Devil's brood eoa-3

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Roger had fully intended to discuss Henry’s penance at length, wanting to hear all the details of this blessed reconciliation. But as he looked more closely at his cousin, he was startled into blurting out tactlessly, “Jesu, you look like you’ve been camping at death’s door! I’d heard you were ailing, but I did not realize how ill you truly were. You have seen a doctor, I trust?”

  When Henry brushed off his concern with predictable impatience, that reassured Roger somewhat. “I’ll not stay long,” he said, “for you ought to be in bed. Ere I go, though, what is the news from the North? Has Alnwick fallen yet?” He realized at once how pessimistic that sounded, as if he expected defeat, but it was too late to call his words back. To his surprise, though, Henry did not react, and he did not take that to be a good sign.

  “The last I heard,” Henry said, “William de Vesci is still holding out at Alnwick. I suppose you know that the rebels have seized Norwich, Northampton, and Nottingham. You may not know that my son and the Count of Flanders have been waiting at Gravelines, intending to launch their invasion once the weather clears. For all I know, they could be landing on English beaches even as we speak.”

  He delivered this alarming news with an eerie lack of emotion, almost as if he were relating another man’s troubles, and Roger felt a chill that seemed oddly out of place on a summer evening. When had Harry ever sounded listless or fatalistic? “I’ll go now,” he said, “so you may get some rest. But I’ll be back in the morning.”

  Henry had not meant to ask. But as Roger reached the door, he heard himself saying suddenly, “Roger…do you think Thomas forgave me?”

  Roger turned, with a surprised smile. “I know he did,” he said, and Henry, who’d never had reason to envy other men, felt a sharp pang, wishing that he shared Roger’s utter certainty, his steadfast faith, and his serene acceptance of God’s Will.

  Henry was stretched out upon the settle, dozing. One of his squires was sitting in the floor rushes beside the settle, gently rubbing ointment into the wounds on his king’s feet. Others moved quietly around the chamber, making as little noise as possible. It was still early for one who kept night-owl hours, but Henry’s weary body was asserting itself after days of abuse and neglect. As he drifted down into sleep, the last sound he heard was the distant chiming of church bells.

  When he awakened, he had no idea how much time had elapsed. Candles still burned, and Warin was still tending to his injured feet. He propped himself up on an elbow, and it was then that he heard the voices, the clamor that had chased away his sleep. “What is it?”

  “Someone wanted to see you, my liege,” Warin explained, “and when the chamberlain said you were sleeping and he must wait till the morrow, he began to argue. I am so sorry that you were disturbed.”

  “Who is it?” Henry called out, and the chamberlain came into his line of sight.

  “It is a messenger, my lord, from the North. I told him to come back, but he is most insistent. He says you know him-Brien, one of Sir Ralf de Glanville’s men.”

  “Let him enter,” Henry commanded, his voice even more raspy than usual. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the settle, but Warin was close enough to see that he’d lost color; his feverish flush fading into an ashen pallor as he watched the door.

  The man ushered into the chamber was indeed known to him. He looked as haggard and gaunt as his king, and he dropped to his knees like one thankful for a moment’s rest. “Forgive me, sire, but I’ve scarcely eaten or slept these four days gone, so urgent was my news.”

  Henry closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “Tell me,” he said grimly. “Hold nothing back.”

  Brien had been given a wine cup and drained the contents in several swallows. When he lowered the cup and looked at Henry, there was such blazing joy upon his face that Henry caught his breath. “My liege, I bring you wondrous news, as good as you could wish. The Scots king has been taken captive by my lord de Glanville, and with him all his barons.”

  One of Henry’s squires let out a jubilant shout, and the other men in the chamber began to exclaim and praise God. Henry was not yet ready to believe, though. “Is this true, Brien? Swear to me it is so!”

  “Yes, sire, by my faith, it is so! Soon after dawn on Saturday, we surprised the Scots king in the meadows before the walls of Alnwick Castle. My lord de Glanville and the sheriff of Yorkshire met William de Vesci at Newcastle on Friday last, where he’d gone to seek aid for Alnwick. He told us that the Scots king had sent the bulk of his army off to ravage Northumbria, and he had remained behind with only sixty knights. We set out at once, had ridden more than twenty miles before the sun had risen. A thick fog settled in during the night, but we continued on, sure that God was with us. When we emerged from the mists, we saw the Scots king breaking his fast with his knights. At first he thought we were his own men returning, and by the time he realized the truth, it was too late.”

  “God’s Bones,” Henry breathed. “What proof have you of this?”

  Brien grinned. “My lord knew that was the first question you’d ask, my liege. I bear a letter from Sir Ralf, attesting to all that I’ve told you. And on the morrow you ought to receive further confirmation from the Archbishop of York, for he was dispatching a messenger, too. He was not as fast a rider as me, though!”

  Henry snatched up the letter Brien was holding out, but he made no attempt to read it. “Tell me the rest,” he said, and Brien needed no urging.

  “I have to admit, sire, that he fought valiantly, spurred his stallion into our midst once he realized he was trapped between us and the castle. But one of our men speared his fine grey destrier, and the king’s legs were pinned when the beast fell. He surrendered to my lord de Glanville, and was taken under guard back to Newcastle and then, on to Richmond. That traitor Roger de Mowbray fled like a hare before hounds, but none of the Scots knights would abandon their liege lord, and surrendered when he did.” Brien was not happy at having to compliment his Scots foes, but he was a fair man, and he added, “They acquitted themselves well, my liege, brave men all.”

  He was being offered more wine, which he accepted happily. “You are indeed favored by God, my lord king. I am honored to be the one to bring you such glad tidings.”

  Henry laughed. “Ah, Brien, you will want for nothing for the rest of your born days,” he promised. “Land, gold, it will all be yours for the asking.”

  Brien laughed, too. “For now, my lord, I ask only for a bed and a meal to fill my empty belly!”

  Others were crowding into the bedchamber now, drawn by the uproar, and in the ensuing pandemonium, it was left to Henry’s squire Warin to realize the full significance of Brien’s message. “My lord,” he cried, tugging on Henry’s sleeve in his urgency to be heard. “Brien said that the Scots king was captured on Saturday, around dawn. My liege, that was when you were completing your penance at St Thomas’s tomb!”

  There were exclamations of wonder and most of the men made the sign of the cross. Henry stared at the squire, and then sat down abruptly on the settle. “You are right, Warin,” he said in awe. “This is indeed his doing.”

  Word was spreading like wildfire throughout the palace, and Henry’s bedchamber was soon thronged with celebrants, both jubilant and reverent. Willem and Ranulf had pushed their way through to Henry’s side, and Gilbert Foliot had also succeeded in reaching the king. “My lord,” he cried, “should we ring the bells to awaken the city?”

  “No,” Henry said, “let them sleep. The morning will come soon enough.” Glancing around, he knew that none of these blissful, boisterous men would get a wink of sleep. Neither would he, for his exhaustion was magically vanished, his fever forgotten. “We might as well move these revelries over to the great hall,” he said, grinning when his declaration was met with raucous cheers; he knew these men would have cheered if he’d announced they must all take holy vows.

  “I do want to awaken my cousin, the Bishop of Worcester,” he said. “Send someone to fetch him, Gilbert. And once
he gets here, I want to go to the abbey church and give thanks to St Thomas for our victory, for his miracle.”

  For his two-hundred-seventy-mile dash, Brien was rewarded by Henry with “ten liveries of land” and an estate in Norfolk.

  Hal and the Count of Flanders had decided to send their fleet on ahead of them, and their ships had sailed into the same storm that had inundated Canterbury. During those hours that Henry did penance for his sins, their fleet was scattered by the high winds, and the threat of invasion was over. Just as people gave credit to the martyred archbishop for the capture of Henry’s greatest enemy, they saw the dispersal of the Flemish fleet as yet another proof of St Thomas’s favor.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  July 1174

  Northampton, England

  Ranulf halted on the steps of the great hall, watching as a large group of horsemen rode into the castle bailey. When he recognized their leader as Henry’s illegitimate son, he hastened over to bid Geoff welcome and as soon as the latter dismounted, they embraced with the euphoria that all of Henry’s supporters shared these days.

  “I’ve brought seven hundred knights with me,” Geoff said proudly. “Can we find beds for them all?”

  “We’ll manage,” Ranulf assured him. “Your men are going to be disappointed, though, for the fighting is done.”

  Geoff blinked in surprise. “All done?” he asked, trying to conceal his own disappointment. “I heard that the garrison at Huntingdon Castle surrendered. But what about Hugh Bigod and the Earl of Derby?”

  “Hugh Bigod skulked out of his lair and pleaded for the king’s mercy two days ago. And on Tuesday we will be receiving the submissions of the Earl of Derby, the Earl of Leicester’s constable, Roger Mowbray, and our disgruntled bishop, Hugh of Durham.”

  Geoff could only shake his head in amazement. “Then the rebellion in England is truly over!”

  “I think that happened the moment the Scots king was taken at Alnwick. For all the talk of rats deserting a sinking ship, they have nothing on rebel lords trying to save their skins. They damned near trampled themselves in their rush to make peace with the king. Speaking of kings, you missed quite a spectacle this morn-the arrival of the Scots king.”

  “I would have enjoyed seeing that,” Geoff said, with vengefulness that he knew did not befit a bishop-elect. But he did not care, wanting to savor every moment of their victory over Henry’s enemies. “Was he taken before my lord father in shackles?”

  “No, but he arrived with his feet tied under his horse, an affront not usually inflicted upon kings. For all that he calls himself William the Lion, he seemed more like a docile stable cat to me. He managed to cling to his dignity, but there was no bravado, none at all. He is going to have to pay a huge price for his freedom, and he well knows it.”

  Leaving the castle steward to figure out where to lodge these new arrivals, they started across the bailey. “You’ll be a sight to gladden your father’s eyes,” Ranulf said. “He was right proud of your triumphs in the North. Who knew you had the makings of a first-rate battle commander?” he joked, amused when Geoff actually blushed. “I should warn you, though, lad, that your father is hobbling about with a crutch, and he is as bad a patient as you’d expect him to be.”

  “Was he wounded in the siege of Huntingdon?” Geoff asked, sounding so alarmed that Ranulf hastened to offer reassurances, explaining that Henry had been injured the day before when the Templar Tostes de St Omer’s horse had lashed out suddenly, striking the king in the leg.

  That allayed some but not all of Geoff’s concerns, for he knew how easily wounds could become infected; he’d never forgotten the fate of a boyhood friend, who’d died in agony after stepping on a rusty nail. Once they entered the great hall, he headed for the dais, so eager to see his father that he barely heard the greetings and congratulations trailing in his wake. Henry was just as delighted to see his son, and waved Geoff up onto the dais so they could talk with a modicum of privacy. He brushed off Geoff’s concerns for his injury, saying wryly, “It is downright embarrassing, getting kicked by a horse at my age. And it was not even my horse!”

  Ordering chairs for Geoff and Ranulf, he did his best to get his aching leg comfortable on a cushioned footstool, and then made his son very happy by asking to hear all about Geoff’s military exploits. Geoff needed no further urging and launched into a detailed account of the captures of Roger Mowbray’s castles at Kinnardferry and Kirkby Malzeard and his success in penning up the rebel garrison at Thirsk. Henry listened attentively, asked all the right questions, and waited until Geoff was done before sharing his own news with his son.

  “A messenger reached me this morn with unwelcome word from Normandy. After learning that I’d sailed for England, the French king recalled Hal and the Count of Flanders and they are now laying siege to Rouen.”

  “You’ll be returning, then, to Normandy,” Geoff exclaimed, his eyes alight. “May I go with you? It may be our only chance to fight side by side!”

  Henry had never understood the appeal that war held for other men. Even in his youth, he’d not been bedazzled by dreams of glory, had always looked upon war as a necessary evil, a king’s last resort. “You’re sounding rather bloodthirsty for a bishop, lad,” he teased. “Speaking of that, we will have to get the Pope’s approval of your election once the rebellion is finally over. Would you fancy going to Rome yourself? Let me know if so, and I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

  Geoff’s face shadowed, and he glanced away, saying nothing. Henry did not notice. Ranulf did, though. He knew most people would share Henry’s view, that he was bestowing a great honor upon his son, especially one born out of wedlock. But Ranulf had learned a hard lesson with his own eldest-that sons did not always share their fathers’ aspirations, and he understood, as few others did, that an unwanted honor could be a heavy burden. Giving the reluctant bishop a sympathetic look, he sought to change the subject before the silence could become awkward, and admitted that he hoped to go home to Wales now that the rebellion in England was won.

  “I wish there were a way to lure you and Lady Rhiannon to my court and keep you here,” Henry said. “But I know I cannot compete with the siren songs of Wales. Go with my blessings, Uncle. You’ve more than paid your dues. As have your Welsh countrymen.” Turning to Geoff, he lavished praise upon his Welsh ally, Rhys ap Gruffydd.

  “Not only has he kept the peace along the marches, Rhys even led a contingent of Welshmen to fight for me in England, laying siege to Derby’s stronghold at Tutbury.”

  Geoff was impressed. “The Welsh are usually ones for taking advantage of English strife.” At once regretting his candor, he glanced apologetically at Ranulf. “No offense, Uncle. How will you reward Rhys for his loyalty, Papa?”

  “By giving him what he most wants-a free hand in Wales. I wish it were so easy to reward your rogue prince, Ranulf. Davydd ab Owain has been no less steadfast for me than Rhys. But now he is asking for a boon in return, one I’d rather not bestow upon him.”

  “What does he want?” Ranulf asked curiously. “Horses, cattle? Gold? Surely not a border castle? I doubt even Davydd would be that brazen.”

  “What he wants,” Henry said, “is my sister. Did you notice that Benedictine monk over there, Ranulf? That is Brother Simon, sent from Basingwerk Abbey to ask for Emma’s hand in marriage. Davydd wants to be able to boast that he is the King of England’s brother-in-law, I suppose. He also knows that she’d bring a few English manors as her marriage portion. I daresay he’s heard that she is a beauty, too, and that never hurts. I’d as soon tell him nay. I liked Hywel, the brother he killed, and I agree with your dismal view of his character. But I will probably have to give my consent if I hope to keep the peace along the border. As thin-skinned as Davydd is, he’s like to take a refusal as a mortal insult.”

  “Yes,” Ranulf agreed reluctantly, “he would.” He did not know Emma well at all, remembered her as very fair and rather prideful, but he sympathized with any woman yoked to Dav
ydd ab Owain. “What will Emma think of this?”

  Henry shrugged. “She probably will not like it much at first. My family seems cursed with strong-willed women, and Emma is definitely one of them. But it is a good match for her. Whatever his other failings, Davydd is a prince. If she bears him sons, they can expect to rule over most of Gwynedd one day.”

  Geoff did not know the Welsh prince at all and barely knew his aunt Emma, so he did not have any real interest in whether they wed or not. “Do you know what I find most miraculous, Papa? That the Scots king was captured at the very same hour that you were concluding your penance at Canterbury!”

  Henry laughed, a laugh Geoff had not heard in quite a while. “Thomas was ever one for showing off,” he said with a grin, “and he always had a flair for drama. He wanted there to be no doubts whatsoever that he and the Almighty had forgiven me. Not even Louis Capet can argue otherwise now.” Glancing from his son to his uncle, he surprised them, then, by offering a rare, unguarded glimpse into the depths of his soul, saying quietly, “It is a blessing to be at peace with God again-and with Thomas.”

  “I shall honor St Thomas for the rest of my days,” Geoff promised, and Henry’s gaze lingered upon his face.

  “You are my true son, Geoff. The others, they are the baseborn ones, the bastards.”

  Geoff was speechless. Swallowing with difficulty, he blinked back tears, which Henry and Ranulf tactfully pretended not to see. Looking from one to the other, Ranulf felt a deep and abiding gratitude that Harry’s wounds no longer bled. God Willing, mayhap now they might begin to heal. “You asked me once if I thought Thomas was a saint,” he said, smiling. “Who could have guessed that it would be Thomas himself who’d answer you?”

  Once he was satisfied that the English rebellion was quelled, Henry turned his attention to ending hostilities in France, and landed at Barfleur on August 8, exactly one month since he’d sailed for England. He’d brought back with him the Earls of Leicester and Chester and the unfortunate Scots king, and after depositing them safely at Falaise, he struck out for Rouen. By the night of August 10, he was within fifteen miles of the city, and ordered his men to make camp for the night, intending to enter Rouen on the morrow.