry came forward to help Eleanor dismount. Richard had already slid from the saddle and received a playful clout on the shoulders from his father. Henry was grinning, and demanded to know who had won. Eleanor allowed Richard to claim that honor, her eyes resting speculatively upon her husband. He seemed in suspiciously high spirits and she wondered what he was up to now, for there was nothing about him of a man bowing to inevitable defeat.

“My lady queen!” At the sound of that familiar voice, Eleanor swung around toward the quintain, handing her reins to Henry. Her eldest son was sitting upon a muddied chestnut stallion, smiling down at her. Eleanor smiled back, and Hal skillfully reined his mount in a semicircle, gracefully lowering his lance with a flourish. “Would you honor me, my lady, with a token of your favor?”

Richard smirked at Hal’s studied gallantry, but his parents both laughed. Reaching under her mantle, Eleanor unfastened the silken belt knotted around her hips and tied it onto Hal’s lance. Another youth was making a run at the quintain and they all turned now to watch. Although Richard was too young yet to study the arts of war, he was very familiar with the quintain and the way it worked. A post was anchored in a field and a crosspiece attached to the top by a pivot; a shield was hung from one end of this revolving arm and a sandbag from the other. Only a direct hit upon the shield would enable a rider to avoid the counterblow when the sandbag swung around, and this youngster’s aim went awry. As his lance slid off the shield, he was smacked by the sandbag with enough force to knock him from the saddle. His fall was cushioned by several layers of sticky mud, but his pride was badly bruised by a wave of mocking laughter. Infuriated by the jeers and gibes of the other boys, he started to stalk off the field, had to be reminded to retrieve his horse, and that generated another burst of merciless merriment.

Richard joined in the laughter, sure that he could master this difficult skill in no time at all. His brother was taking his turn at the quintain and he found himself hoping that Hal would take a tumble, too. But when Hal hit the target with a perfectly judged blow and galloped safely past the pivoting sandbag, Richard felt a spark of surprised admiration. Hal handled a lance with such practiced ease that he rose abruptly in his younger brother’s estimation, and as he made a second pass at the quintain, Richard was cheering him on.

Hal had another successful run and accepted the plaudits of his friends with a nonchalance that could not quite hide his pride in his feat. Riding back to his parents, he reaped a harvest of praise, and when Richard voiced his desire to try the quintain, too, Hal was feeling generous enough to indulge the boy.

“You’ll not blame me if you end up arse-deep in mud?” he warned, and when Richard insisted that he’d not care if he broke an arm, Hal grinned and beckoned his brother to follow.

It never occurred to either Henry or Eleanor to object; they took it for granted that Richard would suffer numerous injuries while learning the use of weapons. Hastily mounting his gelding, Richard listened intently as Hal showed him how to tuck the lance under his right arm and hold it steady against his chest so that it inclined toward the left. It wasn’t often that their sons displayed such a cooperative spirit, and they both took pleasure in this rare moment of brotherly harmony.

Richard was an accomplished rider for his age. He had no experience in handling a ten-foot lance, though, and in his first try, he missed the target altogether, much to the amusement of the watching youths. On his second attempt, he managed to strike the edge of the shield, and was then struck in turn by the swinging sandbag, which tumbled him down into the mud. Hal and his friends laughed so hard that they were almost in tears, but their laughter gave way to grudging approval when Richard bounded onto his feet, his mud-plastered face lit with a wide grin. “I want to try it again,” he said. “I think I’m getting the hang of it!”

Henry had led Eleanor over to a nearby cart, helping her up into the seat for more comfortable viewing. She was not surprised when he chose to stand, for he’d always found it difficult to sit still for more than a few moments at a time, and against her will, she remembered their first time alone-seated together in a garden arbor on a rain-darkened Paris afternoon-remembered how she’d wondered what it would be like to feel all that energy deep inside her.

“So, tell me,” she said abruptly. “What bad news did Barre and the archdeacon bring back from the papal court?”

Henry’s eyes were on Richard, who’d just taken another bone-bruising fall. Wincing, he said fondly, “That lad may have no common sense, but by God, he has pluck!” Glancing over his shoulder at Eleanor, he confided, then, that the news was very bad indeed.

“It was politely phrased, but the threat was lurking just beneath the surface courtesy. Alexander will not pressure Becket to accept more reasonable terms. He will, however, absolve me from my oath to give the saintly Thomas the Kiss of Peace. Nothing like an unsolicited generosity. He is appointing yet more envoys, this time the Archbishop of Rouen and the Bishop of Nevers. And if I do not make peace with Becket within forty days, England will be placed under an interdict.”

“You seem to be taking it rather well,” Eleanor observed skeptically, and he gave her an amused look that confirmed all her suspicions.

“The Pope and that bastard Becket think they have found a lever to use against me. They know how important it is to me to have Hal crowned and they think they can extort concessions from me as the price for that coronation.”

Eleanor could not fault his logic. “So what do you have in mind?”

Hal had just struck the shield off-center, ducking low to avoid the sandbag’s counterblow, and Henry let out a raucous cheer before turning his attention again to his wife. “What makes you think I have something in mind?”

“Nigh on two decades of marriage,” she riposted and earned herself an appreciative smile.

“Well… it occurred to me that this particular lever was more of a double-edged sword.”

“I asked for an explanation, Harry, not an epigram.”

Henry grinned. “Sheathe your claws, love, I’m getting to it. It is quite simple. I realized that Hal’s coronation matters almost as much to Becket as it does to me… to us. As jealous as he is of Canterbury’s prerogatives, how do you think he’d react if Hal were crowned by someone else… say, the Archbishop of York? It would drive him well nigh mad, and he’d be desperate to re-crown Hal, lest a dangerous precedent be set, one that elevated the diocese of York over Canterbury.”

Eleanor understood now what he meant to do. It was shrewd and bold and ruthless and might well work. She studied his face pensively, thinking that these were the very qualities she’d first found so attractive in him; thinking, too, that she must never forget what a formidable enemy he could be. “You are willing to defy the Pope on this? You know Becket has persuaded him that only Canterbury’s archbishop has the right to crown a king.”

Henry’s smile was complacent. “Ah, but you’ve forgotten that I still have in my possession a letter from the Holy Father in which he gives me permission to have my heir crowned by whomever I choose.”

“That letter was dated June of God’s Year 1161, if my memory serves,” she said sharply, irritated by how smug he sounded.

“Yes… but the Pope never notified me that it was revoked.”

“You are taking a great risk, Harry,” she said and he shrugged.

“It is what I do best, love.”

She could not argue with that. “Since you sent for me, I assume I have a part to play. What would you have me do?”

“I plan to leave for England as soon as possible. Once there, I shall take the necessary steps for Hal’s coronation. I want him to remain here with you to allay suspicions. But have him ready to sail as soon as you get word from me. I also want you to keep a close watch on the ports, to do whatever you must to make sure that none of Becket’s banns or prohibitions reach English shores. I’ve already talked to Richard de Humet about this and he knows what I want done.”

Eleanor did not appreciate having a watchdog, even one as competent as the Constable of Normandy. Had it escaped Harry’s notice that she’d been governing Aquitaine quite capably in his absence? She had no doubts whatsoever that she could rule as well as any man. Granted, she could not take to arms and capture rebel castles as Harry so often had to do. But mayhap her Poitevin lords would not be so defiant if not for his heavy-handed Angevin ways.

She gave no voice to her grievance, though, knowing it would serve for naught. Her husband was not a man to relinquish even a scrap of power if he could help it. Passing strange that he seemed so unconcerned about elevating Hal to a kingship. Did it never occur to him that Hal might not be content as his puppet, that the lad might want authority to accompany his exalted new rank? Or did Harry just take it for granted that his will would always prevail?

But in this, they were in agreement, for she, too, wanted to see their sons made secure in their inheritances. “You need not worry, Harry,” she said. “Even if Becket gets wind of what you’re planning, no messenger of his will set foot on English soil, not unless the man can walk on water.”

Their eldest son had switched his attention from the quintain and was making a run at the rings, braided circles of rope hung from the branches of a gaunt, winter-stripped tree. As Hal deftly hooked one of the rings onto the point of his lance, Henry and Eleanor exchanged a smile of parental pride. Echoing Henry’s praise, Eleanor agreed that Hal’s skill at this maneuver was indeed impressive. “During our stay at Caen, he never stopped talking about the glories of the tourney, and now I see why. He is good enough to win on his own merits, king’s son or not.”

Henry did not share the common enthusiasm for tournaments, thought they were a waste of time at best and an inducement to civil unrest at worst. “Do not encourage him in such foolishness, Eleanor. It is not as if he has to earn his way, like that young knight of yours, Marshal. You brought him along, did you not?”

“Will? Yes, he is in the great hall.” She glanced at him curiously, for he never made casual conversation. “Why?”

“I was thinking that he would be an ideal choice to watch over Hal. From what you’ve told me, he has a good head on his shoulders, could rein in Hal’s youthful follies whilst tutoring him well in the arts of war.”

She agreed that Will would be a good choice, although she felt a prickle of resentment that Henry felt so free to appropriate one of her household knights without so much as a by-your-leave. Will Marshal would have made a fine tutor for Richard, too.

“Richard will miss Will’s company,” she said composedly, “for he’s gotten right fond of Marshal. Speaking of Richard… it might be advisable to make a public acknowledgment of his right to Aquitaine now that you plan to crown Hal.”

Henry had expected her to make such a suggestion and he was amused that he could read her so well. Her partiality toward their second son was obvious to all but the stone-blind. But he was willing to indulge it, for Richard would make a good duke for Aquitaine. He was fortunate indeed that his realms were vast enough to provide for all of his sons. Well… for Hal, Richard, and Geoffrey. There was still the little lad, John, whom he’d dubbed John Lackland in a moment of levity. But John was being well cared for at Fontevrault Abbey and he would be pledged to the Church.

“An excellent idea, Eleanor.” They smiled again at each other, then cheered loudly when Richard survived his first run at the quintain, being buffeted soundly by the sandbag but remaining in the saddle.

“What of Marguerite?” Eleanor asked suddenly, thinking of her young daughter-in-law. “Do you mean to have her crowned with Hal?”

“I am not sure,” he admitted. “If I do not, Louis will be grievously offended. But if I do have the lass crowned now, that will make her an accomplice in my defiance of the Pope and the saintly Becket. You know Louis far better than me, love. Which is the lesser evil?”

Eleanor frowned. “It might be easier for him to forgive a slight than a sacrilege, for that is how he will view the coronation. I think it might be better to wait and have her crowned the second time… once you’ve come to terms with Becket.”

This was his thinking, too, and he was gratified to have her confirm his own instincts. Reaching up for her hand, he pressed a kiss into her palm, then turned back to watch as Hal snared another ring.

“When do you plan to sail, Harry?”

“As soon as the weather permits. Why?”

“Hal’s birthday,” she reminded him. “He turns fifteen on Sunday.”

“Ah, yes,” he said vaguely, for as finely tuned as his memory was, he had an inexplicable difficulty in remembering birthdates and the like, usually joking that it was her fault for giving him too many children to keep track of. “Well, then, of course I will not depart for Barfleur until Monday.”

“Hal will be pleased,” she said, wondering if that was indeed so; wondering, too, if he meant to take Rosamund Clifford with him to England.

“Holy Mother of God!” Henry’s brother was moaning softly, curled up into a ball, knees drawn against his chest, arms clasped over his head. A foul-smelling bucket testified to Hamelin’s physical distress, but the worst of his vomiting seemed to be over, probably because his heaving stomach had nothing left to disgorge. Henry leaned over and patted the younger man’s shaking shoulders, all he could think to do. Like most men blessed enough to be spared the humbling miseries of mal de mer, Henry usually felt faint contempt for those afflicted with seasickness. But now he had only sympathy for Hamelin’s ordeal. Henry had crossed the Channel more times than he could count, often in rough, wild weather. Yet he could not remember a storm of greater savagery than this one.

The seas had been choppy and turbulent even in Barfleur’s harbor. Once they had rounded Barfleur Point out into the unprotected waters of the Channel, the full force of the squall struck Henry’s fleet. In no time at all, most of the passengers on Henry’s flagship were suffering the torments of the damned, retching and shivering and offering urgent prayers to Nicholas of Bari, the patron saint of sailors. Even Henry began to experience queasiness and he could count his episodes of seasickness on the fingers of one hand. He fought it back and assured his companions that the storm would soon slacken. Even if it did not, these high winds would blow their ships to England faster than any bird could fly.

He was wrong on both counts. The storm only intensified and then the wind changed direction. The hours passed and they made little progress, their ships wallowing in heavy swells, the lanterns on mastheads extinguished by torrents of stinging, icy rain. Canvas tents had been set up to shelter the highborn passengers from the weather, but they could offer little protection against a gale of this magnitude. In Henry’s tent, the terrified men and women were soon bruised and sore, for even the most desperate grip was no match for the power of the elements. Each time the ship pitched, someone slammed into the gunwale or one of the coffers crammed into the tent, cries of pain muffled by the roar of the wind and the thud of waves slamming into the hull. Their prayers, too, were lost to the fury of the squall. As the night wore on, Henry was the only one aboard, including the ship’s master and crew, who was not convinced that they were doomed, sure to drown in the maw of the storm.

Hamelin was mumbling again about his wife, berating himself for having let Isabella sail in one of the other ships. Now they would not even drown together, he gasped, choking back a sob.

That was too maudlin for Henry. He could understand Hamelin’s fears for his wife. He had fears, too, for others in the fleet, especially his half-sister Emma and her husband. Of Geoffrey’s crop of bastards, he was fondest of Hamelin and Emma, and he regretted not insisting that she sail with him. Thank Christ that Hal and Eleanor were safe in Caen and Rosamund at Falaise, awaiting his return from England. It seemed a foolish waste of regret, though, to fret about being buried with a loved one, as Hamelin was doing. If their ship went down, they’d all be food for fish; how many bodies were ever recovered from the sea?

When he could endure Hamelin’s tearful remorse no longer, he said brusquely, “What’s done is done, man. Better you should save your breath for prayer.”

Hamelin raised his head at the sound of Henry’s voice. Although the wind blotted out most of Henry’s words, the impatient expression on his face communicated a message of its own, and Hamelin felt a quiver of despairing rage. Who but Harry was prideful enough to sail when the weather was so foul? Now they were all going to die because of his reckless flouting of God’s Will.

Hamelin said nothing, though, for even when feeling Death’s hot breath on the back of his neck, he could not blame his brother; it would be like rebuking the Almighty. But his eyes were brimming with silent reproach, and even Henry’s self-confidence was not immune to the force of that mournful gaze. He’d long ago learned that a king’s chess game was played with the lives of other people. Men had died to make him England’s sovereign, and more would die in defense of boundaries he alone defined. It was a great and fearful power-having the right to sanctify bloodshed-and it did not bear close inspection, for otherwise it could never be invoked.

Getting abruptly to his feet, Henry stumbled as the deck rolled and maintained his footing by sheer will and some luck. “I can no longer stand the stink in here,” he said, feeling the need to offer an excuse. It was true that the stench was execrable, for no one could empty the vomit-filled buckets overboard until the storm subsided. But it was also true that he was escaping the mute misery in his brother’s teary, accusing eyes.

As he emerged onto the deck, he was hit in the face by the wind, sleet pelting his skin like flying needles. Sailors scrambled across the slanting deck, struggling to tighten one of the shrouds dangling loosely from the mast. The man at the windlass was spinning the spokes, cursing as his frozen fingers slipped off the wheel. Henry dodged as a burly figure skidded toward him, recognizing the ship’s master only when he was close enough to touch. The man turned on Henry with a snarl, realizing just in time that this intrusive passenger was the king. He could not order Henry off the deck, but neither could he indulge in the niceties of court protocol when his ship’s survival was at stake. Thrusting a wet coil of rope into Henry’s hand, he tersely told the king to tie himself to one of the windlass’s posts ere he was washed overboard.

Henry did as bade, taking shelter against the gunwale out of the crew’s way. He was grateful that he’d chosen to sail on a cog and not a nef like the ill-fated White Ship, for nefs rode so low in the water that they’d surely have been swamped by now. He was not as confident of the ship’s steering innovation, though. Instead of the customary side rudder, this cog relied upon a newfangled stern rudder, and the enthusiastic arguments of the ship’s master that this was a vast improvement over the steering oar were not as persuasive now as they’d been in the safety of Barfleur’s harbor.

Henry guessed that dawn must be nigh, but the skies were still black, smothered in storm clouds. As much as he strained to see, he could catch no glimpse of bobbing lantern light. Did that mean the fleet was scattered to Kingdom Come? Or merely that their lanterns had been quenched, too, by the downpour? It was eerie, not knowing what the darkness concealed, knowing only that each ship was alone in its struggle to stay afloat.

There was an alarmed yell from one of the sailors, and although Henry didn’t understand the man’s Breton, the fear in his voice needed no translation. He jerked around in time to see the crew members lunging toward the starboard side. A shape was looming out of the blackness. With horror, Henry realized that it was another ship.

The ship’s master was screaming, “Hard on the helm!” As the helmsman jerked the tiller to the left, a sailor lurched from the bow, clutching an armful of boat hooks. When he staggered and fell, Henry was jolted out of his frozen shock, and he grabbed for the spilled boat hooks, began to toss them to the sailors clustered at the gunwale. God’s Blood, what was wrong with those fools? Was their helmsman blind?

Henry sucked in his breath sharply as the other ship came into clearer focus, for he saw then that the mast was broken in half, the sail shredded. It was close enough for him to make out scurrying figures on the deck. He forgot for a moment that this other cog could be his own destruction, for he knew he was looking at a ghost ship, one manned by the living dead. Only the Almighty could save those poor souls now.

His sailors were leaning over the gunwale, desperately gripping the boat hooks that were their only defense. Henry began to fumble with his rope lifeline so that he could join them, although a boat hook seemed a frail, feeble weapon against a cog. But the distance between the two ships was not narrowing, and with a surge of overwhelming relief, he realized that his own ship was slowly, ever so slowly, responding to the helm. The crewmen were shouting in grateful acknowledgment of their reprieve, yet they fell silent as the doomed ship was swept past them, for a respectful hush was all they could offer to the drowning passengers.

Henry sagged back against the gunwale. Oddly enough, their respite had done what the storm itself could not do, and for the first time that night, he accepted that he might not survive this accursed voyage. In just two days time, he would be thirty-seven, but would he live to celebrate it? What would happen to his domains without him? And his sons? Hal was only fifteen, the other lads even younger. What would become of them if he were no longer able to protect their rights?

Henry had often faced danger, but never before had he gazed down into his open grave. As was his way, he at once set about changing the ending. God’s Will be done. But not yet, Lord, not yet. He needed to live long enough to see his son crowned. Surely the Almighty could see that? Hal was still in need of his guidance, his judgment, for the lad had not yet shown the mettle of a king. He would learn, but he needed seasoning. Holding fast to the gunwale, Henry offered up the most heartfelt prayers of his life, bargaining with God for more time.

The sinking ship had disappeared into the darkness, but Henry’s last glimpse of it would burn in his memory until his final breath: as the cog heeled sharply to the left, its side rudder had come completely out of the water, as useless as its tattered sail and broken mast. A sudden whimper drew Henry’s attention and he glanced down to discover that his dog had crept from the tent, managed to crawl across the deck, and was huddled at his feet. Touched by such selfless loyalty, he knelt beside the dyrehund and wrapped his arms around the animal’s trembling body. He considered returning to the tent, decided to remain there on the deck. Better to die under the open sky, facing his fate head-on.

Henry lost track of time, was never to know how many more hours passed before he heard one of the sailors give a joyful cry, “Land ho!” Turning his head toward the horizon, he saw a glimmer of light in the distance, and for a confused moment, he thought he was gazing upon the chalk cliffs of Dover. Surely they could not have been blown that far off course? But as the helmsman called out that he could see Culver Cliff, Henry realized that he was looking upon salvation, the steep, white bluffs of the Isle of Wight.

Henry came ashore at Portsmouth on March 3, and the remainder of his storm-battered fleet straggled into ports up and down the Channel. One of his forty ships was lost, taking more than four hundred people to their deaths, including Ranulf de Bellomont, his personal physician. But when he sent for his eldest son, Hal’s voyage was uneventful. He landed safely on English soil on June 5, proceeding to London, where his father awaited him, and was crowned in Westminster Abbey by the Archbishop of York on the following Sunday.

The Earl of Cornwall was enjoying himself enormously. Rainald loved food and revelries and good company, and in his considered judgment, his grandnephew’s coronation feast offered all three in plenitude. Westminster’s great hall had been newly whitewashed for the occasion, fresh, fragrant rushes laid down, clean linen cloths covered the tables, and in every wall sconce, a flaming torch blazed like a smoking sun. So far the menu had exceeded all his expectations; he’d confessed to his grand-nephew Hugh of Chester that he’d not thought Harry could manage an elegant meal without Eleanor’s guidance.

Hugh was embarrassed by this lack of discretion, casting uneasy glances along the high table, where his cousin the king was seated. Rainald merely laughed at the young earl’s attempts to shush him, insisting that Harry would take that as a compliment, not an insult. He could tell Hugh stories, indeed, about the slop that had been served at the royal table, especially when they’d been on the road all day and ended up sheltering for the night in places a self-respecting pig would shun.

Hugh went crimson and looked askance at Rainald’s brimming wine cup, trying to remember how often it had been refilled. Hippocras was ordinarily saved for the end of a feast, for the red wine flavored with sugar, ginger, and cinnamon was a costly beverage. But for Hal’s coronation dinner, no expense had been spared, and hippocras was being poured at the high table as if it were ale. Hugh invariably found things to worry about and he began to fear that Rainald might humiliate them both if he ended up deep in his cups.

Rainald’s voice was carrying, as usual, turning heads in their direction, and Hugh swallowed his own wine too quickly, for he was nowhere near as certain as his granduncle that the king would not be offended by such talk. He never knew how to read his cousin Harry and dreaded stirring up the king’s notoriously quick temper. Much to his relief now, the Bishop of London, seated on Rainald’s right, adroitly introduced a more seemly topic of conversation, commenting upon the lavishness of the dishes that had so far been served.

Distracted, Rainald happily plunged into a discussion of the fine pepper sauce, the omelettes stuffed with expensive, imported figs, the venison pasties, the fresh mackerel colored green with a jellylike mint sauce, and his personal favorite, the Lombardy custard of delicious marrow, dates, raisins, and almond milk. His grandnephew’s concern about his drinking was unwarranted; Rainald was feeling pleasantly mellow, but he was still reasonably sober. His exuberance was due as much to high spirits as spiced wine, for a coronation was a momentous event, one to be remembered and savored for years afterward.

Hal had been seated in the place of honor, between his father and the Archbishop of York. Already taller than Henry, adorned in a red silk tunic with a stylishly cut diagonal neckline that had stirred Hugh’s envy, his fair hair gilded to gold by the flaring torchlights, Hal looked verily like a king. Rainald beamed at the youth, glad that he made such a fine impression. Not every king’s heir was so promising, he thought, remembering Stephen’s brutal son, Eustace. When he’d died so suddenly, choking on a mouthful of eels, Stephen alone had mourned; most men felt that the Almighty had interceded on England’s behalf.

“I do not know our young king well,” he confided to the bishop, “but I can understand why the crowds turned out to cheer as he rode to the abbey. He is as handsome a lad as I’ve ever laid eyes upon, God’s Truth. I know who he gets his good looks from, too!”

Gilbert Foliot had more weighty matters on his mind than the comeliness of the king’s son. It was barely two months since he’d gotten the Pope to lift Becket’s sentence of excommunication, and he well knew that his participation in this day’s coronation was likely to thrust him back into papal disfavor. But courtesy was a virtue and he agreed that the young king was indeed fair to look upon, adding politely that the queen had been a great beauty, after all.

Rainald chuckled, looking at the bishop indulgently. “Nay, my lord, I meant the boy’s grandsire. I can find nothing of the queen in that lad. Look at his coloring, the tilt of his head, then tell me he is not the veritable image of Geoffrey of Anjou!”

Foliot had not seen the resemblance before, but now that it was pointed out to him, he marveled how he could have missed it. He had been a staunch supporter of the Empress Maude, which meant that he was no admirer of the late Count of Anjou, and he silently expressed the wish that young Hal resembled his grandfather in nothing more significant than appearance.

Rainald reached for a bread sop, dunking it in the glistening green sauce of their shared mackerel dish. “Let’s hope the lad’s good looks are his only legacy from Geoffrey. My sister loathed the man, and with cause, by God!”

That was tactless enough to make both Foliot and Hugh wince. No matter how cheerful Henry was this day, he’d like it not to hear his father disparaged; his affection for Count Geoffrey had been well known. Fortunately, there was a sudden bustle of activity in the hall as this course came to an end, and Rainald’s comments passed unnoticed. Ewers were bringing out lavers of water scented with bay leaves and chamomile; because so much of a meal was eaten with the fingers, it was essential that guests be offered several opportunities to wash their hands. The panter was cutting new trenchers for those at the high table, as by now theirs were soaked with gravy. Not even the hungriest diners would eat their trenchers, for bread had to be coarse and stale to be firm enough to serve as a plate; as they were replaced, the crumbling, sodden trenchers were collected for God’s poor.

There was a sudden stirring as Henry rose to his feet. He stopped others from rising, too, and gestured for the musicians to resume playing. As the music of harp and lute filled the hall, Henry stepped down from the dais. Exchanging brief pleasantries with the guests at his table, he paused before his kinsmen.

“There is no need to ask if you’ve been enjoying the dinner, Uncle,” he joked, “not after all you’ve been eating!”

Rainald grinned and patted his paunch. “Jesu forfend that I insult Your Grace by showing indifference to this fine fare! In all candor, you’ve always been one for eating on the run. I trust you are not about to put an end to the festivities?”

Henry grinned back. “This is one dinner that could last into the morrow and I’d not complain. No, I have a surprise for my son.”

Making his way across the hall, he waited until he saw the server approaching the door and then signaled for a trumpet fanfare to introduce the meal’s piece de resistance. Garnished with sliced apples, centered on a large silver platter, the great boar’s head was an impressive culinary tribute to the young king, for it was more commonly served during Christmas revelries. The admiring murmurs gave way to cheers when Henry moved forward and took the platter himself. The sons of the nobility learned manners by waiting upon tables in great households, and a king was often served at state banquets by peers of the realm. But Henry’s action was an unprecedented compliment to his son.

With all eyes upon him, Henry carried the boar’s head to the high table, where he stood smiling up at his eldest son. Hal smiled, too, looking so composed and regal that Henry glowed with pride. The Archbishop of York glanced from Henry to Hal and said with the smoothness of a practiced courtier, “It is not every prince who can be served at table by a king.”

Hal’s blue eyes took the light, a smile still hovering at the corners of his mouth. “Yes,” he said, “but it can be no condescension for the son of a count to serve the son of a king.”

There was utter silence. Even those who hadn’t heard Hal’s retort sensed something was amiss by the shocked expressions on the faces of those at the high table. The Archbishop of York was at a rare loss for words, and Rainald nearly strangled on a mouthful of wine. Henry looked startled and then he laughed. Others echoed his laughter dutifully, but the laughter had a hollow sound. With the exception of Henry and his son, few in the hall found any humor in the young king’s too-clever quip.