Devil's brood eoa-3

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “A pity,” Henry said coolly, “that Thomas was so adamant, so scornful of compromise on the issue of jurisdiction. Had he been more reasonable, his murderers would not have gone free. Ironic, is it not, Cousin?”

  Roger could have pointed out that Becket would not have been murdered if Henry had not lost his temper and spoke those fatal words that sent four men to Canterbury Cathedral, thinking they were fulfilling the king’s wishes: What miserable drones and traitors I have nourished and promoted in my household, who let their lord be mocked so shamefully by a lowborn clerk! But he did not, for what purpose would it serve? It would change nothing. He looked at Henry, hearing an echo of his cousin’s hoarse, desperate denial. As God is my witness, those men did not murder him at my bidding. The real pity, he thought, was that Harry’s remorse had faded so fast.

  With the mediation of Archbishop Rotrou of Rouen, Bishop Arnulf of Lisieux, and the Archdeacon of Poitiers, peace was made between the English king and the Roman Church. It was agreed that Henry and the papal legates and bishops would ride south to Avranches and Henry would there do public penance for his part in the murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury and receive absolution of his sins.

  From the castle battlements, Henry had a superb view of the bay and, in the distance, the celebrated abbey of Mont St Michel. It was one of the marvels of Christendom, built upon a small, rocky island that was entirely cut off from the mainland at high tide. It had a dreamlike appearance, seeming to rise out of the sand and sea foam like a lost vision of God’s Kingdom, its high, precarious perch above the waves so spectacular and dramatic that at first glimpse, pilgrims did not see how it could have been the work of mortal men.

  It was low tide now and the dangerous, shifting sands had been laid bare. Henry could see a few tiny figures trudging across those sands toward the abbey, but not as many as would be expected. He knew why, of course. Many of the pilgrims had delayed their crossing upon hearing that the King of England would be doing penance upon the morrow at Avranches’s cathedral of St Andrew the Apostle. That would be a sight to behold, a rare tale to bring back to their towns and villages upon completion of their pilgrimages.

  Henry narrowed his eyes, as much at that unwelcome thought as at the unrelenting gusts of sea-borne wind, belying spring’s calendar with its chill. Glancing at his closest companion, he said, “It has been far too long since I visited your abbey. Mayhap we can make time ere I must depart for Caen. When was I there last-when I came with Louis?”

  Abbot Robert pretended to ponder the question; as if he did not have every one of the king’s stays seared into his memory like a brand! A royal visit was the greatest honor imaginable, but it was also a great expense and a great strain, for the striving after perfection on such an occasion was both exhausting and utterly elusive. Thinking of Henry’s sojourn with the French king, he smiled at the memory, for it had always amazed him that Henry should have been able to win over the man who’d been Eleanor’s first husband. Of course that unlikely peace had not lasted, but it had endured long enough for Henry to arrange an even more unlikely marriage between his eldest son, Hal, and Louis’s daughter, Marguerite, child of the woman he’d wed after divorcing Eleanor.

  “I believe that was indeed your last visit, my liege,” he confirmed, all the while marveling at the vagaries of fate. He had devoted much of his life to a history of his abbey and his times, and he wondered what future historians would make of the improbable story of Henry Fitz Empress and Eleanor of Aquitaine.

  A great heiress and a great beauty, she’d wed the young French king at thirteen, easily winning his heart, for he’d been pledged to the Church at an early age, would have happily served the Almighty if his elder brother had not died in a fall from his horse, and he retained a guileless innocence, a monkish simplicity that was ill suited to the worldly sophistry of the royal court. Their marriage had been neither happy nor fruitful, for they were as unlike as fire and milk. In fourteen years of wedlock, Eleanor had given birth to only two children, both daughters, and when their union was finally dissolved on the grounds of consanguinity, the true reason was her inability to give him a male heir.

  Barely three months later, she had shocked their world by wedding Henry, then Duke of Normandy, who was nine years her junior. Louis the king was horrified that so dangerous an adversary as Henry should have access to the riches of Eleanor’s Aquitaine, and Louis the man was mortified and hurt that Eleanor should have defied him by choosing such an unsuitable husband, one ambitious, bold, clever, and lusty. Their swift, secret marriage had led to war with France, and Louis’s humiliation was complete when Henry needed but six short weeks to send his army reeling back across the border, and but two years to claim the English crown. Eleanor then proceeded to salt Louis’s wounds by giving Henry five sons and three daughters, losing only William to the deadly perils of childhood.

  At least Louis had the consolation of envisioning his daughter as Queen of England. But even that had not gone as planned. Two years ago, Henry had mortally insulted Thomas Becket by allowing the Archbishop of York to crown his fifteen-year-old son, a coronation that Becket had futilely forbidden. But in the chaos and confusion, Marguerite had not been crowned with her young husband, giving Louis yet another grievance against his Angevin rival.

  A sudden clamor turned Henry’s attention from the abbey to the town below them. The streets were winding and narrow, accommodating the hilly terrain, and he could only catch glimpses of riders and horses. But then the wind found a fluttering banner of red and gold and he smiled. “My son is riding into Avranches,” he announced. “I should have known from the cheers.” He glanced toward the abbot, wanting to share his pride and pleasure with his friend. “You’ve not seen the lad for years, have you, Rob? Wait till you see how he’s grown-already taller than me and he’s just three months past his seventeenth birthday!”

  Others had followed Henry onto the battlements: his uncle Rainald, his cousin Roger, his justiciar, Richard de Lucy, and Hamelin de Warenne, his half brother. Hamelin was the illegitimate son of Henry’s father, Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, taken under Henry’s wing after Geoffrey’s untimely death. Hamelin had flaming red hair, an open, freckled face that made him seem much younger than his thirty years, an impulsive nature and, thanks to Henry, a very wealthy wife who’d brought him the earldom of Surrey. His affection for Henry was equaled only by his awe, and he beamed now to see his elder brother in such good spirits.

  “Does Hal know why you summoned him to Avranches?”

  Henry shook his head. “He thinks he is here just to swear to those agreements I am making with the Church.” Seeing Abbot Robert’s puzzled look, he explained, “I have a surprise in store for the lad.”

  Below them, men were riding into the castle’s inner bailey. There was no need to point out the young king. Everything about him-the spirited grey stallion and ornamented saddle, the costly mantle of fine scarlet wool, the white calfskin gloves studded with pearls, the stylish pointed cap with a turned-up brim embroidered in gold thread, the gilded spurs attached to his boots with red leather straps-proclaimed him to be of high birth and one of God’s favorites. He’d been blessed, too, with uncommonly good looks, tall and well formed, with vivid blue eyes and gleaming golden hair, cut short around his ears, one lock allowed to curl fashionably onto his forehead. Catching sight of his father up on the battlements, he doffed his cap in a gesture both graceful and dramatic, and Henry grinned.

  Staring down at this handsome youth, Abbot Robert blurted out, “If he is not the very image of Count Geoffrey!”

  “He has my father’s coloring for certes,” Henry agreed, “and his sense of style. He has my father’s ready wit, too. Did you hear, Rob, what he said at his coronation feast? To honor him, I myself carried the great boar’s head dish to his table. The Archbishop of York commented that it was not every prince who was served by a king. And Hal said, quick as a flash, ‘Yes, but it can be no condescension for the son of a count to serve the son of a king.�
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  Abbot Robert did not see the humor in that flippant remark, but he laughed dutifully because Henry was laughing. As he had been no admirer of Count Geoffrey of Anjou, though, he hoped that Hal had inherited nothing from his grandsire but his striking good looks.

  Swinging easily from the saddle, Hal soon joined his father up on the battlements, choosing to climb a wooden ladder rather than gaining access to the ramparts by entering the keep. Spotting William Marshal, the head of Hal’s household knights, Henry beckoned for him to come up, too, and then gathered his son into a welcoming embrace. After exchanging hugs with his kinsmen, Hal courteously greeted the justiciar and Abbot Robert, who gave him credit for having much better manners than Count Geoffrey.

  “Tell him, Brother,” Hamelin prompted, nudging Henry in the ribs, and Hal was instantly alert.

  “Tell me what?”

  Henry feigned a scowl at Hamelin’s impatience, but he was not one for waiting, either. “I have a surprise for you, lad.”

  Hal had retained a child’s love of surprises, but some of his father’s surprises had seemed more like ambushes. Moreover, he did not like to be called “lad” now that he was a man grown and an anointed king. “What?” he asked, with more wariness than anticipation.

  “Marguerite is here.”

  Hal blinked in disappointment. He’d known Marguerite for most of his life; they’d been wed when he was five and she was two and a half. He tended to think of her as a little sister, when he thought of her at all. “Oh?” he said politely, wondering what he was supposed to say.

  “Well, her presence is but half of the surprise. It is my intention to have her crowned this summer at Winchester. Archbishop Rotrou will preside and your cousin Roger has agreed to take part, too,” Henry said, with a playful smile at Roger. “And because of the furor that Becket caused about your coronation, I have decided that you will be crowned again-a gesture of good will toward the Church.”

  Hal’s interest was now fully engaged; he loved pageantry and rituals and revelries. His first thought was that they could hold a tournament afterward, but he decided not to share that idea with his father, knowing that Henry disapproved of tourneys as frivolous, wasteful, and a threat to the public order. His next thought was even better: the realisation that his coronation would be the ideal opportunity to achieve a long-delayed desire.

  “And I could be knighted, too!”

  Henry was already shaking his head. “No, lad, not yet. You know I think Louis ought to be the one to knight you. That would mean a great deal to him and go far toward mending the breach between us.”

  “But I do not care who knights me! All that truly matters is that it is done. I am already seventeen; how much longer must I wait?”

  “Some events are worth waiting for,” Henry said, giving his son a reassuring pat on the arm. “You are still young for such an accolade. How old were you, Will, when you were knighted?”

  Caught off balance, William Marshal stiffened; the last thing he wanted was to be pulled into this ongoing squabble between father and son. “Twenty and one,” he said reluctantly, feeling that he’d somehow let Hal down by speaking the truth.

  Hal was not easily discouraged, though. “And how old were you?’ he demanded of Henry, providing the answer himself, a triumphant “Sixteen!”

  Not for the first time, Henry wondered how he could have sired such obstinate offspring, for Hal’s brother Richard was even more headstrong and mulish, and thirteen-year-old Geoffrey was already showing signs of the same willfulness. Only little John and his Joanna were biddable and easily pleased. But a man wanted his sons to show pluck and spirit, and so he did not deny Hal outright, promising vaguely to give his request serious consideration.

  Hal had heard this before, for they’d been having this same argument since Henry’s return from Ireland last month. He was coming to the conclusion that his father’s promises were counterfeit coin; they looked genuine, but they could not be spent. He was opening his mouth to protest further when Roger intervened.

  “Hal,” he said quietly, “I believe that is Marguerite coming out of the hall. You’d best go down and greet her, lad, ere she feels slighted. You know how sensitive lasses can be.”

  Hal almost asked Roger how he knew that, what with him becoming a priest at such a young age. But he was angry with his father, not his cousin, and his sense of fairness stifled the gibe. Nor did he want to hurt Marguerite, and he nodded grudgingly. Turning toward the ladder, his gaze came to rest upon the girl below in the bailey and he came to an abrupt halt.

  “That cannot be Marguerite!”

  At the sound of her name, she glanced upward. Hal had not seen her in more than a year; she’d left England in April of 1171 and had spent most of her time since then at her father’s court. He’d remembered to send her gifts for New Year’s and her saint’s day, but she’d always been on the periphery of his life, the child-wife who’d eventually share his throne and bear his children-one day far in the future. Until then, he would not lack for female company; girls had been chasing after him since he was thirteen and he usually let them catch him. Now he gazed down at the heart-shaped face framed in a linen barbette, the chin-strap made newly fashionable by his mother, her fair hair covered by a gauzy veil of saffron silk, and he was stunned by the changes in her. She was so stylish of a sudden, slim and curvy where she’d been skinny and flat, so…so womanly.

  He sketched a bow, she responded with a graceful curtsy, and he pantomimed that he’d be down straightaway. When he looked back at the men, they were all grinning. He was too amazed to take offense. “She is lovely,” he marveled, counting surreptitiously on his fingers.

  Henry spared him the trouble. “She is fourteen now, lad, and as you say, very lovely, indeed.”

  Hal hesitated. “Um…is she old enough to-?” He flushed slightly, but grinned, too, and his father laughed.

  “Um…I would say so. But if you have doubts, you can always ask her.”

  Hal usually did not mind being teased, could give as good as he got. “I will,” he said, winked, and headed for the ladder, descending to the bailey so rapidly that they half-expected him to land in a heap at Marguerite’s feet. Instead, he sprang lightly to the ground and was soon gallantly kissing his wife’s hand as she blushed prettily and cast him adoring looks through fluttering lashes.

  “Well,” Henry said, “I do believe the lass is answering him without even being asked,” and they shared smiles, remembering what it was like to be young and bedazzled by a come-hither look, a neatly turned ankle. For Henry, memory took him back to a rain-spangled garden in Paris, an afternoon encounter with Louis’s queen that would change lives and history. He could still remember how breathtakingly beautiful Eleanor was that day. He’d have been content to gaze into her eyes for hours, trying to decide if they were green with gold flecks or gold with green flecks. She had high, finely sculpted cheekbones, soft, flawless skin he’d burned to touch, and lustrous dark braids entwined with gold-thread ribbons he yearned to unfasten; he’d have bartered his chances of salvation to bury his face in that glossy, perfumed hair, to wind it around his throat and see it spread out on his pillow. He’d watched, mesmerized, as a crystal raindrop trickled toward the sultry curve of her mouth and wanted nothing in his life so much, before or since, as he wanted her.

  She’d known that Louis was heeding his council’s advice, planning to divorce her, and then compel her to wed a man of their choosing, a pliable puppet who’d keep her domains under the control of the French Crown. In that soaked summer garden she’d taken her destiny into her own hands, offering him Aquitaine and herself, and he was so besotted that he could not say which mattered more to him, the richest duchy in Europe or the woman in his arms.

  They’d agreed to wait, though, for she shared his pragmatism as well as his passion, and they both knew even a glimmer of suspicion and Louis would never set her free. Nine months later, they were wed in her capital city of Poitiers. Never had he been happier, no
t even on the day he became England’s king. Lying entangled in the sheets on their wedding night, she’d confided that their lovemaking had been like falling into a fire and somehow emerging unscathed, laughing huskily when he showed he was not yet sated and murmuring, “My lord duke, tonight all of Aquitaine is yours for the taking.”

  Henry returned to reality with a start, staring blankly at Roger as he realized he’d not heard a word of his cousin’s question. Eleanor’s alluring ghost receded into the past, leaving him with a sense of wonder that twenty years could have passed since that torrid May night. He also felt an odd sense of loss, although he wasn’t sure why.

  “I want to talk with you, Will,” he said abruptly, and the young knight, who’d been sidling toward the ladder, straightened his shoulders and braced himself for what he knew was coming. “I’ve been warned,” Henry continued, “that my son has been consorting with the wrong company. I cannot do much about his association with Raoul de Faye as he is the queen’s uncle. But Hal has gathered around him a band of youths who are rakehells and idlers, light-minded, callow malcontents. Several of them accompanied him to Avranches: Juhel de Mayenne, Simon de Marisco, Adam d’Yquebeuf, and Hasculf de St Hilaire. You know them for what they are, Will, know that barnacles clinging to a ship’s hull can slow it down, even render it unseaworthy. Why did you not alert me that he was being led astray?”

  “My lord king…” Will was miserable, knowing that whatever he said, he was sure to be in the wrong, either with his young lord or his sovereign.

  “Why do you think I chose you to tutor my son in the arts of war and chivalry? Because you sit a horse well and can wield a sword? There is no shortage of knights with those skills. I chose you because you are steadfast and honest, because you have more mother-wit than most men, because I thought I could rely upon you to watch over my son, to keep him safe.”