Devil's brood eoa-3

by Sharon Kay Penman

  We deplore publicly and regretfully that, while you are a most prudent woman, you have left your husband… You have opened the way for the lordking’s, and your own, children to rise up against the father.

  We know that unless you return to your husband, you will be the cause of widespread disaster. While you alone are now the delinquent one, your actions will result in ruin for everyone in the kingdom. Therefore, illustrious queen, return to your husband and our king. In your reconciliation, peace will be restored from distress, and in your return, joy may return to all. If our pleadings do not move you to this, at least let the affliction of the people, the imminent pressure of the church and the desolation of the kingdom stir you. For either truth deceives, or “every kingdom divided against itself will be destroyed.”…

  And so, before this matter reaches a bad end, you should return with your sons to your husband, whom you have promised to obey and live with. Turn back so that neither you nor your sons become suspect. We are certain that he will show you every possible kindness and the surest guarantee of safety…

  Truly, you are our parishioner as much as your husband. We cannot fall short in justice: Either you will return to your husband or we must call upon canon law and use ecclesiastic censures against you. We say this reluctantly, but unless you come back to your senses, with sorrow and tears, we will do so.

  Eleanor did not reply.

  The Bishop of Worcester’s ship approached the Norman coast at dusk and anchored in the Seine estuary. Two days later, Roger disembarked at the Rouen docks, and he was admitted to the king’s riverside castle as the noonday sun reached its zenith. As usual, he traveled with only a small retinue, and they were quickly settled in. Roger then went in search of his cousin the king.

  He soon learned that Henry was absent, off hunting in the Roumare Forest. The great hall was empty, the inner bailey all but deserted. He assumed that the barons with Henry were part of the hunting party, and Archbishop Rotrou would be found in his own palace close by the great cathedral. But there was something eerie about the silence, the lack of the customary hustle and bustle and organized disorder that heralded the king’s presence. Not wanting to go back to his cramped, stifling chamber, he found himself wandering aimlessly about the castle grounds, as if movement could keep his troubled thoughts at bay.

  Had Fortune’s Wheel ever spun so wildly? His cousin had begun the year as the most powerful king in all of Christendom, only to be struck down by one calamity after another. The betrayal by his queen and sons had opened the floodgates, inundating him in wave after wave of defections and desertions. Anjou and Maine were, for the most part, loyal, but Brittany, England, and Normandy were in peril, and Roger could not help wondering if Henry was being punished for the death of the Church’s newest saint, Thomas of Blessed Memory.

  Roger’s own nephew, the Earl of Chester, had joined the Breton rebels. The Earl of Leicester, son of Henry’s former justiciar, was with Hal, as was his cousin, the Count of Meulan. The Chamberlain of Normandy had treacherously gone over to the enemy, bringing with him more than one hundred armed knights. The Earls of Derby and Norfolk had thrown in their lot with the rebels, and other English lords were under suspicion, including Roger’s elder brother William, Earl of Gloucester. For the most sinister aspect of rebellion was that the king’s vassals need not openly declare for Hal to do Henry harm; they need only do nothing. And that was what many of them were choosing to do, waiting to see who was likely to prevail, father or son.

  England was rife with rumors and speculation, fed by the news coming out of Normandy. In June a two-pronged assault had begun upon the eastern border. Philip d’Alsace, the Count of Flanders, and his brother Matthew, the Count of Boulogne, were laying siege to Driencourt while Louis led a French army against Verneuil. Should these two fortresses fall, the road to Rouen would be open to them. As alarming as that was, Henry’s English supporters were alarmed, too, by his apparent inactivity. He’d been at Rouen for more than three months, the longest he’d ever been in one place during his entire reign, and by all accounts, he’d been passing most of his days hunting deer, not rebels.

  Concern for Henry’s mental state had been one of the reasons for Roger’s trip to Rouen; the other was the cloud of suspicion hanging over his older brother. He did not want William to be tarred with Hugh’s brush, nor did he want his sister, Maud, to be banished from royal favor. It was not her fault that her son had turned to treason, and he hoped to make Henry understand that.

  The sun was high overhead, radiating heat rarely felt in England, and Roger was heading back to the great hall when a shout echoed from the battlements: riders coming in. He halted, hoping it might be Henry returning from the hunt. It wasn’t, but the new arrival was a welcome one: William de Mandeville, the Earl of Essex.

  Once they’d exchanged greetings, Willem turned his horse’s reins over to his squire, smiling when Roger asked why he’d not gone hunting with the king. He’d been meeting with some of the routiers, he explained, as a new contingent had just arrived from Brabant.

  Roger was not surprised to hear that, for he knew such mercenaries were the backbone of his cousin’s army. Rather than relying upon the grudging military service given by his vassals, Henry preferred to hire professional soldiers, and such men were always easy to find. Despite the disapproval of the Church, routiers from Brabant and Flanders and even Wales were available for those lords with enough money to engage them. Debating that point with Roger, Henry had insisted that routiers made superior fighters because they could be mobilized at once, they would serve as long as they were paid, their desire for plunder gave them enthusiasm for their work, and their fearsome reputation often weakened enemy morale. Roger had not been convinced by his cousin’s arguments, for he still thought it immoral for a man to earn his living by killing fellow Christians. But now he felt a flicker of relief, so worried was he about Henry’s plight. At least he’d have routiers on hand for the defense of Rouen should it come to that.

  “I hope you are bringing good news about the siege of Leicester,” Willem said, and Roger was pleased to reply in the affirmative. Henry’s justiciar, Richard de Lucy, and his uncles, Rainald and Ranulf, had been besieging the city and castle of the rebel Earl of Leicester since early July, and Roger was now able to tell Willem that the townspeople had surrendered. The castle still held out and a truce had been struck till Michaelmas. Roger’s other news was not as encouraging, though. De Lucy had ended the siege of Leicester Castle in order to hurry north, where the Scots king had been staging bloody border raids.

  “Now it is your turn, Willem. The last we heard in England, the sieges of Driencourt and Verneuil were still continuing. Tell me they have not fallen.”

  “I would that I could. Driencourt fell to the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne last week, and they moved on to Arques. The siege of Verneuil still goes on. The town is composed of three wards, called burghs, each with its own walls and ditch. The French have taken the first two, but the third and the castle still hold out.”

  Roger stared at the other man. “Jesu, how can you sound so calm? Arques is less than twenty miles from Rouen!”

  “First of all, Rouen is well defended, no easy prize for the taking. Secondly, the Flemings suffered a great reversal at Arques. The Count of Boulogne took an arrow in the knee, and the wound has festered. His brother was so distraught that he halted their advance whilst Matthew’s injury is treated.”

  Roger did not see that as such a “great reversal.” He’d met the Count of Flanders, and he thought Philip was the most formidable foe that Henry was facing, far more ruthless than Louis. How long would his brotherly concern last?

  “I do not understand why Harry has taken no action! Why does he linger here at Rouen, doing nothing? Why did he not try to relieve the sieges of Verneuil or Driencourt?”

  Willem’s smile was one of patronizing patience; he was wryly amused that people were always so quick to make uninformed judgments about military matters. As clever
as Roger was, had he ever led an army, planned a campaign? “The king was wise enough to see that he had to wait for his foes to move first. Beset on so many sides, he has to fight a defensive war, and he understood from the first that Normandy must be protected at whatever cost. If he were to lose Normandy, many of his English barons with lands on this side of the Channel would join the rebellion to save those estates. Moreover, he’d be forced to choose between England and Anjou if Normandy was taken.

  “Trust me, Roger, it has not been easy for him to wait like this. He is a man accustomed to seizing the initiative. Trust me, too, that he has not been ‘doing nothing.’ He fortified all his border castles, often using his hunting as a means of sending confidential messages or holding clandestine meetings. He has more than five thousand Brabancon routiers at his command, and he made a swift, secret trip to England this spring to bring back money from the royal treasuries at Winchester and Northampton, so he can hire more if need be. When the time is right, he’ll strike back, and when he does, I have no doubt that he will prevail.”

  “From your lips to God’s Ears,” Roger said lightly, but he was greatly reassured by Willem’s cool certainty, for he respected the earl’s grasp of strategy and battle lore. “Tell me, Willem. How is Harry coping…truly?”

  Willem shrugged. “It is hard to say. He has never been one for confiding, has he? I am guessing that he draws strength from his anger, at least during the daylight hours. How he fares alone at night is between him and the Almighty.” The sun was hot upon his face and he touched Roger’s arm, saying, “Let’s find some shade in the gardens, and you can tell me about the new Archbishop of Canterbury’s thwarted consecration.”

  Roger grimaced. “That was a disaster. All was in readiness for the ceremony and on that very day we got a letter from Hal, claiming that the archbishop’s election was invalid because he’d not given his approval and warning us that he’d made an appeal to the Holy Father. So we still lack an archbishop until we hear from Rome, which is most unfortunate-although I’ll admit that I thought the monks had made a poor choice in Prior Richard. Oh, the man is laudably inoffensive, with the virtue of realizing his limitations, but he is hardly a worthy successor to St Thomas.”

  Willem thought that Prior Richard’s appeal might have been the fact that he was so very different from the volatile, intense, martyred archbishop, but he was too tactful to say so to Roger, knowing he and Becket had been friends. Opening the gate into the gardens, he asked if there was any chance that Hal’s ploy could succeed and the Pope take his side.

  Roger shook his head. “I see Louis’s fine hand in this appeal to Rome. He was outraged that Harry was able to reconcile with the Church so easily, and he’d like nothing better than to stir up more trouble between Harry and the Holy See. But the Pope thought it was in the Church’s best interests to make peace with so powerful a king and he-”

  Roger stopped in mid-sentence, distracted by the sight meeting his eyes. Five boys were racing around the gardens, laughing and shrieking. The object of their amusement was a young blindfolded woman, laughing, too, as she stretched her arms out, trying to catch them as they danced around her. Both men smiled, for they’d often played Hoodman Blind themselves in their youth. Roger assumed that the children were some of the sons of the nobility being educated in the king’s household, and as he drew closer, he recognized one of them from Henry’s Christmas Court at Chinon: his uncle Ranulf’s youngest son, Morgan.

  Morgan recognized him, too, and ended the game by crying out, “Cousin Roger!” As he dashed over to embrace his kinsman, the other children began to back away, seeing that the fun was over. The woman removed her blindfold, and at once dropped down in a deep curtsy. She was very pretty, with blue eyes and fair skin, too well dressed to be a nursemaid. She was obviously known to Willem, though, for he strode forward and gallantly kissed her hand, then glanced back at Roger with a glint of mischief.

  “My lord bishop, may I present the Lady Rosamund Clifford? My lady, this is the king’s cousin, the Bishop of Worcester.”

  Rosamund flushed as she and Roger exchanged stilted greetings, and she quickly made her excuses, her withdrawal from the gardens so hasty that it was practically an escape, the boys trailing in her wake. Roger gazed after her, taken aback. So this was the infamous Rosamund Clifford.

  Reading his thoughts, Willem grinned. “She is not as you expected, is she?”

  “No, she is not,” Roger conceded. “I thought she’d be more…more sultry,” he said. “Eleanor was a great beauty, after all, when she was younger. I suppose I imagined Rosamund to be cast in the same mold.”

  “I know. The lass is comely enough, but she is no Cleopatra. She is soothing, though, and mayhap that has its own charm.” Willem laughed softly. “Much has been said of the queen, but I daresay none have ever called her ‘soothing,’ have they?”

  “Indeed not,” Roger agreed. He’d heard that Henry was now openly living in sin with Rosamund, and while he deplored adultery, of course, he could understand why the king had taken such a defiant stance in light of the queen’s betrayal. “Well, at least there is one who is benefiting from these tragic events.”

  “You mean Rosamund? I doubt it. The world is full of women eager to be the king’s concubine, but Rosamund does not seem comfortable in that role.”

  “That is to her credit,” Roger said, thinking sadly that there were no winners in this wretched family war then, only losers…and with the worst still to come.

  Roger went to bed early that evening, and had just fallen asleep when he was awakened with a summons from Henry, who was having a late supper with the hunting party. By the time he’d dressed and gone to the great hall, the meal was done, for Henry was never one to linger at the table. He impatiently cut short Roger’s formal greeting, saying, “Come with me, Cousin.”

  Roger did, following him out into the inner bailey. The day’s heat had faded and the sky was a deep twilight turquoise, stars glimmering like scattered shards of crystal. It was a beautiful evening but Henry seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Even after they’d entered the gardens, he paid no heed to the fragrant roses, the scent of honeysuckle and thyme, or the soft bubbling of the fountain. Roger wondered if he remembered that the garden was Eleanor’s creation, hoped he did not.

  “So,” Henry said, “have you brought me any good news from England? Or more bad tidings?”

  The edge in his voice put Roger in mind of a finely honed sword blade, and he was grateful that he did have “good news” to offer. “I learned ere I sailed that the Scots king was retreating back across the border after failing to take Carlisle. The royal army was in close pursuit and burned Berwick in retaliation for the Scots ravages in Northumberland.”

  He could not tell if Henry had heard that already; his expression gave away nothing. “The Scots king is a two-legged viper,” Henry said, after a long silence. “He offered to aid me in putting down the rebellion, providing at his own cost a thousand armed knights if I’d recognize his claim to Northumbria. I said no, but Hal was willing to promise that and more. From what I hear, he has been so open-handed with his new allies that if I died tomorrow and he had his victory, there’d be little left to govern.”

  “All the more reason, then,” Roger said quietly, “to make sure that he does not win,” and Henry gave him a sharp, searching look.

  “It gladdens me to hear you say that, Cousin. I would that all of your family shared the sentiment.”

  Roger did not shrink from the challenge. “We are deeply shamed by my nephew Hugh’s treachery. But he is an aberration, Harry, a foolish youth easily seduced to folly. The rest of us remain loyal to the true king, to you.”

  “I never doubted your loyalty, Roger. But what of your brother? Can you speak for him?”

  “Yes, I can.” Roger moved closer so that light from the rising moon fell across Henry’s face. “My father was a great man, loyal to your mother and you until his last breath. It would not be too much to say that you mi
ght not have won your crown if not for his unwavering support.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” Henry said. “But we were not speaking of my uncle Robert, may God assoil him. We were speaking of your brother William.”

  “No one would call William a great man. If truth be told, I have always thought him to be a bit of a fool. But he is no traitor, Cousin. He is your liegeman and only yours. I bear a letter from him, assuring you of that.” Reaching into his tunic, Roger held a sealed parchment out and after a barely perceptible pause, Henry took it, tucking it away in his belt. “I have a message, too, from my sister. Maud would have you know that she was deeply grieved when Hugh joined the rebellion. It broke her heart.”

  Henry wanted to believe Roger, for he’d always been very fond of Maud. But belief did not come easily to him these days. “I am sure you will understand if I have doubts about that, Cousin.”

  “Because of the friendship between Maud and your queen? That was one more casualty of this accursed rebellion.” He decided not to push further. “Do you know where they are…your sons?”

  Henry’s mouth curved down. “Hal has had a busy summer with the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne at the siege at Driencourt. The last I heard, Richard and Geoffrey were still in Paris, supposedly being looked after by Raoul de Faye-hardly the ideal choice for a guardian-so God only knows how they are abusing their newfound freedom. And my devoted queen continues to spin her webs from Poitiers.”

  Roger sighed, having no words to assuage such bitterness. He chose, instead, to return to the conversation he’d had earlier that day with the Earl of Essex, for he needed to know that Henry shared Willem’s confidence. “Willem told me that the Count of Flanders has halted his march upon Rouen whilst his brother recovers from his wound. It surprised me that Philip should show such family feeling, for I always thought the man had ice water in his veins.”

  “You are forgetting that Matthew is more than Philip’s brother. He is his heir, too.”