William was still trying to persuade himself against all the evidence that Harry would live, and the words numbed him because they forced him to face the truth. “If it is within my power, then I shall do it, sire.”
“Marshal, I do not want to burn in hell, and I surely will without prayers and intercession.” Gasping, Harry struggled to speak, and William helped him to take a few small sips of watered wine. “I…I want you to go to Jerusalem and lay my cloak on the tomb of Christ at the Holy Sepulchre.”
William stared at him.
“Promise me…” Harry’s sunken eyes filled with fear and pleading. “Do not abandon me in this. If you ever loved me, do this for me.”
“I promise, sire, willingly,” William answered immediately, concealing his shock. He set his hand over Harry’s, feeling the bones jutting beneath the skin. “But I hope you will make that vow yourself in Jerusalem.”
“No,” Harry whispered. “This is God’s judgment on me for my sins… This is the end—I shall not leave this room save on a bier.”
* * *
It was over. On the tenth hour of the tenth day of June, surrounded by his disbelieving and frightened knights, Henry the Young King, eldest son of the king of England and Duke of Normandy, died in suffering, lying on a bed of ashes on the floor of his chamber in Martel, a rope around his neck in token of his penitence and a simple wooden cross clutched in his hands. He was just twenty-eight years old but looked a hundred.
William stooped and gently removed the large sapphire ring from Harry’s index finger, then kissed the back of his master’s limp, cold hand. Harry’s father had refused to come to Martel, convinced that the summons was a ruse of war and fearing assassination; however, he had sent the ring as a compromise, and at least it was proof that a bond of sorts still existed between father and son, although now it would have to be returned to Henry with news of tragedy.
During his final lucid moments, Harry had again begged William to go to Jerusalem and lay his cloak at the sepulchre, and William had repeated his promise in public before the weeping knights and clergy gathered around the deathbed. Harry had been his charge in life, and he had failed him. He had an even greater onus to protect him in death from the fires of hell and, if possible, which William was not sure it was, to atone for their sins and receive not only God’s forgiveness but also the Virgin’s.
* * *
Retiring to snatch an hour’s sleep before dawn, William discovered Ancel on his knees, praying before a lighted candle and a small wooden cross. His brother had been absent when William had sworn to go to Jerusalem because someone still had to be on guard duty and Ancel had volunteered.
Without looking around, Ancel said in a raw voice, “All the things we robbed from Rocamadour… People went to that place and prayed over them for succor and intercession or gave them in gratitude for prayers answered. Now, because of us, they are tainted—all their power has been stolen. They were of no use to our young lord in his illness; perhaps they even brought about his end. Many will say he got what he deserved.” He drew a shaky breath and looked at William with glassy eyes. “And if that is the case for him, then what will God’s punishment be for us? We shall surely burn in hell.”
William sat down heavily on Ancel’s mattress and put his head in his hands.
“I don’t know what truth is anymore,” Ancel said raggedly. “I looked up to you because I thought you knew what it was, but after Rocamadour, I no longer have that trust. All men die, and I do not want to suffer for eternity, which is surely what will happen.”
William looked up with an exhausted sigh. “You are right. I will not make excuses. I came to tell you that before he died, Harry entrusted me with his cloak. He asked me to take it to Jerusalem and lay it upon the tomb of Christ to atone for his sins, so that he, and all of us, might pray for absolution from the crimes we committed through necessity. I know you only rode to Rocamadour because I forced you. I acknowledge my blame. Now I ask you to accompany me to Jerusalem and atone for what we have done. I will understand if you refuse.”
Ancel’s eyes widened, the whites glistening in the lantern light. “To Jerusalem?”
“Yes. And Eustace and as many of the others as wish to make the journey. I do not know if we will achieve our goal, or return, but better to die trying than to live with the sin.”
Ancel’s throat worked. And then he gasped and put his face in his hands and tearing sobs shook his frame.
William set a tentative hand on his shoulder. “So, what do you think?”
Ancel turned and pressed his head into William’s breast, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with tears. “Of course I will go with you—you could not stop me!”
“We will make it right, I promise,” William vowed. His own throat tight with emotion, he added, with bleak determination, “And I shall keep that promise with my life if I must.”
3
Tower of Rouen, July 1183
Ancel held the reins of William’s powerful sorrel warhorse, Bezant. “I still say you are mad. Why would you give up your best horse to the king—your two best horses in fact?” He indicated William’s second destrier, Bezant’s younger half brother, Cuivre, who was being tended by Eustace.
William struggled with his patience. They had been over this several times already, but to Ancel, an opinion, once made, was set in stone. “I have told you why. I will not risk these animals on a vast journey like this, and I know the king will accept nothing less in exchange for funds.” Besides which, William had a personal need to sacrifice, to do penance and purge himself. Giving up his best horses would help to balance the scales.
“The lords who rode to free Jerusalem long ago took their warhorses,” Ancel objected.
“And lost them along the way. Do you truly think any man arrived in Jerusalem on the destrier he rode from home?”
Ancel opened his mouth, ready with another argument, but William cut him off with a sharp look and departed to his audience with the king.
He had already spoken to Henry of his son’s death—a painful interview conducted in the royal campaign tent in the Limousin. Henry’s grief had been deep and raw but concealed under a surface of rigid control. Now that Harry had been buried in Rouen Cathedral, it was time for another audience. William was not relishing the prospect, but he was prepared and stoical.
He was ushered into the king’s chamber, which bustled with officials, scribes and clerics, lords, servants, and messengers—all the many cogs, small and large, that turned the wheels of the most dynamic court in Christendom. The man responsible for the manipulation of all these cogs was slumped in his cushioned chair, one hand cupping his beard of gray-salted auburn. His expression was flat, and for a king with a legendary reputation for never a moment’s stillness, this dull, world-weary pose was a startling departure. But then, yesterday, he had buried his eldest son.
William knelt before Henry and bowed his head. Henry said nothing for a long time, allowed the silence to gather weight in the space between them. When eventually he spoke, his voice had the grittiness of sifted ashes. “So, you come to me, and I have to wonder why you should do so and why I should want to set eyes on you ever again.”
“Sire, you are my liege lord. Where else would I go?” William replied.
“You did not think that when you were biting my back, did you?” Henry sat up and leaned a little forward, his neck hunching into his shoulders. “Why should I accept you in my court? Why should I not have you thrown out or flung in prison?”
William’s hair rose at the nape of his neck. It would be so easy for Henry to make him a scapegoat for his grief. “Sire, you appointed me to the position of marshal to your son, and I served him to the utmost of my ability. No more was within my power—would that it had been.”
Henry fell silent again. Flicking a glance up, William saw that the king was fidgeting with the sapphire ring that Harr
y had worn as he lay dying. William had returned it to Henry at their last meeting, and now Henry was examining it, pulling it off his finger, pushing it back, lost in thought.
William drew breath and spoke before the silence became impenetrable. “Sire, in his last days, your son asked me to take his cloak to Jerusalem to lie on the tomb of Christ and pray for absolution, and I vowed to do so. I intend to fulfill that oath to the utmost of my life—nothing shall prevent me, save my own death.”
Henry shot him a sour look. “That notion at least has merit, and perhaps it is best if you are gone from my sight for a while. When are you leaving?”
William cleared his throat. “As soon as possible, with those of my men who choose to accompany me. I must go to England first and make my farewells and arrange funds.”
Henry said nothing, and William did not know whether to remain kneeling or back out of his presence. Another swift glance revealed that the king’s jaw was trembling.
“Is that why you have come to me?” Henry choked out at last. “For funds? Have you not got plenty of your own after what you have been doing with my son? Hah, you surprise me, Marshal!”
William took the blow willingly, but it was still like a knife slicing the scab off a recent wound, and all the memories came pouring out of the gash, all the shame and bitter remorse of what had been done at Rocamadour. He had already been forced to petition the king to pay Harry’s mercenaries their due wages. William had promised them that they would be paid, and Henry had seen to it and settled his dead son’s debts, but grudgingly, and he blamed William.
“Sire, I have brought you my two best horses. I thought you might keep them until I return.”
Henry’s expression sharpened, and his energy changed, becoming brisk and businesslike. “You have them with you?”
“Yes, sire, in the courtyard.”
“Show me. After all, I don’t want you saddling me with nags, do I?”
William took another underhand blow. He had never in his life owned a nag. As a royal marshal, he knew horses better than anyone, including the king.
Henry gathered his cloak, and as he stood up, the sapphire ring slipped from his finger and bounced away, tinkling across the floor tiles. Both men stared, and again, a short, terrible silence ensued before Henry turned away and, leaving the jewel where it lay, strode from the room. William followed him, experiencing a sense of desolation, for the dropping of the ring emphasized to him the nonpresence of the Young King in the world and how final it was.
Henry stamped into the courtyard where the two warhorses waited, groomed and glossy, swishing their tails against the flies and tossing their heads. He studied the powerful golden sorrel and his darker bronze brother with a shrewd eye. “How old?” he demanded.
“Bezant is seven and Cuivre six,” William replied. He knew Henry would accept the horses. He would stable them at someone else’s expense and use them as breeding stallions during William’s absence. Plenty of fine foals would be sired in that time.
Henry assessed the horses like an experienced Smithfield trader, running his hands over their muscles and down their legs, all the time making faces as if he were looking at inferior goods. Eventually he stood straight and delivered his verdict. “For the love I bore my dear son, I will take these animals and care for them while you are gone, and I will pay you a hundred pounds for the pair of them to defray your expenses. Should God spare you to return, you may come to me and redeem them for a promise to repay that sum.”
Beside William, Ancel choked with indignation, and William warned him with a swift nudge. “Sire,” he responded, bowing deeply, “it is my honor to accept with gratitude.”
Henry gave him a calculating look, assessing his sincerity, but William felt that they had returned to familiar waters, even if the sea was still rough.
“Let it be done,” Henry said. “I will have letters made out for you to take to the papal court in Rome and also to my cousin King Baldwin in Jerusalem.” Giving a brusque nod to conclude their business and rubbing his hands as though washing them, he left without a backward look.
“I cannot believe you agreed to give him these horses for a hundred pounds!” Ancel protested, aggrieved. “They are easily worth twice as much!”
“Would you have had me refuse him or resort to haggling?” William snapped. “His son is dead, and I was responsible for looking after him, for keeping him alive, and I failed. I knew full well he would not give me what those destriers are worth, but a hundred pounds will see us a long way on the road, and our mounts will be well cared for. Others will give us funds and supplies, and I have money held at the temple. We shall not be destitute—and even if we were, I would go barefoot in my breeches to Jerusalem to fulfill this mission.”
Ancel glowered but held his peace. William took Bezant from him, rubbed the destrier’s white blaze, and fed him some dried dates purloined from the royal stores. He had spent numerous hours training this horse, and a deep bond of trust and cooperation existed between them, but he would not risk him on the journey. He made his farewell to Cuivre too before handing both animals to Henry’s grooms. Watching as they were led away, he was sad, for even if he did return and ride them again, it would never be in the joyous tumult of the tourneys and jousts he had once shared with his young lord. That time was gone forever.
4
Manor of Caversham, April 1219
Beyond the quiet tranquility of his sickroom, a perfect spring morning sported a handful of fluffy clouds against a clear blue sky. The light was so strong that it dazzled William’s eyes, and walking beside his litter, Isabelle gently adjusted the brim of his hat to shade his face before taking his hand in hers. In Jerusalem, he had looked into sunlight much stronger than this, but his eyes were attuned these days to the softness of shadows.
Usually people came to his bedside, but today he had felt well enough to attend mass in his chapel of Saint Mary. His marriage to Isabelle had given him the financial means to embellish and enrich this place as was the Virgin’s due. He had sworn his oath to her at Rocamadour, and he had kept it here at Caversham.
He was dressed as the Earl of Pembroke to attend the service, his emaciated body clad in a tunic of green cendal and a fur-lined cloak with clasps of gold. There were rings on his fingers for the first time in weeks, although Isabelle had had to wrap the shanks with her sewing thread because they were so loose. His physician had thought it unwise for him to make even this short journey, that it would weaken him, but William had ignored his advice. He was not going to recover. What did it matter if he died a day sooner? He would at least be stronger spiritually.
He would do as he had always done when at Caversham, even in extremity, because Caversham was his home. The place where he had always been able to remove his belt, put his feet up on a footstool, and enjoy moments of private comfort with his family, a child in his lap, a dog at his feet. Isabelle smiling at him across the firelight. Isabelle lying in their bed, a pale shoulder gleaming through her heavy, golden hair. This would be one of the last times that he went to the altar in his living body, and he was determined, with all of his formidable will, to see it through.
The knights bore William through the chapel door into the sacred space, and the light changed, becoming not of sun but of hundreds of slender beeswax candles illuminating the jeweled figure of the Virgin seated upon her throne, with the Christ child on her knee and a heavenly crown upon her head. Incense perfumed the air and mingled with the candle haze, creating a soft golden glow before her image. William begged silent forgiveness that he could no longer prostrate himself before her as was her due. Yet he felt enormous gratitude for the grace of entering her presence while he still had breath in his body. He would serve her now with his prayers and again very soon in spirit, when the moment came to leave his earthly cladding behind.
5
Temple Church, Holborn, July 1183
It was rain
ing in London, a summer downpour that dimpled the surface of the Thames and shadowed the water with the hues of a dull sword. William had crossed the bridge from the Southwark side with his small entourage, and they had immediately been engulfed by the ripe smells of the wet city, a perfume so robust and complex that it raised the hairs on his nape, simultaneously attracting and repelling. Ordure and excrement, the brackish, muddy waft of the river shore at low tide. Smoke from cooking fires, the smell of people, wet wood and stone. As they turned from the river and into the butchers’ quarter, the meaty stench of offal struck them like a bloody smack in the face, thankfully not as powerful as it would have been in full heat. The rain also kept the flies at bay.
Their horses splashed in the muck, swilling down the overflowing gutters, until eventually, they came to Ludgate and passed beyond the city walls into the suburbs, where the scent changed to that of gardens, drenched and green. The dwellings no longer hugged each other like fighting drunkards but were spacious with prosperity. Apart from occasional glances, William paid scant heed to his surroundings, keeping his head down and his thoughts to himself. Unable to share his burdens with anyone in his entourage, they had grown heavier by the day. He did not suffer nightmares like Ancel; what need when he was living them every waking moment? He knew of only one person who might help him, but whether he would want to when he heard the tale was another matter.
Eventually, they came to Holborn and turned in at an open gateway guarded by two sergeants wearing dark robes. Beyond a courtyard, stables, and a packed jumble of timber and stone buildings, the tubby rotunda of the church of the Knights Templar was just about visible.
“Wait here,” William commanded his entourage, indicating an open-sided shelter built against a wall. Ancel started to follow him, but William ordered him to stay with the others and take charge. “I need to see Aimery alone.”
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